Lawrence Watt- Evans - The Spartacus File

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Dedicated to Robert Bentley for his pragmatism

and encouragement—LWE

Dedicated to Prof. Charles Blinderman for his support

and encouragement—CP

Chapter One

A siren screamed somewhere on the streets below, then faded, and Casper Beech tried hard not to take

it as an evil omen.

After all, whoneeded evil omens to know he was facing disaster? Any time he got called in to see the

boss, ithad to be bad news. Casper's entire life had been an ongoing demonstration of just how horrible

the alleged Chinese curse, “May you come to the attention of people in high places,” could be.

He supposed it had been bad enough even in the old days, before the perpetual Crisis, before

everything, as the propaganda put it, had been made more efficient to meet the economic and geopolitical

challenges of the twenty-first century. Now, though, when all the people in high places, all the bosses,

were working together, it was hell. Any time he had to talk to the boss, any boss, his life got worse.

But maybe this time it wouldn't betoo bad.

He hesitated in the doorway of the cubicle, peering in. “You wanted to see me, Mr. Quinones?” he

asked.

Quinones looked up at him, smiled, then leaned back in his chair. The chair did not squeak, as Casper's

would have, but sighed faintly as the cushion reshaped itself under his weight. Behind Quinones the

towers of Center City Philadelphia were visible through the broad expanse of window, towers that

formed a panorama of glass and concrete glittering in the sun. A vapor trail straggled across the sky

above the gleaming skyline.

"Ah, yes, Casper,” Quinones said. “Please, come in and have a seat."

Casper entered, his feet silent on the thick carpet, and nervously perched himself on the hard edge of a

handy chair.

Quinones leaned forward again, and pulled at a hardcopy folder on his desk. His screens were folded

down out of sight, as usual—he was fond of saying that his work was with people, not computers. “I'd

like to discuss your job performance, Casper,” he said, opening the folder.

"Is there some complaint?” Casper asked uneasily. If he'd screwed up a liability trace he was dead, he

knew it—but he didn't think he had.

Of course, someone could have complained anyway.

"Not exactly.” Quinones smiled. He turned over a few pages in the folder without bothering to look at

them; it was clear to Casper that the documents were just props, something to keep his hands busy, to

help him time his words for maximum dramatic effect. Anything important would have been on a screen,

not on paper.

"Casper,” Quinones said jovially, “we've come to the conclusion that your job skills are outdated. We

need to keep up with the latest software, you know, and we're going to. An entire new system will be

installed over the coming weekend, and it doesn't look like you'll know how to run it."

"No, sir,” Casper admitted, “I probably won't.” Damn, he thought, am I about to be fired? If he once

lost this job he'd probably never find another one anywhere in the Consortium, and outside firms didn't

pay enough for him to live on. He was still paying off his parents’ legal fees; any cut in his income would

mean he'd starve.

He couldn't stop paying the debts, or they'd come and take everything he owned, up to and including a

few body parts. Starvation, though, wasn't their problem.

"We've considered our alternatives,” Quinones told him, leaning back again. “It's not cost-effective to

re-train you by ordinary methods—it's simply too time-consuming. And bringing in someone new to do

the work wouldn't be any better—again, too time-consuming. We need to have someone running traces

withinminutes after the new software comes on-line next Monday morning—minutes, Casper.” He

waggled a fat finger to emphasize his point, then continued, “We have come to the conclusion that the

most practical course of action—theonly practical course of action, really—will be to send you in for a

full course of imprinting in the use of the new software."

For a moment that didn't register; then the words sank in. Oh, God, Casper thought, neuro-imprinting

was supposed to hurt like hell. He pressed down into his chair; he hated pain.

At least this meant he still had his job, though. He wouldn't have to join the unemployed and homeless,

living in the streets. He'd still have both kidneys.

"I suppose it's for the best,” he said, his voice thin and weak.

"We think so,” Quinones said. Once again, he produced his artificial smile, this time a variant that was

probably meant to be comforting and paternal. “And, Casper,” he added, “you won't be the only one.

We've made arrangements with NeuroTalents LLC for a group discount. We'll be having quite a few

people imprinted."

"And I gotlucky enough to be sent off first?” Casper asked.

Quinones nodded, deaf to the feeble sarcasm. “The work schedule decided it. You're the most available

at the moment."

Casper remembered the list of jobs he had found on his screen when he had arrived at the office half an

hour before, and he wondered what his co-workers were faced with if that schedule left him “most

available.” He made no comment on that; he just nodded and asked, “When do I go?"

