Sims (6 page)

“PR,” Mercer said. “
That's
what I'm worried about. PR that's good for him and bad for us. We can't have people thinking of sims as anything more than brighter-than-average animals. Nobody talks about unionizing race horses or seeing-eye dogs. But start connecting the word ‘union' to sims and you open a Pandora's box. I can just see this shyster—what's his name?”

“Sullivan,” Voss said. “Patrick Sullivan.”

“I can see this Sullivan character portraying sims as some poor mistreated underclass, when it's just the opposite. We've never sold a sim, we lease them. Why? So we can limit how they're used and oversee how they're treated.”

“And, coincidentally, maximize profits,” Ellis said acidly.

“Nothing wrong with profits,” Mercer replied through his teeth without looking at his brother.

“You're preachin to the choir, son.”

“No, I'm telling you the message we need to get out: We are a humane corporation that looks out for these creatures. We created them and we feel responsible for them.”

“Humane,” Ellis said in that same tone. “Now there's a concept.”

Mercer wheeled on his brother. “Are you going to contribute something or just sit there and snipe?”

“That
was
a contribution, Merce,” Ellis said, leveling a soulful gaze at him. “A very relevant one.”

Mercer turned back to Voss. He couldn't stand Ellis's holier-than-thou stance. “We can't take any chances with this, Abel. I've heard of crazy things coming out of these NLRB hearings—especially where the regional office in Manhattan is involved. The wrong kind of decision and you'll be using your stock options for toilet paper.”

“Don't have to worry about no labor relations shenanigans. Sullivan thinks he's got an edge because the director of NLRB's Region 2 is a maverick. Well, I've already seen to it that he never gets to the NLRB.”

Mercer abruptly felt his mood lighten. “How did you manage that?”

“Had myself a talk with Beacon Ridge's attorney—bright kid named Hodges—and told him to seek a declaratory judgment in Federal court. He'll argue that since Congress has designated sims as property, they cannot be humans. And if they're not humans, then they're not employees, and therefore not protected by the statutes of the NLRB.”

“
I
like the argument,” Mercer said. “But what if the judge doesn't?”

Voss puffed out his chest. “He will. I've seen to it that the case comes up before Judge Henry Boughton.”

“Is he one of ours?”

Voss shook his head. “We don't own this one. Don't have to. He's our kinda guy—least so far as this union thing goes. Conservative with a capital C. Hates unions. Probably one of Reverend Eckert's loyal listeners to boot. He'll toss this case in two seconds flat.”

“Abel . . .” Mercer shook his head, grinning. “You are amazing.”

“That's what you boys pay me for—to be amazin.”

“That leaves the OPRR inspection.”

“We've been discussing that,” Luca Portero said.

The sound of the security chief's soft voice never failed to rattle Mercer. “Really. All by yourselves?”

Portero went on as if Mercer hadn't spoken. “We decided that I'll be the tour guide.”

Good idea. OPRR would get nothing out of Luca the snake.

“Excellent choice.”

Voss rose and straightened his suit coat. “Knew you'd like that. Matter of fact, Mr. Portero and me are gonna have us a little sit-down right now in my office. I'm gonna lay out the legalities we're up against, and how we're gonna slide around 'em.”

“What about my lab?” Ellis said. He'd come out of his crouch now, sitting up with a rigid spine. “I won't allow them in my lab. And as for the sealed section—”

“Hey, ain't no one from OPRR or anywhere else gonna be anyplace we don't want 'em to be. Mr. Portero will see to that.”

Portero only nodded.

“Thank God,” Ellis said.

Voss and Portero headed for the door. “Talk to y'all later,” Voss said.

When they were gone, Mercer turned and found his brother on his feet, a small smile playing about his lips as he approached the desk.

“Hear them?” Ellis said.

“Hear what?”

“The trumpets. They've started to blow. And the first cracks are starting to show in the walls of your Jericho. Soon this will all come tumbling down. And then where will you be?”

“Nothing's going to happen. You heard Abel—everything's under control.”

