Sims (28 page)

“Have you heard any more about this SLA group?” he said without preamble.

Romy sensed the tension in his voice.

“Nothing. I called a few of the cops I know but nothing's broken yet beyond the identity of the corpse in the ashes: Craig Strickland, a twenty-four-year-old loser with a history of assaults.”

“Doesn't sound like your typical globulin farmer.”

“They figure he was security. He may have tried to resist. As for the SLA, an all-points has been issued but they and their captives seem to have vanished.”

“Two vans filled with human and sim hostages and no one's seen a thing?”

“Not yet.”

Zero slammed a gloved fist against the already dented side of the van.
“Damn! Who
are
these psychos? What do they hope to accomplish for sims by murdering humans? Not that the world is any poorer for the loss of a globulin farmer, but killing him shifts the focus. The public's attention is on the murder now, not on the sims the dead man was abusing.”

“Pardon my paranoia,” Patrick said, “but maybe that's the whole point. Maybe these aren't sim sympathizers. Maybe SimGen is behind them.”

“I don't buy that,” Zero said, “but let's assume SimGen has somehow come to the conclusion that the gains from high-profile murder will, by some stretch of the imagination, outweigh the risks. If that's true, and if they're going to spray paint ‘Death to sim oppressors' at the scene, then why kill only one of the globulin farmers? Why not make a real statement and kill them all?”

“Hostages?”

Zero's expression was unreadable behind his mask and shades, but Romy could imagine a dour look as he stopped his pacing and faced Patrick.

“How many people can you see stepping forward to pay a globulin farmer's ransom?”

Patrick shrugged. “Okay. So much for the hostage idea.”

“ ‘Death to sim oppressors!' ” Zero said, slamming his fist against the van again. “Damn them! Idiots!”

Romy had never seen him show so much emotion. She found it oddly exciting.

Down, girl, she told herself as she pulled her digital camera's chip case from her pocket.

She said, “I may have another piece to add to the puzzle. I took a shot of an Asian man—Japanese, I think—at the scene. He ducked away as soon as he saw the camera. I've never seen him before, and it may mean nothing, but he was definitely camera shy.”

Zero seemed to have calmed himself. He took the chip. “I'll see if he's anyone we should know about.”

“But what's the plan?” she said. “What do we do about this SLA?”

“No choice but to wait and see. I doubt we'll have much of a wait. A group like that won't want to stay out of the headlines. But in the meantime, we're ready to make our move against Manassas Ventures.”

Romy stiffened. “When?”

“Monday, first thing in the morning. Are you up for it?”

Monday . . . she'd have to take a personal day.

“I think so.”

She wasn't looking forward to this. It involved playing a role, pretending
she was a kind of person she despised. She hoped she could bring it off.

Zero's dark lenses were trained on her. “Something wrong?”

She didn't want to let him in on her apprehensions. He had enough on his plate.

“I just keep thinking about those sims.” And that was no lie. “Whoever these SLA people are, I hope they're taking good care of them.”

“Amen to that,” Zero muttered. He shook his head. “ ‘Free the sims.' Don't they understand? Sims have never been allowed to learn to fend for themselves. A free sim isn't free at all. It's a lost soul.”

THE BRONX

Poor Meerm.

Meerm feel so bad. So more bad than last night. Now Meerm still belly-sick but cold and hungry also too. Also too arm hurt where burn while climb down building side. And leg hurt from fall ground. Hurt-hurt-hurt. Meerm hurt all over.

And Meerm ver fraid. Hide in bottom old empty building. No window and many rat. Rat sniff at Meerm burn. Shoo way, throw rock. Bad place this. And so cold. Meerm miss own room and yum-yum food. Wish go back but room gone. She go look in dark. All burn, all gone.

Meerm ver lonely. Meerm ver fraid. Not know what do. Not know where go.

