Sims (9 page)

“He did! He—”

“No, he didn't. Genetically we're ninety-eight-point-four percent chimp—which means we're far more ape than human.”

“Speak for yourself, sir.”

As the audience laughed, Patrick grinned and gave the Rev a thumbs-up. “Good one. But it doesn't alter the fact that only a few genes separate us
from the trees. And even fewer separate us from sims. If chimps are our distant cousins, then sims are our nieces and nephews.”

“I will not tolerate this!” He turned to Ackenbury. “Is this why you brought this man on tonight? Had I known I was to share the stage with a blasphemer who would mock my beliefs and the beliefs of my followers, mock the Lord Himself, I never would have agreed to appear.”

“No insult intended, Reverend,” Ackenbury said. “Just a fair airing of all sides of an issue. You have your beliefs, and Mr. Sullivan has his.”

“No! My beliefs are supported by the Word of God!”

And then the Rev was off on such a tear that not even the host could get a word in edgewise. Patrick's mind raced, at a loss as to how to salvage the situation; then he remembered the bananas he'd snagged from the fruit bowl in the green room.

His original idea had been to offer one to Eckert in an ostensibly friendly gesture, assuming no one would miss the reference to their shared simian ancestry. But subtlety wouldn't fly here; he'd have to fire all barrels at once to break the Rev's filibuster. And he had an idea of how to do that. Question was, did he dare? This could backfire and leave him looking like a grade-A jerk.

What the hell, he thought. Go for it.

Slowly, Patrick raised his legs until his feet were on the chair cushion. Squatting on the seat, he pulled out one of the bananas and, with exaggerated care, began to peel it.

Neither Ackenbury nor the Rev noticed at first, but the audience did. As laughter began to filter in from the darkness beyond the stage lights, Ackenbury turned to him; his eyebrows shot up in surprise, then he grinned. The Reverend Eckert followed the host's stare. His tirade faltered, then stopped cold as his jaw dropped open. The audience roared.

It had worked—the Rev finally had shut up. But Patrick couldn't jump into the gap because his mouth was crammed full of banana. He did the only thing he could think of. Returning to Plan A, he pulled the second banana from his coat pocket and handed it to Ackenbury.

“For me?” the big man said as he took it.

Patrick shook his head and pointed to Eckert.

“Of course,” Ackenbury said, winking at Patrick, and handed the banana to the Rev.

Eckert shot to his feet and batted the banana away, sending it skittering across the desk.

“This is an outrage! I did not come here to be mocked! I refuse to stand for another minute of this!”

So saying, he wheeled and stormed from the stage.

“Reverend?” Ackenbury said, calling after him but with little conviction.

“That's okay,” Patrick said after swallowing the last of his mouthful of banana. “I'm sure he's just hurrying off to phone in his donation to 1-800-SIMUNION before the lines get jammed.”

Ackenbury was laughing as he turned to face the camera. “I'm afraid that's about all we have time for tonight,” he said as if nothing the slightest out of the ordinary happened. “As usual, I hope you were entertained, and I hope you learned something as well. Until tomorrow night then.”

As the outro music began, Ackenbury picked up the spurned banana, peeled it, and took a bite. The studio audience went wild. He leaned toward Patrick and extended his hand.

“You, sir,” he said, grinning, “have a standing invitation to return anytime you wish.”

Patrick didn't know how true that was, but he pretended to take it at face value. “I may be taking you up on that.”

“Do. Just call Cathy Tresor.”

As a stagehand came over and helped the host haul his huge frame out of the seat, Patrick felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned and saw Cathy beaming at him.

“You did
great
!”

“I hope so,” he said. “I'm sort of new at this.”

She fairly bounced along as she led him backstage and seated him in the green room, which he again had all to himself. She told him she'd find someone from makeup to stop by and clean him up—better that than run into the Reverend in the hallway.
Ackenbury at Large
liked to confine its conflicts to the onstage area.

As he sat alone, wondering if any of this would have a beneficial effect on the sim defense fund, he sensed movement in the doorway. He turned and found the Reverend Eckert, backed up by a steroidal slab of beef with ‘bodyguard' written all over him.