"You'll see Dr. Jalali this afternoon for a physical. Assuming she doesn't find anything that would keep

you from going, you're scheduled for tomorrow morning at ten."

Casper suppressed a shudder. “I suppose it's well to get it over with quickly,” he said, trying

unsuccessfully to force a smile.

Quinones nodded again. “And you'll need a day or two for the new information to settle in,” he said

blithely. Casper shuddered, and his discomfort with the idea finally seemed to register with his superior.

“Don't worry about the imprinting,” Quinones told him, with another falsely paternal smile. “Those

problems they had in the early days have all been taken care of. You'll be fine."

Casper nodded. “I'm not worried about that,” he lied. He was quite sure Quinones had never been

imprinted, and never would be if he could help it. The bosses didn't need to worry about such things. The

Consortium took care of its managers, and the Democratic-Republican Party took care of the

Consortium.

Anyone who wasn't in the Consortium or the Party, though, was on his own.

"Good,” Quinones said. He closed the folder. “And Casper, don't worry about coming in to work

tomorrow, either. Just go straight over to NeuroTalents in the morning, and relax afterwards.” He smiled

beneficently, as if he had just conferred a great favor.

The smug bastard probably thought he had, Casper told himself. Aloud, he said, “Thank you. That will

be nice."

Then Casper slipped out of the office and wove his way back across the big room to his own little niche,

where he collapsed into his chair. He sat motionless, sunk in gloomy inertia for several minutes before he

managed to lift his fingers back onto the keyboard and start the day's first liability trace.

A California drug company had sold a Mexican factory a bad batch of stimulants and killed three

workers. The drug company was a member of the Consortium, but its insurance company wasn't; the

factory was Consortium-owned as well, and had no insurance. Casper's job was to trace ownership,

liability, and contract terms to establish just who should sue whom in order to ensure that the Consortium,

its member companies, and their stockholders either lost as little money as possible, or, if it could be

arranged, made as much as possible off the incident.

He began the search, calling up personnel files on the dead workers and their families, with notations on

what waivers had been signed, and when.

Imprinting was not something he looked forward to, but his mood improved as he worked. New

software might make traces like this less tedious, and the imprinting would be quick, at any rate.

And he still had his job. That was the most important thing. He wouldn't starve.

Within an hour he was over most of his depression.

Casper got the call to report to Dr. Jalali around 2:00; he shut down his screen and headed down to the

medical offices on the third floor. The checkup was routine; the scanners found nothing which would

prevent Casper from taking the imprinting as scheduled.

He had mixed feelings about that. It was nice to know he was healthy, and his brain activity normal, but

he almost wished that they had found a neural anomaly or something that would keep him from accepting

an imprint.

Of course, if he had had such a problem, he would have lost his job—but it wouldn't have been for

cause, and he might have qualified for a disability income, or even have been able to swing a

discrimination-against-the-handicapped suit. He'd heard the Party sometimes used those to keep

companies in line.

No, he told himself as he pulled his shirt back on, that was daydreaming. Nobody won discrimination

suits against a member of the Consortium, and Data Tracers was a member in good standing. They had

access to the best lawyers in the world—and of course, to people like himself, who would find ways to

re-route any responsibility.

And it didn't matter; his brain was perfectly healthy. Dr. Jalali said so. She had told him that he could

take the imprint without any trouble at all.

He sighed, and headed back to his cubicle.

When Cecelia Grand called to say she had to work late at the law office, he snatched at the chance to

cancel their date—he was too worried about the imprinting to deal with Cecelia and her whims. Instead

he spent the evening home alone, drinking cheap beer and playing old, faded CDs until he finally fell into

bed around midnight.

That was Tuesday.

Wednesday morning he awoke at the usual time without meaning to; since his appointment was at ten he

had intended to sleep late. Instead he took his time over breakfast, and left his apartment an hour later

than usual.

He reached NeuroTalents in plenty of time despite his dawdling, and walked slowly through the

Institute's lobby, admiring the fountains and the greenery that grew toward the high glass ceiling. Studying

the scenery put the inevitable off for another minute or two.

NeuroTalents’ receptionist was a handsome young man; the way he was dressed made Casper feel

shabby.

Which was reasonable, really—Casperwas shabby. He knew it, but he didn't like to admit it.

"May I help you?” the receptionist asked.

"I hope so,” Casper said uneasily. “I'm scheduled for an imprinting at ten. The name is Casper Beech,

3036-94-7318."