HICKSVILLE, LONG ISLAND
DECEMBER 3

Shortly after 8:00
A.M
. Romy stepped through the front door of the small two-story office building and made a show of looking at the directory. The vestibule was clean but showing some wear around the edges. Just like the building, which was typical of the boxy, clapboard style popular back in the seventies. The tenants listed—a dentist, a real estate office, an insurance agent—were typical of any suburban office building; all except the lessee of the small corner office on the second floor: a venture capital company she knew was worth billions.

Romy hurried up to the second floor and found the door to Suite 2-C. A strictly no-frills black plastic plaque spelled out
MANASSAS VENTURES, INC
in small white letters. She waited outside the door until she heard someone climbing the steps, then she started knocking. A woman in a colorful smock appeared, heading for the dental office, and Romy turned to her.

“When does the Manassas Ventures staff usually arrive?”

The woman looked dumbfounded. “You know, I don't think I've ever seen anybody coming or going from that office.”

That's because no one does, Romy thought. Zero had had the place under observation for weeks.

“Really?” Romy said, putting her hand on the doorknob and rattling it. “I've been trying to reach them by phone but no one returns my messages, so I thought I'd come over in person and—”

The door swung inward.

“Now isn't that something,” the dental assistant said as she stepped forward for a peek at the interior. “They must've forgot to lock it.”

Morning sunlight streamed through the sheer curtains behind an empty receptionist's desk and flared the dust motes dancing through the air. No shortage of dust here—the desktop sported a good eighth of an inch.

“Hello?” Romy said, stepping inside. The air smelled stale, musty. No one had opened a window for a long, long time. “Anybody home?”

“Good luck,” the woman told Romy and started back toward her office.

“Thanks.”

Romy had to act quickly. She glanced up, searching for the strand of monofilament she'd been told she'd find hanging from the central light fixture. There it was, a length of fine fishing line, barely visible.

Two of Zero's people had broken in over the weekend. They'd unlatched the door and rigged the fixture to drop when the fishing line was pulled.

The original plan had been to loosen the hinges on the door so that it would fall outward when Romy tugged on it. She would let it knock her down and claim a terrible back injury. But Patrick had vetoed the idea. An injury caused by the door might leave the landlord as the liable party rather than the tenant. And it was the tenant they were after.

The most open-and-shut scenario—he'd called it
res ipso loquitor
—was to arrange for Romy to be “injured” by a tenant-installed fixture. After some reconnoitering, the fluorescent box in the ceiling over the reception area had received the nod.

Romy was supposed to pull the string and let it crash to the floor, then stagger out and collapse in the hall, pretending it had landed on her.

Pretend . . . she'd never been good at pretending. How was she supposed to slump to the floor out there and moan and groan about being hurt and have anyone buy it? And the Manassas people, when they heard about it they'd know that what had happened here was all a sham, a set-up designed to drag them into the legal system and expose their corporate innards. They'd respond with lawyers using every possible legal ploy to keep their secrets.

They'll play hide, we'll play seek. A game.

But this was no game to her. Romy was serious. She'd show them just how serious.

Acting quickly, before the dental assistant could unlock her office across the hall, Romy stepped under the fixture and yanked on the line.

Her cry of pain was real.

Patrick sat in the driver seat of Zero's van, idly watching the little office building. He'd parked across the street in a church parking lot—Our Lady of Something-or-other—and left the engine idling to run the heater, but he was keeping his window open to let out the pungent odor that seemed to be ingrained into the van's metal frame. The driver seat felt like little more than a sheet of newspaper spread over a collection of rusty springs.

But the sharp jabs against his butt were inconsequential compared to the discomfort of sharing the van with the shadowy form seated behind him. Here was a perfect opportunity to probe Zero, maybe get a line on what made this bird tick, but Patrick found himself tongue-tied.

What do you say to a masked man?

Had to give it a shot: “Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?”

Zero's deep voice echoed from the dark recess at the rear of the van. “Depends.”

“Why do you call yourself ‘Zero'?”

“That is my name.”

Ooookay. Try another tack. “How about them Mets?” That was usually a foolproof conversation opener, especially out here on the Island, even in the off-season. “What do you think of that last round of trades?”

“I don't follow sports.”