Oh, shit, Patrick thought. He's come to mess me up.

“You've got cojones, Mr. Sullivan,” Eckert said, hands on hips. “I'll have to give you credit for that.”

“Hey, now listen,” Patrick said, backing up a step. “None of that was personal. I didn't—”

But the Rev surprised him by grinning and thrusting out his hand.
“Course you didn't. It's all show biz. I understand that. Quite a scene stealer you pulled at the end there. Yessir, stole my fire good. But I'm not mad. I had my say. In fact, the reason I stopped by is I'd like to thank you for what you did.”

“Thank me?”

“Yes! Just got a call from church headquarters. Our prayer lines have been ringing off the hook! Praise the Lord, never have we had such an outpouring of support. The money is all but flying through the window. And all because of you.”

Hope my line is doing the same, Patrick thought. But was Eckert crazy?

“Why thank me?”

“ 'Cause caller after caller's been saying they want me to keep spreading the word that they ain't monkeys.” He shook his head, beaming. “The Lord works in mysterious ways, don't he. I thank Him every day, but tonight I want to thank you too. God bless you, Mr. Sullivan.”

“No hard feelings then?”

“Not a bit. Hard to be mad at someone who reminds you so much of yourself. You get tired of this lawyering and unionizing business, you come to me. I promise to have a place for you.”

He gave Patrick's hand another squeeze and then he was gone. Patrick stood dumbstruck. Probably looked like Eckert had when he'd spotted him with the banana.

What a strange man. Patrick had expected a punch in the nose; instead he'd received a handshake and hearty thanks and a job offer. To do what? Take their act on the road and charge admission?

Hard to be mad at someone who reminds you so much of yourself . . .

The words echoed jarringly in Patrick's head.

Like you? he thought. Not a chance. I'm nothing like you.

But was he so sure? The possibility made him queasy.

BROOKLYN

Romy lay in bed in her apartment in the Cobble Hill section of Brooklyn. The
Ackenbury at Large
closing credits had just begun to roll when her PCA chimed.

“Are you alone?” said Zero's voice.

“Aren't I always?”

“You really need to get more of a life, Romy.”

“Maybe I'm waiting for you to take off that mask.”

“It's off.”

“And if I were there, would I like what I saw?”

“I doubt it very much.”

She laughed. “Come on—”

“Romy . . .” He sighed. “You don't seem to be enjoying life.”

“You sound like my mother.”

She and her mother still spoke three or four times a week. Her parents divorced when she was a teen—her fault, she knew—and her mother had never remarried. But she had a job, men friends, women friends, a bridge club. In other words, a life.

So do I, Romy thought. Sort of.

She had her job at OPRR. She had her ballet—she'd spent two hours working out on the bar tonight and had the sore hips to prove it—and she had Zero and the organization. But beyond that . . .

Friends were a problem. Always had been. She'd had no girlfriends growing up—her wild mood swings saw to that—and still had trouble being one of the girls. As for men, she had plenty of offers, and she'd had her flings, but most of them seemed tissue thin. Nobody with a fraction of Zero's substance.

She
had
a life, damn it. Getting justice for the sims—wasn't that enough?

But it was so frustrating. She'd read up on the civil rights movements of the fifties and sixties, looking for inspiration. But that had been different.
Those seeking justice then had been human, and could march in the streets to demand it. Sims weren't human, and the idea of joining a movement or even a single protest march was completely beyond them.

So people like her and Zero had to work behind the scenes.

“Were you watching?” Zero said.

“Of course.”

Usually she did the early-to-bed/early-to-rise thing, but tonight she'd stayed up to see how Reverend Eckert came across; like everyone else, she had been stunned by Patrick Sullivan's sudden appearance.

“What did you think?” Zero said.

“First tell me if you knew Sullivan was going to appear.”

“Not a clue. But I'm glad he did.”

“So am I . . . I think.”

