Sims (49 page)

So many things . . . but right now Ellis Sinclair's words continued to haunt him, especially his warning about the fallout from what they might uncover.

Things that will hurt me personally, and devastate other, more innocent, parties. Things that no one will want to hear. And don't think you'll come through unscathed, either.

That last part had been particularly unsettling, but not as jarring as his final warning about what they might find.

Some of it is sensitive. And some of it is . . . unspeakable.

Zero couldn't allow Romy and Patrick even a hint of his connection to Ellis, but perhaps he could hint at the man's warnings.

“It's not so much holding back as a feeling that there's something more behind all this, something we're missing.”

“Like what?” Patrick said. “SIRG is the bastard child SimGen's been hiding in its basement. That's enough, don't you think?”

“I suppose so.”

But he remained dissatisfied and uneasy. What had they missed?

Zero shook off the worries as he spotted a street sign.

“We're getting close.”

“Another scenic neighborhood,” Patrick said. “The Bronx, East New York, Alphabet City, and now Newark. Where next? Beirut?”

Zero had to admit that Patrick had a point. Low-rent businesses, abandoned, graffito-crusted buildings, stripped skeletons of cars lining the street . . . but just the kind of low-rent neighborhood someone would pick to house sim laborers.

“It's to the right up ahead,” he told Patrick, “but don't make the turn. Cruise through the intersection and everyone keep an eye out for surveillance teams.”

“You think Portero's watching the place?” Romy said.

“Count on it.”

They made a couple of passes through the immediate area, and along the way spotted four occupied sedans. The first, with a pair of men slouched in the front seat, was parked across the street from the front door of the building; a single occupant in each of the other three; two of those were situated on the streets that flanked the sim building, the last sitting opposite a narrow
alley that appeared to lead toward the rear of the building.

Patrick pulled into the curb two blocks away and stopped under a dead streetlight. Ahead and to the right, the light over the front door of the sim crib glowed like a star in the darkness.

“This looks too risky, Zero,” he said. “Tome's not going in.”

“Tome can go,” said the sim.

“Uh-uh,” Patrick said, shaking his head, and Zero could sense his resolve turning to stone. “I won't allow it.”

Zero sighed. “I agree.”

He couldn't see any way of slipping Tome past Portero's surveillance.

“Damn.” Zero made a fist. “I anticipated two teams, not four.”

“Might be five—one roving. I swear we passed the same green Taurus twice.”

Just then a school bus rumbled past and pulled to a stop before the sim building. As Zero watched it disgorge its crew of sim laborers, he had an idea.

“All right,” he said. “Let's head back.”

Romy said, “We're not giving up already, are we?”

“Not a chance. Just changing tactics. And I promise you, by this time tomorrow night Tome will be safely inside that building, and no one will be the wiser.”

“Tomorrow's Saturday,” Patrick said. “Will the sims be working?”

“Of course. They work
every
day. ‘Weekend' has no meaning for a sim.”

As they drove back Zero reviewed all they'd learned about SIRG and Manassas. He knew Ellis had been sincere when he'd warned him against digging too deep. Well, they'd dug, and dug deep. They'd discovered a dirty little secret, yes, but nothing “unspeakable.”

And that worried Zero.

Meerm ver hungry. Drink rainwater some but no food all day. Ver fraid go out. Stay behind metal door till dark. Still fraid go out. Tummy hurt so ver bad. And belly kick-kick-kick all day.

Must go out. Push metal door. Go
skeek
ver loud. But no mans come.
Meerm go out. Smell food, yum-yum food smell. Drool smell. From other side fence.

Meerm creep to fence, peek through. See gold arch. Go under fence, cross street, go sticker bush, come other fence. See Mickey-D! Mickey-D! But can't have. Meerm so sad.

Meerm see boy-mans come out Mickey-D. Hold black bag, throw in big-big metal can. When boy-man go, Meerm squeeze through fence hole and go to can. Top ver high but Meerm climb up and fall inside. Many bag here. Meerm rip one. Yum-yum food smell come out. Meerm reach inside, find much food, half-eat, all mixy-mixy. Meerm not care. Is yum-yum.

Ouch. Hand hurt. Meerm look. See rats. Rat want food too. Bite Meerm. Meerm throw food at rat. Plenty food here. Food for all.

