F Paul Wilson - Sims 02 (14 page)

 
          
But Tome was shaking his head.
“Too many dead sim.
Family gone.
All Tome fault.”

 
          
“No-no-no,” Patrick said, putting a
hand on his shoulder. “You can’t
lay
that on yourself.
If anybody’s to blame here—besides the son of a bitch who poisoned the
food—it’s me.”

 
          
Tome kept shaking his head. “No.
Tome know
.
Tome ask
Mist Sulliman.
If Tome
nev
ask, Mist Sulliman
nev
do.”

 
          
“That doesn’t make you responsible
for…this. You wanted something better for your family, Tome, and we’re not
going to let this stop us. I swear—”

 
          
“No, Mist
Sulliman.”
He struggled to his feet. “We stop.
Family
gone.
No law bring back. We stop. Other sim die if no stop.”

 
          
“You can’t mean that!” Patrick said,
stunned. “That’ll mean that Anj and Nabb and all the others died for nothing!”

 
          
Tome turned and slid away. “No union,
Mist Sulliman. Tome too tired.
Tome too sad.”

 
          
“Then they win! Is that what you
want?”

 
          
“Tome
want
sim live,” he said without looking back.
“That all Tome want
now.”

 
          
Patrick fought the urge to grab the
old sim and shake some sense into him. They couldn’t quit now—public opinion
would rush to their side after this atrocity. He took a step after him, but the
utter defeat in the slump of those narrow shoulders stopped him.

 
          
He remembered the night they met,
when Tome explained what he and the other
sims
wanted:
Family…and one thing other…respect, Mist Sulliman.
Just
little respect.

 
          
And now your family’s been murdered,
Patrick thought. And the only respect you’ve gained is mine. And what’s that
worth?

 
          
Flickering light to his left caught
his eye. He saw Reverend Eckert’s face on the TV screen in the corner. The
voice was muted but Patrick knew the bastard could only be spewing more of his
anti-sim venom. With a low cry of rage he stalked across the room, picked up an
overturned bench, and raised it above his head. But before he could smash the
set, a hand grabbed his arm.

 
          
“Please don’t do that,” said a voice.

 
          
He turned and found Holmes Carter
standing behind him. On any other day he would have teed off on the man, but
Carter had surprised the hell out of him tonight—worked as hard as anyone to
save the
sims
. And he looked it: His sport coat was
gone and his wrinkled shirt lay partially unbuttoned, exposing a swath of his
bulging belly. Right now he looked shellshocked.

 
          
Patrick knew exactly how he felt.

 
          
“Why the hell not?”

 
          
“What will the survivors watch?”

 
          
Damn him, he was right.

 
          
Patrick lowered the bench and
extended his hand. “I want to thank you, Holmes. I take back anything I’ve ever
said to offend you.”

 
          
“Sure.” Carter gave the hand a
listless, distracted shake and looked around. “Gone,” he said dazedly. “Just
like that, three-quarters of our
sims…
gone. Nabb…he
used to be my favorite caddie, and now he’s dead. Why?” He looked at Patrick
with tear-filled eyes. “What kind of sick person would do this? What kind of a
world have we created?”

 
          
“Wish I knew, Holmes. It gets
stranger and stranger.”

 
          
Carter sighed. “I realized something
tonight. These
sims…
they’re…they were…part of Beacon
Ridge. We knew them. We liked them. I’m going to tell the board to grant
collective bargaining rights, and I’m going to insist that the survivors remain
together as long as they want.”

 
          
Patrick opened his mouth to speak but
found himself, for possibly the first time in his adult life, at a loss for
words.

 
          
Carter smiled wanly. “What’s the
matter? Cat got your tongue?” He gave his head a single sad shake. “Wasn’t that
part of the exchange that set this whole mess in motion?”

 
          
Patrick nodded, remembering their
little confrontation in the club men’s room. “Yes…yes, I believe it was. This
is good of you, Holmes.”

 
          
“I just wish I’d done it yesterday.”

 
          
Without another word Carter turned
and wove his way through the dead
sims
toward the
door.

 
          
We’ve won, Patrick thought—a reflex.
The thought died aborning. He looked around at the sheeted forms and knew that
if this was winning, he’d much rather have lost.

 
          
He heard an engine rumble to life
outside. He looked around and realized that the mysterious doctors had
disappeared. He hurried to the door in time to see the truck roll away across
the grass toward the road.

 
          
Romy stood there, leaning against the
barrack wall. He approached her cautiously. She seemed to have spent her rage,
so he filled her in on the latest developments.

 
          
“Tome’s decision doesn’t surprise
me,” she said in a low, hoarse voice. “Sims
aren’t
fighters. But after what you’d told me about the club president…”

 
          
“Yeah.
I
guess I had him wrong. People never cease to surprise me, for good or for ill.
Like these phantom doctors of yours. Where did they come from, where did they
go? They pop out of nowhere with no explanation, and then they’re gone.”

