Sims (26 page)

He hadn't moved a muscle. He'd take no pleasure in hurting Sinclair-2—it would be like fighting a woman—but he could not allow another man to lay a hand on him.

Sinclair-2 struggled a moment, then pulled free and returned to his usual spot on the sofa where he dropped his face into his hands.

What gives with that guy? Luca wondered. How can he be such a wimp?

“Did you?” Sinclair-1 said, staring at him. “Were you responsible for poisoning those sims?”

“Does it matter?” Luca said.

No one answered.

Just as I thought. They don't
want
to know.

“Just tell me one thing,” Voss said. “And think very carefully on your answer: Will the perpetrator or perpetrators ever be found?”

“My guess?” Luca shook his head. “Never. But whoever they were, they did us a favor. The Beacon Ridge club has surrendered. They're giving the sims what they want.”

“Since when?” Voss said. “I ain't heard nothin about this.”

“That's because they haven't made the announcement yet.”

“If that's true,” the attorney said, his eyes widening, “it takes the matter out of the court's hands.”

“No precedent,” Sinclair-1 whispered.

Luca watched cautious optimism grow in their eyes. He'd be sharing in that good feeling if not for a call he'd received this morning. Nothing more than a hoax, he hoped—
prayed
. Or maybe a wild fantasy cooked up by some drugged-out waste of protoplasm. He'd fed it to Lister who'd pass it up the SIRG ladder, but he'd keep it from the Sinclairs for now. He suspected a leak somewhere, and if he was right, the less said here, the better.

But he dearly wished he could lay it on these two. The mere mention now of what the woman on the phone had told him would snuff out the relief warming Sinclair-1 and Voss as if it had never been.

Because if this woman had been telling the truth about a sim named Meerm, it made the threat they'd just overcome seem like a pebble in a mountain gorge.

 

 

 

THE BRONX
NOVEMBER 30

Poor Meerm. Poor, poor Meerm. She ver sick sim. Meerm nev sick before. Not like be sick. Food come up sometime. And tummy hurt. Hurt-hurt-hurt. Bad tummy hurt all time.

Meerm stand window, look out through metal bar. Wish she be outside sometime. Not now. Cold out now. Still—

What that? Loud noise from downstair. Again! Loud noise again.
Crack!
Like giant plate break. Meerm go door, open just little and listen. Hear loud scare word by Needle Lady and Needle Man, hear new man voice shout more loud, hear sim voice, many voice cry
ee-ee-ee!
Ver fraid, other sim.

Meerm hear new man voice shout, “Where is she?” and hear ver fraid Needle Lady say, “Upstairs! We moved her upstairs!”

Meerm ver fraid. Make belly hurt badder. Hear many loud feet come stair. Meerm want close sick room door but no good. Across hall see ladder up wall. Ladder up to little door. Meerm sure locked—all door here locked—but Meerm try. Must try. Too fraid stay sick room.

Meerm jump cross hall, climb ladder, push little door. Move! Door move! Meerm so happy. Climb up roof. Cold-cold-cold. Close little door. Meerm
listen. Hear new man voice shout. Ver, ver mad. Hear foot on ladder. Come roof! What Meerm do? Where go?

There. Metal hole. Meerm can fit? Run and crawl in. Squeeze ver hard. Sink inside just as mans come roof. Meerm close eye, not breathe as mans run all round roof. Man look in metal hole but not see Meerm.

Mans ver mad as leave roof. Meerm safe but still not move. Wait. Meerm will wait long long time. Wait until—

What smell? Smoke! Smoke and hot come up vent. Meerm get out and stand on roof. Tar hot on foot. Smoke all round. Meerm ver ver scare. Run round roof, see fire evwhere. Look down. Flame all round, come out bar on all window. Meerm not want die. But roof ver hot. Tar melt under Meerm foot. What Meerm do?

Meerm scream. No one hear. No one near.

