Sims (16 page)

“I'm going to grab a cup of coffee,” he told Maggie.

“Want me to get it for you?” she said, looking up from her computer screen.

“Thanks, but you're busier than I am at the moment.”

Down the hall, laughter echoed from the open doorway of the kitchenette that housed the coffee maker and a small refrigerator. He slowed his approach when he heard his name.

A voice he recognized as belonging to Rick Berger, one of the younger associates, was saying, “. . . and so when I
still
won't give Skipper a steak instead of dog chow, he says, ‘I'll get you! I'm calling Sim-Sim Sullivan!' ”

More laughter. Patrick felt his face flush. Setting his jaw he turned and glanced back at the waiting area. The elevator doors were sliding open and Romy Cadman was stepping inside. He broke into a run.

“Ms. Cadman! Hold those doors!”

She turned and gave him a curious look, but put out a hand to stall the doors. He hopped into the cab beside her.

“I've made up my mind,” he told her.

She blinked, shock and disbelief playing tag across her features. “You mean—”

I know I'm going to regret this, he thought, but fuck 'em. Fuck 'em all.

“Damn right. Want to meet my clients?”

Her smile lit the elevator. “I'd love to.”

Romy's head spun as she followed Sullivan's BMW through the downpour to the golf club.

What happened back there? she wondered. There he was, standing in his office, and he's clearly out of the picture—wouldn't say so to her face, but she'd seen defeat in his eyes, his posture,
I quit
written all over him—and a couple of minutes later he's jumping into the elevator with her and not looking back.

Had he truly been on the fence and she'd misread him? She'd been so
sure
. . .

Well, no use in beating it to death. He was still on board. That was what counted. She didn't know how good Sullivan was, but at least the sims still had a lawyer.

He stopped next to a high privet hedge and she pulled in behind him. She grabbed her umbrella and stepped out of her car. The umbrella was auto open which was good because she had the briefcase in her other hand. She had no intention of leaving it in the car.

An umbrellaless Sullivan came splashing over to her.

“Let me help,” he said, reaching for the briefcase.

She handed him the umbrella handle. “Help with this.”

“Aaawww,” he said, grinning.

Nice smile. Gave him a boyish look. Like a mischievous child.

Together they sloshed through the soggy grass toward a barrack-like building.

“Most of the caddies and gardening sims should be in. Not a golf day. You'll have to come back at night after the kitchen and dining room close to catch all of them.”

Patrick knocked and they were admitted by a grinning sim he introduced as Tome. Romy was prepared for the barrack, and her tours of the SimGen dorms prepared her for the vague musty odor that attended a crowd of sims. But she was totally unprepared for the reception.

Like Jesus' return to Jerusalem: cheering, waving, jumping on furniture,
and cries of “Mist Sulliman!” from a dozen sim throats. Everything short of throwing palm fronds at his feet.

Flushed and looking a little embarrassed, Sullivan turned and gave her a self-conscious shrug. “My clients.”

“My God,” she said, unable to hide her awe. “They . . . they love you.”

A sheepish grin. “Yeah, well . . .”

“No. They truly do. How could you have ever even considered . . . ?”

His blue eyes widened, not in surprise that she'd guessed, more in fear that she'd say it out loud. But she'd never do that—not to his sims. Everyone, even sims, needed someone or something to believe in, even if their god was made of tin.

And that need in these sims further bolstered her conviction that all sims were too close to human to be treated as they were . . . as property . . . as slaves.

“It's all very complicated,” he said.

Romy shook her head. “No, it's not. It's all very simple, really: You do the right thing.”

“But right for whom? What's good for the right hand may not necessarily be good for the left. In case you don't know, my specialty is labor relations. It's all negotiation. The art of the possible.”

His voice was smooth, his eyes intent, his smile sincere. He was good, he was persuasive, and no doubt that he was smart. She wondered if Zero looked like Patrick Sullivan. But Sullivan wasn't Zero, and Romy wasn't buying.

“You've got to draw a line somewhere.”