Okay, strike that. Maybe if we concentrate more on the moment . . .

“You have any idea what this van was used for before you got it?”

“It was a delivery truck run by a Korean Christian group in Yonkers.”

“Smells like they spilled a gallon of roast puppy stew on the way to the annual church potluck dinner.”

Patrick heard a soft chuckle. “I can think of worse things to spill.”

Hey, he laughs!

“You mean, be grateful for small favors, right?”

“Small and large. I'm grateful the Reverend Eckert has finally been able to purchase space on a satellite.”

“That means he'll be beaming his anti-SimGen sermons direct.”

“Right. No more worries about SimGen influencing the syndicate that
distributes his show to local stations. Not only can he beam his shows to the syndicate, but he's now got direct access to anyone with a satellite dish.”

“Nice. A big jump in audience.”

“I'm grateful too,” Zero said, “for how well you and Romy are working together.”

“So far, so good. She's a piece of work.”

“That she is. One very intense young woman. Tell me, Patrick, do you hope for a closer relationship between the two of you?”

Patrick blinked in surprise. Odd question. “Do you mean working or personal?”

“Personal.”

“Is there something I don't know?” he said, turning to look at Zero. He wished he'd take off that mask. “Is there something going on between you and Romy? Because if there is—”

Zero gave a dismissive wave. “Nothing, I assure you. I am . . . unavailable.”

That was a relief.

“Well, okay, but all I can say is, whether or not we go the next step is up to her. If you're worried about a romance between us interfering with our job performance, rest easy. The lady has thus far found the strength of character to resist my charms.”

“Which I'm sure are considerable.”

“As me grandma used to say,” he said in a pretty fair Irish accent, “from yer lips to Gawd's ear.”

“Speaking of God, I've been looking at this church. Are you Catholic?”

“With a name like Patrick Michael Sullivan, could I be anything else?”

“Practicing?”

“No. Pretty much the fallen-away variety. Haven't seen the inside of a church for some time.”

“But you do believe in God.”

“Yeah, sure.” Where was this going?

“Did you know that some sims believe in God, even pray to Him?”

“No. I didn't.” For some reason the idea made him uncomfortable. “Any particular faith?”

“They tend toward Catholicism. They like all the statues, although they find the crucifix disturbing. They're most comfortable with the Virgin Mary. Pick through any sim barrack and you'll usually find a few statues of her.”

“I can see that. A mother figure is comforting.”

“Sims pray to God, Patrick. But does God hear them?”

“What do you mean?”

“Do sims have souls?”

“This is heavy stuff.”

“Most enlightened believers accept evolution. Genetics makes it impossible for an intelligent person to deny a common ancestor between chimps and humans. Some theologians posit a ‘transcendental intervention' along the evolutionary tree, the moment when God imbued an early human with a soul. So I ask you, Patrick: When human genes were spliced into chimps to make sims, did a soul come along with them?”

“To tell the truth,” Patrick said, “I've never given it an instant's thought until you just mentioned it.”

Who had time to ponder such imponderables? Zero, obviously. And it seemed important to him.

“Think about it,” Zero said. “Sims praying to a God who won't listen because they have no souls. Imagine believing in a God who doesn't believe in you. Tragic, don't you think?”

“Absolutely. But I wonder—”

The wail of a siren cut him off. He watched as an ambulance screamed into the parking lot across the street.

“You think that's for Romy?”

“I imagine so.” Zero's voice now was close behind him. “I told her to give it her best performance.”

They watched a pair of EMTs, a wiry male and a rather hefty woman, hurry inside. A few moments later they reemerged, pulled a stretcher from their rig, and hauled it inside.

“Wow,” Patrick muttered. “She must be bucking for an Oscar.”

He kept his tone light but felt a twinge of anxiety at the way those EMTs were hustling. A long ten minutes later they exited, wheeling the stretcher between them. But it wasn't empty this trip. Patrick could make out a slim figure in the blanket. Had to be Romy. He noticed that her head was swathed in gauze . . . with a crimson stain seeping through.