“He said things that needed saying. And anyone who pushes sims closer to humans in the public consciousness does us a service. SimGen is always pushing the other way.”

“But squatting on the chair and eating that banana . . . do you think he went too far?”

“You mean, how did he play in the bleachers?”

“Exactly.”

“Well, only time will tell. But I have to admit that Patrick Sullivan has risen in my estimation.”

“Why? He's still a quick-buck artist. Did you hear how many times he managed to mention his 800 number?”

“But he projects a good image, plus he's audacious and thinks well on his feet. I like that.”

Romy had to admit that Zero had a point. Sullivan had come across well—more like a crusading attorney with a wild sense of humor than a zealot or opportunist.

“I still think he'll cut and run as soon as the opposition stiffens,” she said. “And if what we hear about this judge assigned to the case is true, he's going to run into a brick wall next week. And then it's sayonara sims.”

Zero sighed. “You're probably right. But I've learned, sometimes to my delight, sometimes to my chagrin, that people aren't always as predictable as they seem. Patterns of behavior can be misinterpreted. And tonight I thought I caught a glimpse of something in our Mr. Sullivan, a spark of stubbornness that may work to our advantage. We'll simply keep a careful eye on him and watch for developments.”

“I guess we don't have much of a choice, do we.”

“Unfortunately not.” Zero paused, then, “Are you ready for tomorrow?”

She'd scheduled the first leg of OPRR's inspection tour of SimGen's main facility to begin at 1:00
P.M
.

“I suppose so. I just hope it accomplishes something. After all, you've had people in SimGen itself for years, and they haven't been able to learn much.”

“That's because they're low- or mid-level employees, and because SimGen's cellular corporate structure reduces crossovers between divisions. They see only a tiny piece of the picture. That's been our problem all along. Everything about that company has been designed for maximum security. Look at where it's located: The hills protect it from ground surveillance, and a fly-over offers only a momentary glimpse. If we had access to a spy satellite we might learn something, but we don't.”

“How about a hot-air balloon?”

“A couple of reporters tried that, remember? SimGen's copters buzzed them so much they damn near crashed.”

“I was only kidding.” Romy took a deep breath to ease the growing tension in her chest. “So it's all on me.”

“You'll do fine. Even if you uncover one tidbit over the next few days, one little thing that OPRR can use to call the company's practices into question, it could lead to slowing or even stopping their assembly-line cloning of sims. If nothing else, this inspection has to shake them up a little. So far they've managed to insulate themselves from regulatory oversight. This is a first for them. They'll be nervous.”

“And I've planned something that just might add a little extra rattle to their cages.”

“Good. Maybe they'll slip up.”

“We can only hope.”

“I'll call again tomorrow night—on the secure PCA I'll have delivered to your apartment in the morning.”

“Why? Are you worried about a tap?”

“Not yet, but after you begin sticking your nose into SimGen's sanctum tomorrow, I'll bet they'll want to learn everything they can about you.”

Romy shook off a chill creeping over her shoulders. “Thanks. That's a pleasant thought.”

“Sleep well, Romy.”

“Sure.”

She hung up, told the TV to turn itself off, and lay in the darkness. But
sleep wouldn't come. Instead of throttling back, her mind raced along, veering in all directions.

She wondered at the turn her life had taken and if she might be courting futility. It didn't seem possible that Zero and the organization had much of a chance of denting SimGen, let alone toppling it, and yet he persisted. And so did she. But sometimes she felt like one of many Sancho Panzas helping this enigmatic Quixote tilt at windmills.

She'd have to be on her toes at SimGen tomorrow, staying alert not simply to what was going on around her, but to what was happening within her. She might encounter something that upset her and she didn't want it to set her off. She had to be the picture of professionalism.

The doctors had said her bipolar disorder was cured, but she knew better. She'd had no violent outbursts since her treatment, but that didn't mean she hadn't come close.

There'd been two Romys in the bad old days—the studious, compliant, Reasonable Romy, and the fierce, wild, Raging Romy. Raging Romy was supposedly gone, but Romy still heard echoes of her footsteps down the corridors of her mind.