The young man sucked on his teeth as he checked his screen. “Ah, yes,” he said, “I have it here. We've

received your records and the report from Dr. Jalali.” He swung a screen around and handed Casper a

stylus. “If you would just sign this waiver of liability, we'll take care of you immediately."

Casper read over the form; it was a standard corporate waiver, with NeuroTalents and his employer

agreeing to cover any medical expenses that were incurred in exchange for his forfeiting his right to sue.

He grimaced. He was already uncomfortable about the procedure, and this waiver was not encouraging

in the least. Every day at work he saw reports on what could happen to people who signed these.

It wasn't as though he had any real choice, though. He signed the form and tapped ENTER.

The receptionist checked the signature against a display on his primary screen, then nodded. “Very

good, Mr. Beech,” he said. “If you would take that elevator there up to the fourth floor, a technician will

see you."

He was even more nervous than he had realized; when he first tried to give his floor the elevator

answered, “We're sorry, sir, but your order was not understood."

"Four, please,” Casper repeated, trying unsuccessfully to distract himself by wondering, as he had for

years, why so many machines were programmed to speak of themselves in the plural.

When he reached the fourth floor a green-smocked technician with a clipboard awaited him. “Please

follow me,” the technician said brusquely before striding down the corridor. She didn't look back, and for

a moment Casper thought wildly of making a run for it.

But where would he go? Meekly, he followed her.

His guide brought Casper to the open door of a small room and pointed inside. “Put your clothes in

there,” she said. “I'll be back in five minutes."

The technician left. Casper was relieved to find a paper jumpsuit and slippers on a shelf; he began to

change, and pulled on the second slipper just as the technician returned.

"This way, sir,” she said.

He was strapped into a large, complicated chair in a smaller room a few doors down; then the technician

attached electrodes and placed a headpiece on his head.

"There's nothing to worry about,” the technician said, clearly reciting a set speech. “The monitors are just

to keep tabs on your bodily functions. Once we start the procedure, a sleep inducer will put you under

for the duration. When you wake up, it'll be over.” She smiled mechanically.

Casper smiled back shakily, and closed his eyes. The technician flipped the switch to start the sleep

inducer, and Casper quickly slipped under.

The technician checked him over swiftly and efficiently; then she waved the go-ahead signal to the

monitor camera and slipped out of the room. In the central control room another technician saw the

signal, hit a button, and turned away.

The procedure was fully automated, with technicians present only to troubleshoot when something did

not go according to schedule. Under most circumstances, unless an alarm went off or the machines told

them something was wrong, their attention was directed elsewhere. After all, watching someone sleep is

impossibly dull, even if the subject's brain is doing various interesting things.

Casper's chosen skill file consisted of a few gigabytes of data on a microptical disk, tagged and ready to

be fed into his brain; first, however, the scanners had to examine Casper's neural pathways and

brainwave patterns. The file would be imposed on these pathways, but the machines had to be sure that

the file was not so radically opposed to the recipient's mental structure that some harm could occur. Dr.

Jalali's preliminary survey had shown that Casper's brain could accept imprinting, but not that he could

accept any particular program; since the individual programs were all proprietary information owned by

NeuroTalents or their independent vendors, not to be distributed freely to other companies’ doctors even

within the Consortium, the doctor had not had the information to verify that Casper could handle this

specific skill-set.

The central computer began matching program details against neural pathways, checking for conflicts.

While the mapping was taking place, however, a badly-worn sector of old disk storage finally gave out,

dropping approximately sixty bytes from the system's primary command programming, from a total of

some two and a half million lines of code.

When the time came to check the scan against the waiting skill file, an uninitialized variable came up

garbage—the code that should have set it was missing. The error-handling software, never tested in this

particular situation, attempted unsuccessfully to compensate.

The waiting skill file was ignored. The mapping continued, into secondary and then tertiary areas of

detail, levels that were totally unnecessary for an ordinary skill imprint. A set of restricted-access files,

quite separate from the scheduled one, was accessed and readied.

A technician looked up casually from his magazine at the monitoring panel, then stopped and looked

again. He had thought the subject in Suite B was in for a regular skill imprint, but his instruments showed

that he was in the middle of optimization programming.

He didn't remember anyone scheduling any optimizations. Weren't there supposed to be extra

precautions for optimizations? A skill imprint just added a few new patterns to the subject's brain,

plugging in a little new information and some artificial habits, but an optimization more or less rebooted

the entire brain, streamlining the entire personality and redirecting it toward a predetermined goal, adding

whatever information and habits might be useful for that purpose.