Meerm shove food into mouth fast can. Chew-chew-chew. So good. Meerm not sad now. Still hurt but hunger go. Good. For now.

MINEOLA, NY
DECEMBER 22

Romy had called first thing in the morning and told Patrick to pick her up. They had a doctor's appointment, she said.

After she'd settled herself in the car she explained that the appointment was with an obstetrician. That had taken him aback until she explained that it was Dr. Cannon, and they were visiting her to discuss Alice Fredericks.

Betsy Cannon worked out of a small office attached to her home, a modest two-story colonial on a tree-lined street in Mineola. She'd already made her hospital rounds; her office hours didn't start until 1:00
P.M
. so they had plenty of time. Looking casual in a loose turtleneck sweater and khaki slacks, she served them coffee and Entenmann's crumb cake in her roomy kitchen.

“Is there a Mr. Dr. Cannon?” Patrick whispered as Betsy stepped out of the room to take a call from the hospital.

Romy shook her head. “No. Never was, and I doubt there ever will be, if you get my drift.”

“No kidding?” Patrick said. “Never would have guessed.”

Betsy returned then and seated herself on the far side of the kitchen table. “You wanted to ask me about this Fredericks woman?”

“Yes,” Romy said. “Her story is such a mishmash of fact and fiction, we were hoping you'd be able to separate the two.”

Patrick appreciated the “we.” It hadn't even occurred to him to run the story past Dr. Cannon. And considering that she'd spent years as head of sim obstetrics for SimGen, he was disappointed with himself for not thinking of it first.

Betsy smiled. “Well, I'll be glad to try. I can explain parts of her story—especially the ones about being abducted and impregnated by space aliens—with one word: psychosis.”

Patrick said, “That's pretty strong, isn't it?”

“She's delusional, she has a persistent break with reality that interferes with her day-to-day functioning. That behavior fits the diagnosis. The sad thing is, she can be easily helped. The right medications could restore her neurochemicals to proper balance and she'd come back to the real world.”

“Neurochemicals,” Romy murmured. “They'll get you every time.”

Patrick shot her a questioning glance but she only shrugged and waved it off.

“Delusional or not,” he said, getting back on track, “she gave us the check. And unless I'm delusional too, it looks pretty real.”

Betsy smiled. “I'm sure it is. And you'll notice I didn't include the part about her giving birth to a sim as one of her delusions.”

“You don't really think . . . ,” Romy said, frowning. She glanced at Patrick. “I mean, how . . . ?”

“It's obvious when you think about it,” Betsy told her. “Human surrogate mothers were a necessity in the early stages of the sim breeding process.”

Romy's face twisted in revulsion. “Why on earth—?”

“Because sims are considerably larger than chimps. A small chimpanzee uterus couldn't carry a sim baby to term, but a human uterus would have no problem.”

Patrick was dazed. “So part of what she's saying might be true?”

“Perhaps not about birthing the very first sim, but . . . how old is she?”

“Forty-seven—she says.”

Betsy nodded. “Then she's about the right age. Think about the implantation
process—flat on her back on a table, bright lights overhead, surrounded by doctors in caps, masks, and goggles as they insert an in-vitro–fertilized ovum into her uterus. You can see how an unbalanced mind might later reinterpret this as an alien abduction.”

“But to go through all that for five thousand dollars?”

“I'm sure it was more like fifty thousand: say, five in advance, then five every month until delivery. The process is no different from being a surrogate mother for a human couple.”

“Except that at the end you don't deliver a human baby,” Romy said.

Betsy nodded. “Right. And perhaps that unbalanced an already fragile mind.”

“Which makes her one more casualty left in SimGen's wake,” Romy said.

“But she couldn't have been the only one,” Patrick said. “How come we haven't heard about this before?”

Betsy shrugged. “I'm sure there were many human surrogate mothers before SimGen developed its breeding stock. I'm also sure they signed nondisclosure agreements with stiff penalties.”

“Not exactly the sort of thing I'd want to trumpet from the rooftops anyway,” Romy added.

Patrick leaned back, thinking. He had a sense that something important had slipped past him here, something Betsy had said a moment ago.

A small chimpanzee uterus couldn't carry a sim baby to term, but a human uterus would have no problem
.