“No, Merce. Everything's spinning
out
of control. Can't you feel it?”

“You're breaking with reality, Ellis.” The worst of it was that he was echoing Mercer's own inchoate fears. “You need to adjust your meds.”

Ellis had reached the far side of the desk where he continued that wide-eyed stare. “Knowing what you know, Merce, how do you sleep at night?”

Not this again.

“I sleep just fine. If you've got such a problem with the company, why don't you simply turn your back and walk away?”

“If it weren't for Robbie and Julie, I would—and go straight to the networks and blow the lid off.”

Spicules of ice crystallized in Mercer's veins. Ellis was just unstable enough to do something like that. Probably thought he'd find some sort of redemption in self-immolation. But he couldn't burn alone. He'd drag Mercer into his auto-da-fé. And his children as well. Thank god Ellis loved Robbie and Julie too much for that.

“You wouldn't be blowing the lid off just SimGen, Ellis,” he said softly. “It's not like we're in this alone.”

“You think I don't know that?” Ellis cried.

“Then you should know that the walls could have ears.”

Ellis blanched and leaned against the desk. “I hate this, hate this,
hate
this!”

“Well, any time you want to sell out, brother, you know my offer.”

“We're both multi-billionaires. What would I want with
more
money?”

“You could go off, buy yourself an island somewhere, declare yourself king, and—”

Ellis straightened again. “And leave the company under your sole command? Not yet. Not till I've finished what I started out to do.”

“Meaning what? Treading old ground we've covered too many times? You should be working on projects that will move the company forward instead of wasting your time on sims.”

“It's
my
time and I'll decide how I spend it. Once I've perfected a sim—
my
sim—and we start putting them out there, then I'll sell out to you, Merce—in a heartbeat. But not a second before.”

“We've
got
sims, damn it!”

Ellis glared at him. “How do you live with yourself, Merce? How?”

Mercer sighed. “How? By being a realist. By knowing what is and what isn't. By facing the hard cold fact that life is chemistry, nothing more, nothing less. When the chemicals are reacting, life goes on. When the reactions stop, so does life. That's it, and that's all it is. I am a collection of reacting chemicals;
so are you; so are sims. To view existence as anything else is mysticism, romanticism, a myriad other isms, but it isn't real. Only the chemistry is real. Everything else is self-delusion.”

He felt a pang as he considered his brother's flushed face and blazing eyes. It hadn't always been like this. He remembered their days in New Haven, inseparable, spending late hours in the labs, unafraid, pushing the limits, trying the impossible. Then the university had become too interested, looking for a piece of the action. Forget it: They'd dropped out, started their first venture to market no-shed house pets, and were on their way.

He could still visualize in perfect detail the day the Nakao team decoded the chimpanzee genome. He and Ellis immediately printed out a copy and unfolded it along a hallway; then they synched up a print-out of the human genome next to it, and together they walked along, comparing, pointing out the uncanny parallels and match-ups.

Mercer remembered stopping and gazing at his brother, finding Ellis staring back at him across those print-outs, realizing that Ellis was thinking what he was, seeing in his eyes the shared rapture of knowing what could be done, and that they could do it.

Heady times, those. The joy of discovery, the sense of the pulse of the world throbbing under their fingertips, the near omnipotent feeling that anything was possible.

And now, the hour-to-hour reality of managing one of the hottest new corporations in the world, of fighting day by day to catch up with the Microsofts and GEs of that world consumed him. He would not rest until SimGen was number one.

But that was his dream, not his brother's. At some point along the road of years he and Ellis had parted ways.

Mercer knew the exact moment. He'd deceived Ellis. Just once. A crucial matter, true, but only that once. He'd hoped to carry the secret to his grave, but truth will out. Ellis had never forgiven him. Or himself.

If I could go back, he wondered, would I do it all over again?

Yes. In a New York minute. Because without that one deception, SimGen would be just another also-ran in the gen-mod field.

“The genie's out of the bottle, Ellis. And now it's grown too big to fit back in. I've accepted that. It's about time you did too.”

