Sims F Paul Wilson

by Sims (lit)

  “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 whodid 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 annualFree 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 tostopproducing 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!”

  16

  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! Youmonster !”

  “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 labeledSIMS 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.

  He hadn’t moved a muscle. He’d take no pleasure in hurting Sinclair-2—it would be like fighting a woman—but he could not allow another man to lay a hand on him.

  Sinclair-2 struggled a moment, then pulled free and returned to his usual spot on the sofa where he dropped his face into his hands.

  What gives with that guy? Luca wondered. How can he be such a wimp?

  “Did you?” Sinclair-1 said, staring at him. “Were you responsible for poisoning those sims?”

  “Does it matter?” Luca said.

  No one answered.

  Just as I thought. They don’twant to know.

  “Just tell me one thing,” Voss said. “And think very carefully on your answer: Will the perpetrator or perpetrators ever be found?”

  “My guess?” Luca shook his head. “Never. But whoever they were, they did us a favor. The Beacon Ridge club has surrendered. They’re giving the sims what they want.”

  “Since when?” Voss said. “I ain’t heard nothin about this.”

  “That’s because they haven’t made the announcement yet.”

  “If that’s true,” the attorney said, his eyes widening, “it takes the matter out of the court’s hands.”

  “No precedent,” Sinclair-1 whispered.

  Luca watched cautious optimism grow in their eyes. He’d be sharing in that good feeling if not for a call he’d received this morning. Nothing more than a hoax, he hoped—prayed. Or maybe a wild fantasy cooked up by some drugged-out waste of protoplasm. He’d fed it to Lister who’d pass it up the SIRG ladder, but he’d keep it from the Sinclairs for now. He suspected a leak somewhere, and if he was right, the less said here, the better.

  But he dearly wished he could lay it on these two. The mere mention now of what the woman on the phone had told him would snuff out the relief warming Sinclair-1 and Voss as if it had never been.

  Because if this woman had been telling the truth about a sim named Meerm, it made the threat they’d just overcome seem like a pebble in a mountain gorge.

  THREE

  Meerm

  1

  THE BRONX

  NOVEMBER 30

  Poor Meerm. Poor, poor Meerm. She ver sick sim. Meerm nev sick before. Not like be sick. Food come up sometime. And tummy hurt. Hurt-hurt-hurt. Bad tummy hurt all time.

  Meerm stand window, look out through metal bar. Wish she be outside sometime. Not now. Cold out now. Still—

  What that? Loud noise from downstair. Again! Loud noise again.Crack! Like giant plate break. Meerm go door, open just little and listen. Hear loud scare word by Needle Lady and Needle Man, hear new man voice shout more loud, hear sim voice, many voice cryee-ee-ee! Ver fraid, other sim.

  Meerm hear new man voice shout, “Where is she?” and hear ver fraid Needle Lady say, “Upstairs! We moved her upstairs!”

  Meerm ver fraid. Make belly hurt badder. Hear many loud feet come stair. Meerm want close sick room door but no good. Across hall see ladder up wall. Ladder up to little door. Meerm sure locked—all door here locked—but Meerm try. Must try. Too fraid stay sick room.

  Meerm jump cross hall, climb ladder, push little door. Move! Door move! Meerm so happy. Climb up roof. Cold-cold-cold. Close little door. Meerm listen. Hear new man voice shout. Ver, ver mad. Hear foot on ladder. Come roof! What Meerm do? Where go?

  There. Metal hole. Meerm can fit? Run and crawl in. Squeeze ver hard. Sink inside just as mans come roof. Meerm close eye, not breathe as mans run all round roof. Man look in metal hole but not see Meerm.

  Mans ver mad as leave roof. Meerm safe but still not move. Wait. Meerm will wait long long time. Wait until—

  What smell? Smoke! Smoke and hot come up vent. Meerm get out and stand on roof. Tar hot on foot. Smoke all round. Meerm ver ver scare. Run round roof, see fire evwhere. Look down. Flame all round, come out bar on all window. Meerm not want die. But roof ver hot. Tar melt under Meerm foot. What Meerm do?

