Sims (12 page)

The sims began capering about and yelling.

“Is true?” Tome said, grabbing his hand.

“Sure is. I just came from there.”

He let out a screech. “Mist Sulliman best!”

And then the sims took up a chant: “Sulli-MAN! Sulli-MAN! Sulli-MAN!” Stamping their feet, clapping their hands, pounding on the tables until the barrack shook with the chant. “Sulli-MAN! Sulli-MAN! Sulli-MAN!”

They love me, Patrick thought. No bitching about bills or unreturned calls. They think I'm the greatest.

He realized that these were the best damn clients he'd ever had—and most likely ever would.

SUSSEX COUNTY, NJ

“It's the greatest job in the world,” said the bear of a man guiding her through the dorms.

Romy liked Harry Carstairs. She felt herself respond instantly to his gentle eyes, his soft manner, and the warm shake from his huge hand. As for the young sims—gangly, three-foot-tall versions of the adults, dressed in overalls color-coded for age—well, they obviously adored him, crowding around, murmuring his name, touching him as he passed as if he were a god. He cradled a yellow-overalled two-year-old female on his hip now as he showed Romy around.

“How so?” she said.

“Look at them.” He gestured to the crowded dorm as they walked among the seemingly endless rows of bunk beds. “So full of life and energy. It's almost contagious. I get a buzz just walking through here.”

Romy had to admit the young sims were fun to be around—a positive tonic after the breeders in the natal center. She signed “hello” to a few of the older ones and they shyly signed back.

She wondered how Carstairs could reconcile the obvious affection he had for them with the fact that they were all destined to be slaves.

“How do you channel all that energy?” she asked as they edged toward a quieter corner. “How do you get them to sit still long enough for training?”

“We've developed a whole system of operant conditioning, routines of Skinnerian techniques but with no punishment—only positive reinforcement.”

“I'm glad to hear that.”

Romy had heard that SimGen treated its “product” well, but she'd wanted to see for herself. It seemed true. Not, she was sure, because the company was particularly humane; it simply had learned that a benign atmosphere during development resulted in the best workers.

“We start off with the social basics,” Carstairs said. “Toilet training is numero uno.”

Romy smiled. “I can imagine.”

“Next it's how to dress and care for themselves, then the manual skills necessary for the kind of work they'll be leased out for, and of course we stress all along the most important skill of all; language. We start with signing and move to vocalization as quickly as possible. They're not all that intelligible when they leave here, but they can comprehend what they're told and take instruction.”

She noted that he failed to mention the idea that was drummed incessantly into young sims' brains throughout their upbringing: that they existed to work.

“How long does all this take?” she asked—she already knew the answer.

Carstairs' gaze drifted away. “About five years, depending on the sim.”

Romy mimicked shock. “You're sending
five-year-olds
out to work?”

“The ones that are ready, sure. Don't forget, they've been genetically altered for accelerated growth and development.”

“Which shortens their life spans and leaves them old before their time.”

“We're working on that. We had to crank out sims fast in the early days; now we're getting to the point where we have the facilities to allow us a longer view. Longer lives are obviously better for the sims and, coincidentally, better for SimGen.”

“So you won't have to send five-year-olds off to work.”

“Only chronologically five. With the hormonally enhanced diets they receive here they're physically into their late teens when we let them go.”

“But up here . . .” She tapped a finger against her head. “. . . they're children. How do you feel about sending children into that cold, cruel world out there?”

“Am I on trial or something here?” Carstairs said.

“Of course not.” Be professional, Romy reminded herself. Cool and professional.

“SimGen does its damnedest to see that a sim's world is neither cold nor cruel. That's why we don't sell them. They always belong to SimGen—that way we can protect them.”

“They're still just kids,” Romy said, fighting to keep the bitterness out of her voice. “Just kids.”

The rest of the dorm tour was a little tense.

