Sims (25 page)

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.

“Violence toward sims is not the way. If you kill sims, you only give SinGen the excuse to produce more. We want SinGen to
stop
producing sims. We must use the law—the
law,
my friends—to cut off the supply at its source by piercing the beating evil heart of the problem. And that heart is the devil corporation that subverts the Laws of Creation by fashioning creatures that are not part of God's design.

“Please. I beg of you: Do not harm sims. That is not the answer—it is, in fact, counterproductive. Spreading the word, boycotting businesses that lease sims, endlessly harassing SinGen in court until it finally surrenders. That is the way, my friends. The only way.

“And to continue fighting that battle, I need your support . . .”

The screen went blank.

“His standard request for contributions follows,” Zero said.

“When did he broadcast that?” Patrick said.

“He hasn't. He rushed it into production and it's going out to replace his previously scheduled message.”

“How'd you get it?”

“The Reverend Eckert is part of the organization. One of its major contributors, in fact.”

For the second time tonight Patrick found himself speechless.

Romy smiled, her first in too many hours. The pearly enamel within her smile caught the light, giving her a Cheshire Cat look.

“If only you could see your face! Oh, God, I wish I had a camera!”

SUSSEX COUNTY, NJ
NOVEMBER 14

As soon as Luca stepped into the room, the usually listless Sinclair-2 rose from his seat and came toward him. He looked like he'd slept in his clothes; his face flushed as he started shouting.

“It was you, wasn't it! You killed those sims! You monster! You
monster
!”

“Calm down, Ellis,” Abel Voss said, putting an arm around the man's shoulders. “You can't go makin wild accusations like that.”

“I can!” Sinclair-2 cried. “I know this man's methods. And if he didn't do it himself, he sent one of his hired thugs!”

No, Luca thought. I did it myself. A one-man op. That's what you have to do sometimes if you want to be sure a job gets done right.

It had taken Luca about a week after the Saw Mill River Parkway debacle to put all the pieces in place. Two nights ago he'd made his move.

But the op developed an early hitch: a tail. If he hadn't been looking for one, he never would have spotted it. But he'd been prepared.

He'd driven into midtown Manhattan and valet-parked his car at the New York Hilton, then zipped through the lobby and out a side exit where he hailed a cab that took him to a second car that had been left for him in a lot near the theater district. He'd driven out of town immediately, directly to Westchester where he'd parked a good mile from the Beacon Ridge Country Club. He'd walked the rest of the way, ducking into the shadows whenever a car approached. When he reached the club, he'd huddled in the hedges until the sims were all in their barrack and the last human had left.

Or so he'd thought. That was when he'd almost got caught. He'd been about to step out of the bushes when he spotted two dark figures gliding between the shadows near the barrack. As he'd watched, they separated, one swiftly climbing a tree, the other disappearing into the bushes.

Someone had the sim quarters under guard. Sullivan? Cadman? No matter.
That hadn't been Luca's destination. He was headed for the sprawling structure on the crest of the hill, the club's main building.

Soon he'd reached his destination: the kitchen. Once he'd located the cooking pot labeled
SIMS
he removed a vial of clear odorless liquid from his breast pocket. A brand new compound sent down through Lister from SIRG; so new it didn't have a name yet, only a number: J7683452.

He'd emptied the vial into the big pot and begun swirling the liquid around, coating the sides and bottom. When it dried, it was invisible. The only thing that could have gone wrong was somebody washing out the pot. But it had been hung up clean, so that was unlikely.

Amazing stuff, J7683452. He could have stuck his head into that pot, licked its insides clean, and he'd be fine. Perfectly harmless in that state. But heat it to a hundred-and-sixty degrees or more and . . .

Bon appétit.

As for here and now, he didn't owe the Sinclair brothers an explanation. And they didn't deserve one.

“Admit it, Portero! You murdered those nineteen sims!”

“Murdered?” he said with a calculatedly derisive snort—few things gave him more pleasure than getting under these twits' skins. “They're animals. They can be killed, they can be slaughtered, they can be sacrificed to the gods, but they can't be murdered.”

With a hoarse roar Sinclair-2 launched himself at Luca, only to be hauled back by the heavier, stronger Voss.

“You don't want to be doin that, son,” Voss said. “Trust me, you don't.”

“Ellis, for God's sake control yourself!” Sinclair-1 said.

“Listen to them,” Luca said softly.