  Meerm scream. No one hear. No one near.

  2

  MANHATTAN

  DECEMBER 1

  Patrick stood at his hotel window and gazed down at the top of Madison Square Garden and the giant Christmas snowman atop its entrance. The unrisen sun was just beginning to lighten the low clouds lidding the city. In a few hours the streets below would be packed with the weekly Saturday horde of Christmas shoppers.

  Patrick had been awake for hours. This had become a pattern every night since the poisoning of the sims. Fall asleep easily—with the help of a couple of stiff Scotches—and then find himself wide awake at 3:00A .M. or so with his mind sifting through the litterbox his life had become.

  All because of an argument in a country club men’s room. What if he hadn’t chosen that moment to go to the bathroom? What if he’d waited until after that second drink? Holmes Carter would have been long gone, and without Carter’s bad attitude, Patrick would have laughed off Tome’s request to unionize the club sims. If he’d done that, where would he be now?

  For one thing, he’d still have a law practice; he missed Maggie, even missed some of his clients. He’d also have a house instead of a fire-blackened foundation. And he might still have Pamela, although he wondered if that would be such a good thing. From his present perspective he could see that their relationship had been one more of mutual convenience than rooted in any deep regard.

  He probably wouldn’t have spent Thanksgiving alone, either. Ever since his folks retired to South Carolina, they’d always called and insisted he come down for Thanksgiving. Not this year. That was Dad’s doing, Patrick was sure.

  He’d known Dad had been upset with the whole idea of a sim union—he’d made that perfectly clear over the phone on more than one occasion—but Patrick hadn’t realized just how much until Thanksgiving came and went without an invitation.

  That had hurt. Even now, more than a week later, the wound still ached.

  So here he was: jobless, homeless, alone, and functionally orphaned. And aligned with a masked mystery man who’d invited him to join a nameless fifth column movement to bring
down one of the world’s most powerful multinational corporations.

  “And I said yes,” he whispered, still not believing it.

  This is not me, he kept telling himself. This is somebody else. All I wanted out of life was stability and a good living. That was why I went into law. I am not a risk taker. I am not an adrenaline junkie. How did I come to this? And how do I get out of it?

  Easy. Just say no. Pack up and walk away.

  And do what? Labor relations? After what he’d been through, could he go back to sitting at a table and listening to union and management argue over the length of coffee breaks or who qualified for daycare? Not likely.

  And then there was Romy. Walking away from Zero meant walking away from her.

  So for the foreseeable future he’d stick this out and see where it took him.

  Hopefully it would soon take him out of this hotel. Zero had suggested he relocate himself and his practice to Manhattan. Romy had laughed off Patrick’s suggestion that he move in with her while he hunted for an office and an apartment. So for the time being, home was a room in the Hotel Pennsylvania. Finding space—whether living or office—wasn’t easy. The new boom had sent prices in Manhattan up to where the new space station was nearing completion.

  The jangle of the phone startled him. He stepped through the dark room to the night table, found the phone, and fumbled the receiver to his ear.

  Romy’s voice: “Am I interrupting something?”

  “Only my daily predawn reverie.”

  She gave him an address. “If you haven’t anything better to do, meet me there ASAP. I’ll wait for you.”

  Patrick sensed strain in her voice, but before he could ask for any details she hung up.

  Dutifully he pulled on yesterday’s clothes, grabbed a large container of coffee on his way through the lobby, and ventured into the early morning chill of Seventh Avenue in search of a taxi.

  The driver shot him a look when he read off the address. “You’re sure?”

  “I’m sure,” Patrick told him after double-checking.

  The driver shrugged—reluctantly, Patrick thought—and gunned the cab into the traffic.