MANHATTAN
DECEMBER 1

Patrick stood at his hotel window and gazed down at the top of Madison Square Garden and the giant Christmas snowman atop its entrance. The un-risen sun was just beginning to lighten the low clouds lidding the city. In a few hours the streets below would be packed with the weekly Saturday horde of Christmas shoppers.

Patrick had been awake for hours. This had become a pattern every night since the poisoning of the sims. Fall asleep easily—with the help of a couple of stiff Scotches—and then find himself wide awake at 3:00
A.M
. or so with his mind sifting through the litterbox his life had become.

All because of an argument in a country club men's room. What if he hadn't chosen that moment to go to the bathroom? What if he'd waited until after that second drink? Holmes Carter would have been long gone, and without Carter's bad attitude, Patrick would have laughed off Tome's request to unionize the club sims. If he'd done that, where would he be now?

For one thing, he'd still have a law practice; he missed Maggie, even missed some of his clients. He'd also have a house instead of a fire-blackened foundation. And he might still have Pamela, although he wondered if that would be such a good thing. From his present perspective he could see that their relationship had been one more of mutual convenience than rooted in any deep regard.

He probably wouldn't have spent Thanksgiving alone, either. Ever since his folks retired to South Carolina, they'd always called and insisted he come down for Thanksgiving. Not this year. That was Dad's doing, Patrick was sure.

He'd known Dad had been upset with the whole idea of a sim union—he'd made that perfectly clear over the phone on more than one occasion—but Patrick hadn't realized just how much until Thanksgiving came and went without an invitation.

That had hurt. Even now, more than a week later, the wound still ached.

So here he was: jobless, homeless, alone, and functionally orphaned. And aligned with a masked mystery man who'd invited him to join a nameless fifth column movement to bring down one of the world's most powerful multinational corporations.

“And I said yes,” he whispered, still not believing it.

This is not me, he kept telling himself. This is somebody else. All I wanted out of life was stability and a good living. That was why I went into law. I am not a risk taker. I am not an adrenaline junkie. How did I come to this? And how do I get out of it?

Easy. Just say no. Pack up and walk away.

And do what? Labor relations? After what he'd been through, could he go back to sitting at a table and listening to union and management argue over the length of coffee breaks or who qualified for daycare? Not likely.

And then there was Romy. Walking away from Zero meant walking away from her.

So for the foreseeable future he'd stick this out and see where it took him.

Hopefully it would soon take him out of this hotel. Zero had suggested he relocate himself and his practice to Manhattan. Romy had laughed off Patrick's suggestion that he move in with her while he hunted for an office and an apartment. So for the time being, home was a room in the Hotel Pennsylvania. Finding space—whether living or office—wasn't easy. The new boom had sent prices in Manhattan up to where the new space station was nearing completion.

The jangle of the phone startled him. He stepped through the dark room
to the night table, found the phone, and fumbled the receiver to his ear.

Romy's voice: “Am I interrupting something?”

“Only my daily predawn reverie.”

She gave him an address. “If you haven't anything better to do, meet me there ASAP. I'll wait for you.”

Patrick sensed strain in her voice, but before he could ask for any details she hung up.

Dutifully he pulled on yesterday's clothes, grabbed a large container of coffee on his way through the lobby, and ventured into the early morning chill of Seventh Avenue in search of a taxi.

The driver shot him a look when he read off the address. “You're sure?”

“I'm sure,” Patrick told him after double-checking.

The driver shrugged—reluctantly, Patrick thought—and gunned the cab into the traffic.

Patrick considered that look and thought, Romy, Romy, what are you getting me into now?

THE BRONX

All too soon Patrick understood the driver's reaction. The address was in the fabled borough of the Bronx. Not the nice Botanical Gardens Bronx, but the bad Bronx, the
Bonfire of the Vanities
/“Fort Apache” Bronx. This particular section embodied most people's worst expectations: a wasteland of scattered buildings, some occupied, some abandoned, all battered, interspersed with vacant, garbage-strewn lots.