Optimizations wentdeep , messing with parts of the brain not entirely understood, and were thought to

be risky. NeuroTalents hadn't done any in months, and at last report didn't expect to do any—so why

was this man getting one?

The technician looked for warning flags, but found none. The system appeared to be running smoothly.

Well, he told himself, it wasn't any of his business, as long as the machines were running properly. With a

shrug, he went back to his reading.

The computer's optimization program examined the map that had been made of Casper's brain. It then

compared this map with its available imprint programs, matching more than seven million points of

comparison. The more closely the map and the program matched, the more efficiently the subject would

assimilate the program; the more efficiently the program was assimilated, the less likely it was that parts of

the program would be lost.

It took the computer seven minutes and forty-three seconds to find the program that most closely

matched the map it was using. Having found this match, the computer checked its insertion options.

There were no options specified in its damaged instructions, so it went to its ancient default settings,

unused for half a decade. The computer prepared for a wetware flash.

Up until now Casper had slept peacefully, but when the flash began his body stiffened under the shock.

A brain flash had been described by one of its early recipients as the mental equivalent of being

force-fed a large apple in one bite, and most people who had had the experience since agreed with this

description. An optimization was an extreme case, however, and Casper felt as if his entire brain and

sensory apparatus were being overloaded, burned out, then instantly rebuilt and overloaded again. His

mind, unable to handle this, simply shut down.

The flash was over in one and three-tenths seconds, but Casper's twitching body didn't begin to relax

until several minutes later.

The technician on duty, between bites of a sandwich, noticed the readings on his panel and sat up

abruptly, dropping his lunch back into its bag. He took a moment to make sure that the readings weren't

into the danger area, and then he sent another technician down to check on the subject.

Casper was waking up when the technician arrived and began hurriedly to disconnect him. He lay

passively, not really aware of anything, until the technician handed him a cup of water.

Forcing his hand to close on the cup served to jar his thoughts into motion again. He sat up and tried to

drink the water, but as much went onto the floor or his shaking fingers as into his mouth.

"...sure you're all right?” he heard.

Casper realized that the technician was talking to him. He made a conscious effort to find the technician

with his eyes and bring him into focus. His mouth worked for a moment before he could force any sound

out.

He didn't want any trouble; he might lose his job if anything was wrong, and there wouldn't be a

disability pension, not when he'd gone this far. “I'll be fine,” he said at last. “Just let me sit for a minute."

The technician nodded and began examining the chair. The first thing he did was to check the chair's

recording devices, assuring himself that they were working properly.

Casper pushed himself upright, swaying slightly as he stood. “I think I'll be okay after I get some fresh

air,” he said.

"Yeah, I hope so. Here, let me help you,” the technician said. He took Casper by the arm and led him to

the changing room.

The technician did more of the work of dressing him than Casper could manage for himself, but after

several minutes he was in street clothes again. The technician helped him to the elevator.

By the time they reached the lobby Casper was feeling well enough to proceed on his own. He scrawled

his signature illegibly on a paper acknowledging completion of contracted services, then managed to

make his way unsteadily down the mall to the subway.

He began feeling worse again on the train. He barely recognized his home station, but got out before the

doors closed and staggered back to his building. He stumbled twice on the broken steps, but finally

fumbled his way into his apartment, where he undressed and stumbled into bed.

At NeuroTalents the technician who had spotted the irregular procedure said angrily to one of his

shiftmates, “I thought they didn't flash wetware any more."

"They do in emergencies,” she answered. “But you've got to have a doctor present."

"Well, there wasn't any doctor on this one, and it wasn't much of an emergency, either."

She shrugged. “Programming error, I guess. Think we should report it?"

The tech hesitated. The prospect of additional paperwork overcame his moral outrage, and he said,

“Nah, I guess not."

The other nodded.

"Hell of a thing, either way.” The other technician was no longer listening, he saw; she had gone back to

watching her pocket video set. “No wonder they get the liability waivers first thing,” he mumbled to

himself as he checked over his board.

Chapter Two

Casper awoke the next morning with a tremendous headache. He sat up slowly, but as he came upright

nausea boiled up in his belly. For a long uncomfortable moment he thought he was going to vomit. Black

spots appeared in front of him. He lay back and put his pillow over his face.

It was twenty minutes later before he could make the major effort necessary to reach for the phone and

call in to work and let them know he wouldn't be in. That done, he rolled over and went back to sleep.

He slept until shortly before six o'clock the following morning, when he awoke to find the headache

gone, but not the nausea. He still felt weak and shaky.