 

“I think it's time for lunch,” Luca Portero said with a grin as they once again seated themselves in the Jeep. “There's this sweet little restaurant just a few miles from here where they have the greatest . . .”

Not gonna happen, she thought as she closed out his voice. I'll eat in the employee caf.

As they passed the two buildings that made up the research complex, she interrupted him. “When we get into the research centers, I think I'll start with the basic facility, and then move on to general research.”

Portero shook his head and heaved a dramatic sigh. “I'm sorry.”

“What now?”

“You will not be inspecting the basic research facility.”

“Of course I will. That's what it says in the order—‘all research facilities.' What part of ‘all' is causing confusion here?”

Another helpless shrug. “If it was up to me—”

“Cut it. We'll have SimGen back in court first thing tomorrow morning.”

“That will be up to you. But the powers that be consider the basic research experiments too sensitive and proprietary to allow inspection. They're worried about industrial espionage.”

“Nonsense! Every member of my team—”

“We will allow you to inspect every other facility on the campus,” he said, his voice taking on an edge. “But under no circumstances do we allow outsiders in that building. We will go to the Supreme Court to protect our basic research.”

Romy did not miss the sparks in his crocodile eyes. So now it's “we,” is it?

She knew damned well that SimGen could barrage the courts with motions ad infinitum.

She was wearing two spycams and had been saving them for the basic research facility. Now, damn it, she wouldn't get a chance to use them.

With frustration burning like a hot poker against the back of her neck, she turned toward the window. Don't lose it . . . don't lose it . . .

As she glared through the glass she noticed a truck pulling out of the basic research building's enclosed loading dock. She couldn't tell if it was the same one she'd seen earlier, but so what?—she wanted a closer look at it. But by the time it reached the road they'd be well past it.

Finding the window button she jabbed it with one hand while she rummaged through her shoulder bag with the other. She pulled her notebook free, then let it flutter from her fingers and out the window.

“Stop!” she cried. “My notes!”

Portero hit the brakes. As soon as the car stopped—and before he could shift into reverse—Romy hopped out and ran back. She retrieved the notebook, then stood and studied the truck as it reached the road.

It looked brand-new, dark green, about the size of a UPS delivery van, but with no lettering on the side panels, no indication anywhere that it belonged to SimGen or anyone else. As it turned and roared away, she used a spycam hidden in one of her suit jacket buttons to photograph its Idaho plates.

Idaho?

And then the Jeep was backing past and skidding to a halt in front of her—directly between Romy and the retreating truck.

“Find it?” Portero said, bounding out from behind the wheel.

“Yes,” she said.

“Good.” He trotted around and opened the passenger door for her. He seemed anxious to get her back in the car. “Now, about lunch . . .”

Romy stepped to her right so she could see the truck again, and pointed to it. “What's in the truck?” she said so innocently, as if asking what octane gas he used in the Jeep.

“Truck?” He looked around with equal innocence as if just noticing it. “Oh. Just delivering supplies.”

“Where's it going? The gate's the other way.”

“I don't know. I don't keep track of delivery schedules.”

A bend in the road swallowed the truck. Romy saw no point in standing out here any longer, so she stepped past Portero and slid back into her seat.

“You're SimGen's chief of security and you have no idea why an unmarked truck is rolling from the basic research building toward the company's private airport?”

Portero's eyes narrowed. “How do you know that's the road to the airport?”

Romy smiled. “Lucky guess?”

His expression hardened as he slammed her door closed.

“And just when we were starting to really hit it off,” she muttered.

WESTCHESTER COUNTY, NY
OCTOBER 6

Patrick Sullivan lay in bed on his right side, face to the wall, Pamela spooned warmly against his back.

Ah, peace.

Judge Boughton's decision had started to thaw the ice between them. After all, if a federal judge thought the case warranted a hearing, then maybe Patrick hadn't gone off his head with “this sim thing,” as she liked to call it. A little champagne before dinner and a Graves Bordeaux with perfectly done steaks had finished the melt, leading to a hefty serving of aerobic sex for dessert.