He shook his head. “The client and the opposition draw the lines. Then I try to get them to redraw their lines in places that both sides can live with.”

“But these particular clients can't draw that line,” she told him. “They don't know how, they wouldn't know where. So you've got to draw it for them, making certain it's in the right place. And then you've got to stand behind that line and say, ‘This far and no farther.' No matter what is thrown against you—SimGen, the Teamsters, the US Government: ‘This far and no farther.' ”

Now Sullivan's turn to shake his head. “It's all so clear and simple to you?”

“Crystal and absolutely.”

The tumultuous greeting had run its course, but a second round of cheering followed when Sullivan introduced Romy and announced that she was contributing “lots of money” to pay for the legal battles ahead. That finally
died down, and now the sim called Tome was leading a young female toward them.

“Mist Sulliman. Meet new sim. Anj.”

Dressed in the bib overalls and T-shirt that seemed to be the off-duty uniform of the Beacon Ridge sims, Anj was young and slight—couldn't have weighed more than eighty pounds fully dressed—and clung shyly to Tome, not making eye contact. Romy put out her hand and Tome had to take Anj's arm and extend it for a handshake. But she needed no prompting to grasp Sullivan's. Even smiled.

The old sim grinned. “Tome tell Anj all 'bout Mist Sulliman.”

The gathering's attention shifted from the two humans to the food cart that was being wheeled in by a pair of kitchen sims.

“Lunch,” said Tome. “You eat?”

They both declined and watched as Tome led Anj away.

“Seems awful young, doesn't she?” Sullivan said.

Romy was seething. “SimGen can't breed sims fast enough to meet demand, so they're leasing them out at younger and younger ages.”

She watched them line up, plates in hand, for servings of some sort of stew being ladled out of a big pot with SIMS hand printed in red on the side. A scuffle broke out between two of them when one tried to cut ahead in line. Tome had to leave Anj to break it up, and she stood alone, looking lost.

“It's criminal,” Romy said.

Sullivan didn't seem too concerned. “Speaking of lunch, we need someplace to talk. How about—?”

“I had a big breakfast. How about right here?”

“Too crowded.”

“They're busy eating,” she said, gesturing to the sims seating themselves at the long tables. “Besides, I'm used to being around sims. I work for OPRR. I'm a field agent in its Division of Animal Welfare.”

“Sounds government.”

“Yes and no.”

They found a couple of empty easy chairs angled toward each other and she explained how the Office for the Protection of Research Risks was part of the National Institutes of Health, indirectly funded by the government.

“Then that's government money?” he said, pointing to the briefcase. “I don't know if I'll be allowed to use—”

“
My
money, Mr. Sullivan,” she replied, glad she could say that truthfully. “Mine. To do with as I wish, and this happens to be what I wish. But I want a commitment from you, Mr. Sullivan.”

“Only judges and opposing attorneys call me Mr. Sullivan. Makes me feel like I'm in court. Call me Patrick.”

And if I do, she thought, looking at him, I suppose I'm going to have to tell you to call me Romy. First names make us sound like friends. Do I want to sound like your friend, Patrick Sullivan? Can I trust you enough?

“Maybe when we know each other better . . . when I see how much of a commitment you have to this project. I'm more interested in commitment than first names, Mr. Sullivan.”

“I—”

At that moment Anj appeared at his side and squeezed next to him in his chair.

“Um, uh . . . hello, Anj,” he said, looking nonplused and not a little uncomfortable. “Can I help you?”

The young sim said nothing as she draped herself across his lap, then curled up and began sucking her thumb. She looked so small and fragile in those baggy overalls.

“Too young,” Romy said. And through her cooking anger she could imagine Raging Romy beginning to stir. “They're sending them out too damn young.”

Sullivan sat stiff as a board in his easy chair. “What's she doing?”

Romy noticed Anj's eyelids drooping. “Looks like she'd going to take a nap.”

“Great. And what do I do while she's catching Z's?”

“Just sit there while we finish our discussion,” Romy said, not particularly liking herself for the enjoyment she was taking in his discomfiture. “Commitment, remember?”

