Lawrence Watt-Evans - The Spartacus File

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, who needed evil omens to know he was facing disaster? Any time he got called in to see the boss, it had 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 be too 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 within minutes 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-the only 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 got lucky 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.