And now for some much-needed sleep. But his slow slide toward dreamland was cut short by the crash of shattering glass. He levered up in the bed. Not again! The sound had come from the living room this time. Anger bloomed with the crash, but the
whoomp!
that followed it shot a bolt of terror through his heart, even before he saw the flicker of flames along the hallway.

“Pam!” he shouted, shaking her. “Pam, wake up!”

She was slow coming to. Not used to all that wine. But when she saw the flames and smelled the smoke—

“My God!”

Neither of them was wearing a stitch but they still had a few seconds. Patrick found Pam's slacks and blouse on the floor and tossed them to her. As she slipped into them—God knew where their underwear might be—he dialed 911. He found his jeans as he was reporting the fire.

Less than a minute later, cold and barefoot, they stood on the curb and watched the flames fan out from the living room. The howling fire trucks arrived shortly and brought the blaze quickly under control, but not before it had gutted Patrick's house. Somewhere along the way a neighbor had draped a blanket over their shoulders; another had brought them some old
sneakers, ill-fitting but a hell of a lot more comfortable than the cold wet asphalt of the street.

When it was over and the firemen were rolling up their hoses, Patrick stood mute, numb with shock, unable to move a muscle as he stared at the smoking ruin of his home. But Pamela began to lose it. She started with a few deep sobs that quickly graduated to wails. Patrick tried to comfort her but she shoved him back.

“Don't come near me!” she screamed. “This is all your fault! I told you to forget this crazy sim thing but you wouldn't listen! You had to keep pushing and pushing until you almost got us killed!”

Patrick saw the terror slithering in her eyes. He took a step toward her. “Pam—”

“No!” She held out a hand and backed away. She looked wild with her hair in disarray and her tears reflecting red and blue flashes from the police and fire vehicles. “No, you stay away! I've had it! I can't take this anymore! Everyone I work with thinks you're either a nut or an opportunist! I'm tired of defending you and I don't want to be burned alive! We're
through
, Patrick! I can't take any more . . . I just can't!”

She's hysterical, he thought. She doesn't know what she's saying. “Pam, please . . .”

“No!” She raised her hand higher and turned away, moving toward her car. Through a sob she said, “I'm going home alone, Patrick. Good-bye.”

She left Patrick standing alone outside the smoking timbers of what had been his home, wondering how a day that had started out so well could go so hideously wrong.

SUSSEX COUNTY, NJ
OCTOBER 7

“All I can say,” Mercer Sinclair shouted, “is that there'd better not be any connection to SimGen! If I find out anyone here had anything to do with this, heads will roll, and I don't care whose body is attached!”

Luca Portero watched Sinclair-1—his pet name for SimGen's CEO—pace back and forth in his two-toned CEO office before his panoramic CEO window. If this display was being staged to intimidate Luca or the two other men who made up the rest of the CEO's captive audience, it was failing. Miserably.

Luca glanced around. Abel Voss had his wide butt crammed into an armchair and looked as if he was listening to a weather report, and not a terribly bad one. Sinclair-2, Ellis, the useless Sinclair, was slumped on the sofa and staring out at the clear morning sky. As for Luca himself, he stood. He preferred to stay on his feet during these gatherings.

Sinclair-1 paused, so Luca used the break to offer something useful.

“I spoke to the Westchester County Sheriff this morning. They caught the guys—two of them. Didn't take much: They were drunk and had wrapped themselves around a utility pole getting away. Had an unused Molotov and a can of gas in their back seat.”

Sinclair-1 pointed at Luca. “Who hired them? You?”

Luca only stared at him.

“I asked you a question,” Sinclair-1 said. “And I'd better like the answer. Because if I don't . . .”

He let it hang, but Luca didn't believe in letting things hang. “You'll . . . what?”

Sinclair-1 might be CEO, but Luca wasn't going to allow anyone he didn't take orders from to threaten him. And he took orders from no one in this room.