 
          
“I told you—” Romy began.

 
          
“I don’t want to hear about some
nameless ‘organization’ again. How about some specifics? Who’s behind you? And
who killed those two guys when we were run off the road the other night? I want
answers, Romy.”

 
          
Her expression was tight. “Do you?
Well then maybe you’re in for one more surprise tonight.”

 
          
“I don’t think I can handle another.”
He noticed a strange look in her eyes, wary yet flirting with anticipation.
“But I’ll bite. What?”

 
          
“Someone wants to meet you.”

 
          
Romy drove.
A
mostly silent ride during which she replied to his questions with terse
monosyllables.
He sensed an inner struggle but hadn’t a clue as to what
it might be about. In his brain-fragged state, Patrick didn’t have the strength
or the will to probe.

 
          
She stopped at a small cabin on the
edge of
Rye
Lake
.
Patrick stepped from her rented car and looked around.

 
          
The surrounding woods lay dark and
silent; the cabin was an angular blotch of shadow with no sign of habitation;
on its far side a dock jutted into the lake where tendrils of mist rose into
the chill air from the glassy moonlit water.

 
          
“Doesn’t look like anyone’s home,” he
said.

 
          
Romy was moving toward the cabin.
“Look again. And use your nose.”

 
          
Patrick sniffed the air.
A wood fire somewhere.
And now he saw a thin stream of smoke
drifting from the cabin’s chimney. Okay, so someone was inside.
But who?
Along the way Romy had told him that he’d find out
when they got there. Just what she’d told him when she’d led him to the sim
whorehouse. This time would be different. He wasn’t going through that door
until—

 
          
But Romy wasn’t waiting for him. She
was already halfway to the house.

 
          
He hurried to catch up to her. “This
cloak and dagger stuff is getting to me.”

 
          
“Relax. You may find a cloak here,
but no dagger.” Without warning she leaned forward and kissed him—too briefly—on
the lips. “Thanks.”

 
          
“What for?”

 
          
“For hanging in
there tonight.
For caring.”

 
          
Patrick touched his mouth where the
warmth of Romy’s lips lingered. He wanted more, but she’d already opened the
door and pushed through. He followed her into the dark interior, lit only by
the glow from the fireplace.

 
          
“Over here, Romy,” said a deep voice
near the fire. Patrick could make out a dark form seated in a high-backed
chair, positioned so that the light came from behind him. The figure leaned
forward and extended a hand. With a start Patrick realized he was masked.
“Welcome, Mr. Sullivan.”

 
          
Hesitantly Patrick stepped forward
and shook the hand, surprised to find it was gloved. “And you are…?”

 
          
“My name is Zero.”

 
          
And that stands for what? Patrick thought.
IQ?
Personality rating?
But
he said, “Interesting name.”

 
          
“Forgive the melodramatic trappings,”
Zero said, “but we take security very seriously.”

 
          
Melodramatic barely touches this,
Patrick thought. I’m standing in the dark talking to a masked man.

 
          
But it was right in tune with the
nightmarish unreality of the past few hours.

 
          
“Just who might ‘we’ be?”

 
          
“A loose-knit organization I’ve put
together.”

 
          
“An organization…what’s it called?”

 
          
“I’ve resisted naming it. Once a
group gives itself a name, it tends to take on a life of its own; the group can
become an end in itself, rather than simply a means.”

 
          
“What end are we talking about here?”

 
          
“In a nutshell: to protect existing
sims
from exploitation and stop SimGen or anyone else from producing
more.”

 
          
“Tall order.”

 
          
“We know.”

 
          
“How many members?”

 
          
“Many.”

 
          
“Like those doctors who showed up
tonight?”

 
          
“Yes.
Volunteers.
They were on standby in case of disaster.”

 
          
“Which we had—in
spades.”

 
          
“Yes. Mistakenly I had expected more
direct violence, a bomb or the like. I had the barrack under guard.” Zero’s
voice thickened. “I never thought to guard the kitchen.”

 
          
Romy said, “So it was one of the
help?” The flickering firelight accentuated her high cheekbones, glittered in
her eyes. Even in the dark she was beautiful.

 
          
“I doubt it. That sample of stew you
brought me was laced with a very sophisticated synthetic toxin we’ve been
unable to identify. This was not the work of a jealous kitchen hand or a union
goon. Whoever did this has considerable resources.”

 
          
“SimGen,” Patrick said.

 
          
“Not impossible, but out of
character. SimGen has always protected its sims.”

 
          
“But have its
sims
ever posed a threat before?”

 
          
Romy spoke. “That’s a point, but
we’re coming to believe that SimGen is not quite the free-standing entity it
presents to the public. That it’s not pulling all its own strings. This may be
the work of another shadow organization within SimGen or linked to it.”

 
          
Uh-oh, Patrick thought, sniffing
paranoia. What next?
New World Order conspiracy?
Trilateral commission?
Illuminati?