And then he knew.

“Oh, Christ! Meerm is carrying a half-human, half-sim baby. Won't it grow too big—?”

“Too big for her to carry full term?” Betsy said. “Absolutely. Normal sim gestation is eight months, but we don't know when Meerm conceived, so we don't know her due date. That's why you have to find her. If she goes into premature labor while she's in hiding, the baby won't survive. If she's too far along the baby will be too big for a vaginal delivery, which means she'll need a cesarean.”

“And if she doesn't get one?” Romy asked, and Patrick could tell from her expression that she didn't want to hear the answer.

“We'll lose both of them.”

Romy closed her eyes for a heartbeat or two, then stared at Patrick. “We've
got
to find her.”

“Tome is set to go tonight.”

Zero had called Patrick this morning to tell him he'd gone back to Newark
before dawn and followed the sim bus into Manhattan. He saw where it dropped off the sims at a Harlem sweatshop. Assuming pick-up would be at the same spot, the new plan was to put Tome on line with the workers as they boarded the bus.

“If Tome gets the job done tonight, we could be bringing Meerm here tomorrow morning.”

Betsy smiled and raised her coffee cup in a sort of toast. “I'll be waiting.”

NEWARK, NJ

Meerm hide in cold dark place and hurt. Hurt so ver bad. Tummy go kick-kick-kick. Was food bad? Meerm not think. Not feel sick tummy, just hurt tummy. Hurt-hurt-hurt, then stop. Then hurt-hurt-hurt again, then stop.

Now hurt stop again. Meerm close eyes and breathe. So good when hurt stop.

What this? Leg feel wet. Meerm touch. Yes, wet and warm. Put wet from leg near light from steel door crack. Red wet. Blood? Where blood come? From inside? How come from inside?

Now Meerm cry. Don't want bleed. Don't want die. What wrong Meerm?

MANHATTAN

Tome keep head down and walk far back in bus like Mist Sulliman say do. Sit seat and wait. Other sim come, say, “My seat, my seat.”

Tome stand wait for bus move, then find other seat.

“Who you?” say she-sim next Tome. “You not shop sim.”

Tome remember what Mist Sulliman tell him say. “Yes, not shop sim. Just old sim looking for friend.”

“Who friend?”

“Meerm.”

Tome know not true, but Mist Sulliman tell say this.

She-sim say loud, “Beece! Beece! Come see old sim!”

Tome look and see he-sim come down aisle. This Beece big. Look down Tome.

“Why here old sim?”

“I am Tome. Look for Meerm. She friend.”

Beece get mad face. “You lie! Bad mans send! You want hurt Meerm!”

“No! Good mans send. Friend all sim. Best friend sim have. Try to make sim union. Try—”

“What yooyun?”

Tome try tell but Beece not understand. So Tome tell Beece bout how Mist Sulliman hurt by bad mans, house burned by bad mans who hate sim.

Beece eyes ver wide. “House burn? Because help sims?”

All other sim who hear turn round, look Tome.

Tome say, “Yes! Good man! Best man. Now want help Meerm. Save her from bad mans. Also Meerm ver sick.”

All sim nod. Yes, some say. Meerm ver sick.

“Good man help make better. Where Tome find Meerm?”

Beece not speak.

She-sim next Tome say, “Beece not know. No sim know.”

No sim speak long time. Tome ver sad. Want help Mist Sulliman but fail. Touch phone in pocket. Must call and tell.

Then Beece say, “Beece know. Not know exact, but can help.” Beece look hard Tome. “Must tell true. Must help Meerm.”

“Tome help Meerm.” So ver happy now. “Tome help good.”

NEWARK, NJ

“Get ready,” Zero murmured from the darkness behind her as the school bus pulled to a stop before the sim crib.

Romy raised her binoculars and focused on the front door. Patrick had parked the van in the same spot as last night. He sat beside her behind the wheel, training his own set of glasses on the door, and she knew Zero had his pair aimed between them. They had to know whether or not Tome got off the bus, and all agreed that three sets of eyes were better than one.

Romy licked her lips. Her fingers felt slick against the black matte finish of the binocular barrels. This was the night when it all could come together, when all her years of effort, when everything she'd worked for would come to fruition . . .