Even as his stomach told him otherwise, he knew he had to eat something. He managed to stagger into

the kitchen, where he forced down some leftovers from the refrigerator.

That relieved the nausea slightly, to his surprise. Blinking gummy eyes, he worked out the next thing to

do; he went into the bathroom to take a shower.

Standing under the hot water made him feel almost alive again, and when he got out he decided he really

ought to try to go in to work.

He sat on the edge of his bed for several minutes before he had enough energy to get up and finish

dressing, moving slowly toward the door as he fastened buttons, zippers, and Velcro.

He stumbled down the stairs and out onto the sidewalk. As he aproached the entrance to the subway he

missed a turn, and didn't realize until he passed a construction site that he was going the wrong way. He

turned around and retraced his path.

He had walked that same path to the subway for years. He would have sworn he could walk it in his

sleep. That he had missed a turn meant he was in worse shape than he had thought.

If old, comfortable mental patterns like that had been disturbed—was that a side effect of the imprint?

Did it clear out the old to make way for the new?

Nobody had ever mentioned that, and he didn't like the idea at all. If he had lost memories, would he

ever even know they were gone?

By the time he reached the foot of the subway station stairs the regular morning commuter crowd had

gathered on the station platform, filling the tunnel with the smell of sweat on top of the ingrained stench of

dirt, metal, and urine, a stench that had seeped into the very grit on the walls.

All in all, perhaps two dozen people were waiting for the next train. Casper leaned against one of the

pillars and looked at them.

In the evenings the subway crowd included many couples, family groups, and youth gangs. Here, though,

the crowd was entirely composed of individuals. Casper found this oddly interesting, and watching them

took his mind off the pounding in his temples.

It occurred to him that if those individuals could be unified, somehow, they could—well, could what?

They could do things, certainly—but what?

He shook his head slightly. His thoughts were a jumble, and he gave up trying to force them into

coherence.

A train screeched into the station, stirring up the dirt and filling the station with noise, and he joined the

others in boarding it. He was lucky enough to get a seat immediately, and he rode with his forehead

pressed against the window, looking out at the tunnel.

There were a lot of details that he seemed to be noticing for the first time—the location of the pillars, for

instance, as the train pulled into the next station. Except for one broken stump near the far end of the

platform the pillars provided excellent cover, and a pillar would never be more than four or five meters

away. The occasional bullethole proved that the pillars were a formidable barrier—good defenses to

cover a retreat down the tunnel.

What an odd thing to notice, Casper thought, startled by his own musings. Why would he pay any

attention to something like that? His study of the crowd back on the platform had been curious, too. He

had been vaguely aware of where everyone was, all of the time he was there. And he hadn't so much

noticed that everyone was alone as he had noticed that no one was together, that there was no

organization in the crowd.

Why was he thinking about that?

Why was he thinking aboutanything when he felt so rotten?

He turned to face into the train, leaned his head back, and closed his eyes. The motion and stink of the

train upset his stomach, though, so he opened his eyes again, which seemed to help.

He was staring at the man seated on the other side of the car. The man shifted angrily in his seat, and

Casper, realizing what he was doing, averted his gaze.

The train finally pulled into the Race/Vine station, and he swayed to his feet. There were almost as many

people getting on here as getting off, and Casper, in his unsteady state, had a little trouble getting through

the doors. Eventually he made it onto the platform and headed for the stairs to the street.

The short walk to the office seemed interminable, but at last he made it, only slightly late.

Quinones happened to be arriving at the same time as Casper. He nodded a greeting.

"Feeling all right today, Beech?” he asked.

"Yes, Mr. Quinones.” Casper hesitated, then added, “I had a bad time with the imprinting, but I feel fine

now."

"Good, good,” Quinones said; Casper braced for a slap on the back, but it didn't come. “We've got

quite a bit of work for you to do,” Quinones said.

"I'm ready for it,” Casper told him. He didn't bother to try to smile or sound enthusiastic; he knew he

couldn't pull it off, and Quinones wouldn't care in any case.

Quinones strode off to his office while Casper shuffled to his desk. He sat down, logged on, and looked

at the list of work that awaited him. There were eighteen urgent traces already in the queue, some of them

obviously complex and time-consuming, and more would probably come in before quitting time.

He sighed.

"It's going to be a busy day,” he muttered.

Lester Polnovick stopped his crane and rubbed his forehead. He'd had a ferocious headache ever since

he had left NeuroTalents the day before, after his imprinting. The flicker from the crane's monitor screen

seemed to be making it worse; he couldn't turn the screen off, but he did turn down the brightness.

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