“Christ, what happened here?” Patrick muttered as he stepped out of the cab.

As soon as he closed the door behind him, his taxi chirped its tires and zoomed away. Patrick couldn't blame him. At least there were lots of cops around. No need to ask why they were here: The charred, smoking ruin of what must have been a cousin to the neighboring derelict buildings was the obvious center of attention. No fire trucks in sight now, but a couple of red
SUVs bearing fire department logos stood out among the cluster of blue-and-white units blocking the street.

He glanced around and spotted Romy's long black cleathre coat among the gaggle of onlookers standing outside the yellow police tape.

“Not exactly my idea of a fun place to spend a Saturday morning,” he said as he reached her.

“You're here,” she said, but no smile lit her grim expression. “Good. We can get started.”

“ ‘How are you, Patrick?' ” he said. “ ‘Did you sleep well?' Why, yes, Romy. Thank you for asking. And how was your night?”

“Save it,” she said, lifting the tape and ducking under. “Follow me.”

Patrick complied as she approached a burly, clipboard-wielding sergeant.

“Excuse me, Sergeant,” she said, holding up a leather ID folder. “Romy Cadman, OPRR. Please fill me in on what you've found.”

The sergeant swiveled his head and gave her a quick up and down with his pale blue eyes.

“O-P-
what
?”

“Office for the Protection of Research Risks. We're federal. We monitor labs and test subjects, animal and human. Lieutenant Milancewich at Manhattan South notified me that this building might have housed an unlicensed lab and that sims could have been involved.”

Patrick knew Romy had no authority to be here, but said nothing, just stood by and admired her moxie as she weathered the sergeant's hostile stare.

“He did, did he? Well, I ain't heard of no OPRR and no Lieutenant Milancewich, and you're one hell of a long way from Manhattan South. We can handle this just fine without no feds nosing into it.”

“Of course you can,” Romy said. “OPRR has no investigative authority. We're only offering help. We know labs. We can trace diagnostic equipment better and faster than anyone. We know lab animals. If sims were used as test subjects here, we can help you track them. Our interest is purely statistical: We're keeping tally of illegal labs and what biologicals they produce.” She opened her cleathre coat to return her ID folder to an inner pocket, revealing in the process a tight, black, ribbed knit sweater and long legs slinking from a short black skirt. “We're a resource, sergeant. Use us.”

The sergeant's eyes lingered on her coat as she tied it closed, then he stuck out his hand.

“Andy Yarger.”

Romy smiled and shook his hand. “Call me Romy.”

Patrick resisted an impulse to close his eyes and shake his head. If that
had been him popping up in front of Sergeant Yarger with an OPRR ID, he'd have been kicked back on the far side of the yellow tape before he'd spoken word one. But Romy had just reduced this Bronx-hardened cop to a lap dog.

The weaker sex? Yeah, tell me about it.

“And who's this?” Yarger said, jutting his chin Patrick's way.

“That's my assistant, Patrick.”

Patrick smiled and nodded at the sergeant, thinking, That's me, all right: faithful sidekick and gofer.

Yarger narrowed his eyes. “Ain't I seen you before?”

“About the lab equipment?” Romy prompted.

“Your lieutenant friend was right. We found bits and pieces of all sorts of lab equipment in the wreckage. Some of it's been identified as—lemme see.” He consulted his clipboard. “Here we go: hematology machines, blood chemistry analyzers, immu . . . immuno . . .”

Romy was nodding. “I get the picture. Who identified the equipment?”

“Couple of M-E's boys.”

“M-E?” Patrick said when he saw Romy's stricken look. “Sims were killed?”

“We should be so lucky. Nah. Just one very dead, very crisp human corpse. Male, age unknown.”

Patrick stared at the burned-out ruins and couldn't help grimacing. They reminded him of what remained of his house, and how “crisp” he could have been.