 
          
Only Romy’s presence kept him from
backing away. He couldn’t think of anyone more firmly grounded in reality. And
he couldn’t deny the reality of the poisoned Beacon Ridge
sims
.

 
          
“But why kill those
sims
?”

 
          
“Because what
threatens SimGen,” Zero said, “threatens the shadow group.
And in this
case, the
sims
were the logical target: Lawyers are
replaceable, plaintiffs are not.”

 
          
“Thanks a lot,” Patrick said, but
knew it was too true. “Any idea
who
they are?”

 
          
“No, but we’ve got
the start of a trail, and we’re following it.
That’s why I’ve asked you
here tonight, Mr. Sullivan. We’d like your help.”

 
          
“You want to hire me?”

 
          
“Not exactly.
You’d be an unpaid consultant, a volunteer like Ms. Cadman.”

 
          
“I don’t work for free.”

 
          
“Even for people
who saved your life?”
Romy said.

 
          
She had him there. “Glad you brought
that up: Just who did save my life?”

 
          
Zero said, “Join us and you’ll
know…eventually.”

 
          
“You need me in the legal field?”

 
          
“There, and wherever else your unique
brand of ingenuity can be of service.”

 
          
“Flattery will get you everywhere.”

 
          
“And who knows?” Zero said. “We may
be able to position you for another crack at SimGen’s deep pockets.”

 
          
“Now you’re talking.”

 
          
“I thought that might sell you,” Romy
said.

 
          
“I’m not sold yet. You’ve been
calling the shots for Romy, I assume.”

 
          
Zero inclined his head. “I merely
suggest…she is always free to decline, just as you will be.”

 
          
“But who’s calling the shots for you?”

 
          
“No one.”

 
          
“You could be just telling me that.”

 
          
“I could. But I’m not.”

 
          
“So you’re funding this operation?”

 
          
He shook his head. “I raise money in
various ways…donations from a number of sources.”

 
          
“I must have missed the last annual Free
the Sims telethon.”

 
          
No one laughed. Tough crowd, Patrick
thought. But then, after what had happened tonight, what did he expect?

 
          
“Your point?”
Zero said.

 
          
“Money tends to come with strings.”

 
          
“True. And these donations come with
one string, and only one: Stop SimGen.”

 
          
“What about freeing the sims?”

 
          
“That will be the fallout, but first
we shut down the pipeline. Once we cut off the flow of new
sims
,
we can deal with the problem of what to do with those who already exist.”

 
          
“These donors…who are
they—specifically? I like to know who’s footing the bill.”

 
          
“I will partially answer that when
you join us, with the proviso that you never breathe a word of what you learn.
But I must warn you not to accept my invitation lightly. The deeper you delve
into this morass, the more you’ll see that nothing connected with it is what it
appears to be. And there’s danger. You’ve witnessed firsthand on more than one
occasion the ruthlessness of the other side. We’re in a war, Mr. Sullivan, and
any one of us could become a casualty.”

 
          
Patrick swallowed. Where had his
saliva gone? But if Romy was in this and willing to take the risks, how could
he stand here next to her and back out? What kind of a man would that make him?

 
          
Perhaps a man who’d
live to a ripe old age.

 
          
“What about if I decide I don’t like
what you’re up to? If I want to walk, I want be able to do so with no strings.”

 
          
“Of course.
As long as you understand that you’re not walking away from the confidentiality
agreement.”

 
          
Hoping he wouldn’t regret this, he
managed a shrug and a nod that conveyed a lot more bravado that he felt.

 
          
“Fair enough.
I’ll give it a try. Do I have to sign in blood?”

 
          
Zero shook his head. “Your word is
enough.”

 
          
He raised his hand and a TV flickered
to life on the far side of the room. Diagonal lines danced across the screen,
then
the Reverend Eckert’s face appeared.

 
          
“Jerk!”
Patrick said.

 
          
“Give him a listen.”

 
          
Eckert’s face looked grave,
anguished. His voice was at least an octave lower than his usual ranting tone.

 
          
“My friends…I have just heard that a
number of
sims—
nineteen of them, I’m told—have been
killed.
Poisoned.
These were the
sims
who were trying to unionize. This is very disturbing. More than disturbing,
it’s a terrible, terrible thing, and I hope, I pray to the Good Lord that no
one in my flock is responsible.
Because if one of you is,
then I must shoulder some of the blame.
It might have been my words that
drove one of you to this terrible deed. If so, then I have been misunderstood.
Terribly misunderstood.

 
          
“So hear me now, friends, and hear me
well.

 
          
“I wish no harm to any sim. I have
never, ever preached violence against them. I have said they were created by
evil, Satan-inspired science, and I know that to be true, but I have never said
the
sims
themselves were evil. They are not. They are
the innocent products of unnatural science who should be allowed to live out
their lives in peace.