“You're going to make me sick of that word.”

“I won't need to mention it again if I get it from you.”

“Commitment how?”

“That you'll devote enough of your professional time to the sims to see that they get a fair shake.”

“Time?” he said, eyebrows rising. “You want time, you got it.”

“But it's more than time.” How could she explain this? “There's an obscure Paul Simon song called ‘Everything Put Together Falls Apart.' It doesn't get played much but—”

“I remember it. A jazzy, bluesy thing.”

“That's it. I don't recall the lyrics but I've never forgotten the title, because I've always added my own coda:
unless you act
. The world does not become a better place and
stay
a better place on its own. It takes effort.
Constant effort, because entropy is the default process. And so every day is a battle against the tendency for things to devolve to a lower state—of existence, of civilization, of meaning, of everything that matters. That's why I've brought you this money. Because everything put together falls apart—unless you act.”

“But I can't see sims as entropic. If anything—”

“To create a new self-aware species is a magnificent accomplishment; to use them as slaves is to drag that accomplishment through the mud; to accept that circumstance is poison for the human soul.”

He sighed and nodded. “Can't argue with that. All right, I'll promise you more than time. As of today I'm quitting Payes & Hecht to devote myself full time to these guys.”

Romy couldn't help but wonder if Sullivan was quitting his firm or his firm was quitting him. No matter. Either way he'd have only one client.

“Excellent, Mr. Sullivan. I'll deposit the money this afternoon.”

“It's going to be a long, bumpy road,” he said. He gestured around at the barrack. “I mean, let's face it: This isn't a bad life. These sims have it pretty good, don't you think?”

“Maybe, but they're a lucky minority. You can't imagine what I've seen. As a matter of fact . . .”

She stopped herself. Did she dare? Yes. Why not? Mr. Patrick Sullivan needed something to rile him up, stiffen his spine.

“Tell you what,” she said. “I'll call you in the next day or two and bring you along as I wind up an investigation I've been pursuing for weeks. You game?”

He shrugged. “Sure. I'll just need—”

Anj whimpered. Her eyes remained closed in sleep.

“Misses her mother, I'll bet,” Romy said.

Sullivan stared down at the young sim. “Afraid I can't help her there.”

“Want me to take her?”

He raised a hand and gingerly, gently, began stroking her stiff, stringy hair. “No. That's all right.”

Romy realized she was catching a glimpse of a facet of Patrick Sullivan that he hid from the world, perhaps even from himself.

“You prefer Patrick to Pat?” she said.

He glanced up with a surprised expression, then grimaced. “Pat sounds like an androgynous serving of butter, and Patty makes me sound like I should be holding up the bar at the Dublin House Pub. Just Patrick.”

“All right, Patrick,” she said. She hesitated, then figured, what the hell. “And you might as well call me Romy.”

SUSSEX COUNTY, NJ
OCTOBER 25

“Sullivan quit the firm rather than drop the sims!” Mercer Sinclair said.

He pushed his chair back from his desk and began to pace his office. His personal news service had picked up Sullivan's announcement that he was going into solo practice, and informed him via his computer first thing this morning. Immediately he'd called Voss and Portero. Somehow his brother had got wind and showed up as well. Not that Ellis would contribute anything. Not that Mercer cared. He was too baffled, too pissed to care.

“I can't believe it!” he went on. “Is the man crazy? Has he suddenly become a crusader? What's gotten into him?”

Abel Voss cleared his throat. “An infusion of cash, it appears.”

“Really? How much?”

“Quarter mil was deposited to his sim defense fund two days ago.”

Mercer was stunned. “A quarter—how do you know?”

Voss glanced at the security chief. “Mr. Portero's people have been monitoring the fund.”

Portero's people
. . . Mercer knew Voss didn't mean the SimGen security department Portero headed.
Portero's people
—SIRG. No one referred to them by name. They were elsewhere, far off the SimGen campus, and Mercer wasn't the least bit surprised that SIRG had devoted a small part of its vast resources to keeping an eye on Patrick Sullivan's activities.