“No!” He wheeled and headed for the door, yanked it open, and strode through. “Never!”

WESTCHESTER COUNTY, NY
OCTOBER 4

Pamela's voice and her fist pounding on his back wrenched Patrick from slumber.

“Patrick!” she was shouting. “Something's burning outside!”

“Huh?”

And then a crash—breaking glass—an object smashing through the window only a few feet away, and he was awake, sitting up, his heart jackhammering in his chest as he looked around his dark bedroom. His alarm clock read 1:04. Outside he could hear a car burning rubber as it pulled away.

“What happened?”

“Look!” Pamela said, her voice hushed with fear. “Out on the lawn!”

Flickering light through broken glass . . . Patrick swung his legs toward the floor.

“No!” Pamela cried. “You'll cut your feet!”

Good thinking. He reached down, felt around till he found his loafers, then slipped them on. He hurried to the window, glass crunching under his soles, and looked out on his front yard.

His lawn was on fire.

“What the hell?”

He blinked. Well, not the whole lawn, but a circle of it along with some of the grass inside the circle blazed in the night. He was reaching for the phone to dial 911 when he heard the sirens. Apparently one of his neighbors had called the cops or fire department or both. So he reached for the lamp switch instead.

“Oh, shit, what's happening?” Pamela cried. “What's happening?”

He glanced at her. She crouched on the bed, blinking in the light like a fawn caught in the middle of the road. Pamela was his latest pseudo-live-in, meaning she owned her own place in New Bedford but had spent most of
the last eight months at his place here in Katonah. Worked as a broker for Merrill Lynch; a few years younger than Patrick but her accumulated year-end bonuses put her far closer to early retirement. Dark hair, big blue eyes, and a dazzling bod that she was now shielding to the neck with the bed sheet.

Pamela . . . terrified. In spite of the flames and the sirens and the broken glass, that was what gripped him. So out of character. The ultracompetent Pamela was even more driven than he; give her a goal and she became a heat-seeking missile. She'd never shown him the little girl who lived inside her, the one who could be frightened.

“I don't know,” he said, reaching across and giving her trembling shoulder a gentle squeeze. “But it's all right. We're okay.”

He hoped.

Patrick was dressed only in boxer shorts, and the cool fall air flowing through the window raised goosebumps. Maybe it wasn't just the air. He straightened and did a slow turn, checking out the glass-littered floor until he spotted a bottle on its side against the far wall. He crunched over and retrieved it. A Fruitopia bottle, empty but reeking of gasoline. And a piece of paper rolled up inside. He fished it out.

“What is it?” Pamela said.

“A note.”

With trembling fingers Patrick unrolled the wet piece of blue-lined loose leaf and held it up to the light. The gasoline had acted as a solvent, running the ballpoint ink, but the words were still legible. His gut crawled as he read them aloud.

“
Forget about a sim union or next time it won't be empty.
”

“Oh, Christ!” Pamela cried. “Who'd do something like this?”

“Not signed.”

A threat. He had trouble rereading the message because his hands had begun to shake. Jesus, he'd heard of things like this happening, but never dreamed . . .

He forced his racing brain to slow so he could examine the possibilities. SimGen popped into his head immediately, and just as quickly he discarded it. This was hardly their style, especially since they knew they couldn't lose in the long run. One of the anti-sim hate groups? Could be. He'd seen them on TV, mostly losers who resented animals taking human jobs—Wake up, guys: Machines have been doing that for a couple of centuries—but he hadn't heard of any in the area.

He didn't want Pamela to see how rattled he was. “One of your old boyfriends, maybe?”

“This isn't funny, Patrick! Someone just threatened your life!”

Just then a couple of Katonah's finest screeched to a halt at his front curb.

“Sorry.” Couldn't she see he was just trying to break the tension? “Bad joke.” He looked around for his pants. “I'm going to go out and talk to the cops.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

“Get dressed and stay out of sight. You're better off not being involved in this.”