“Let’s see…no dollar amount given, just ‘unspecified compensatory and punitive damages.’”
“No, I mean the reason for the suit.”
“Lots of things. Here’s just a sample: ‘physical injury, pain, suffering, mental anguish and trauma, unpleasant mental reactions including fright, horror, worry, disgrace, embarrassment, indignity, ridicule, grief, shame, humiliation, anger, and outrage.’”
Portero snorted. “Probably a stubbed toe. They’ll put a check in front of him and he’ll go away.”
“I doubt it. It’s not a him. It’s a her named Cadman. Romilda Cadman.”
Portero’s smug reptile mask dropped and, just for a second, Mercer caught a flash of uncertainty. Portero…unsettled? The possibility turned his stomach sour, like curdled milk.
“The OPRR inspector lady?” Voss said. “The one who funded Sullivan’s sim case? What thehell ?”
“Care to guess what attorney is representing her?”
“I don’t have to,” Voss said. “Gotta be Sullivan.”
Mercer noted that Portero’s dumbfounded look had surrendered to tightlipped anger. He glanced at Ellis, expecting some sort of comment, but his brother remained silent, his expression unreadable.
“Right,” Mercer said. “Patrick Sullivan again. I don’t like this.”
“This makes no sense.” Portero’s voice was even softer than usual. “What can they possibly hope to gain? Are they that desperate for cash?”
“Oh, I doubt money’s got a thing to do with this,” Voss said. “It will take them years to get a decision, and even if they win, more years before they ever see a dime. No, instead of thinking about money, we should be asking why the man who harassed SimGen about unionizing sims is now harassing the venture capital company that helped put SimGen in business. I find that real disturbin.”
The question disturbed Mercer as well. “You’re the lawyer,” he told Voss. “Have you got an answer?”
“I’m bettin he wants to use the discovery procedures of a civil action to dissect Manassas Ventures’ workings—its board of directors, its assets and liabilities, the whole tamale.”
Mercer’s gnawing sense of malignant forces converging on him had receded after the withdrawal of the sim unionization suit, but now it returned with a gut-roiling vengeance.
“Why Manassas? Beyond owning a bundle of SimGen stock, it has no direct link to us.”
“Not anymore, but it used to. Obviously he’s sniffed out something and he’s going after it.”
“Maybe it’s just a fishing expedition,” Mercer said, but he didn’t believe it.
“Could be, but why in that particular pond? And let’s face it, Manassas is such a well-stocked pond, he just might hook something.”
No one spoke then. The idea that anyone would want to lift the Manassas Ventures rock and inspect what was crawling around beneath it had never occurred to Mercer. He’d been assured that Manassas was a dead end. But what if wasn’t? What if someone found a trail that led from Manassas to SIRG?
This had to be stopped. Now. Before it went any further.
He looked at Portero. “Your people can handle this, can’t they?”
“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” Voss said, holding up a hand before Portero could reply. “Before we start talking about stuff I don’t want to hear, why don’t you just buy her off?”
Portero stared at him. “Buy her off? You don’t know this woman. I spent days with her during the OPRR inspection and let me tell you, she is not for sale.”
Voss grinned. “Sure she is, son. I’ve waded through truckloads of bullshit in my day, but I’ve learned one thing always holds true: Everybody’s got a price tag. Some hide it better’n others, but you look hard enough, you’ll find it. Your folks’ve got pockets deep as a well to China. You have them tell her to name a price, and then you meet it. And that’ll be it. You’ll see.”
But Portero was shaking his head. “I don’t think there’s enough money in the world.”
Mercer was surprised by something in his tone. It sounded like admiration.
10
MANHATTAN
DECEMBER 8
Zero had called and asked Patrick to come over to the West Side garage. Romy was already there when Patrick arrived. With oversized sunglasses hiding her fading shiners, and a baseball cap covering her stitched-up scalp, she looked none the worse for wear.
Patrick asked her how she was doing, and of course she told him fine. She was always “fine.” She said she’d be even better when the stitches came out tomorrow.
Patrick rubbed his hands together. The old radiator running along the cinderblock wall only partially countered the afternoon chill. Neither Romy nor Zero seemed to feel it. Of course Zero, swathed head to toe as usual, would be the last to chill.
“We heard from the Manassas attorneys,” he told them. “They want a meeting. Soon. I set it up for next Thursday, my office.” He glanced at Romy. “Can you make it?”
“I’ll be there.”
“My only regret is that I couldn’t add my own charges to the suit.”
“On what grounds?”
“Loss of services and consortium.”
“You,” she said, pointing a finger at him, “are incorrigible.” She tried to look stern but he could see she was fighting a smile. She turned to Zero. “Did you have any luck with my photo?”
“Quite an interesting picture,” Zero said, handing Romy an eight-by-ten color print.
The dim light made it hard to see details. Patrick craned his head over Romy’s shoulder for a better look, but found himself gazing at the nape of her neck instead, focusing on the gentle wisps of fine dark hair trailing along the curve. He leaned closer, drinking her scent, barely resisting the urge to press his lips against the soft white skin…
“That’s him, all right,” Romy said. “Does he have a name?”
“Yes. It took me a while to trace him but—”
“Christ!” Patrick said. He pointed to a spot at the rear end of the ceiling. “Who’s that?”
He’d glanced up and caught a flicker of movement above and beyond Zero, at the point where a ladder embedded in the rear wall of the garage ran up to a square opening in the ceiling. He could swear he’d seen a pair of eyes peering out at them from within that darkness.
Zero didn’t turn to look. “Where?”
“There! In that opening! I saw someone!”
The opening was empty now, but he knew what he’d seen.
“I’m sure you did,” Zero told him. “But it was no one you need concern yourself with at the moment. Now—”
“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” Patrick said, walking over to the ladder. “If someone’s up there listening, I want to know who it is.”
“Someone’s up there guarding ,” Romy said. “Please, Patrick. Let it go for now.”
He didn’t like letting it go, but short of climbing up there and entering that patch of night—something he had no inclination to do—Patrick didn’t see that he had much choice. He’d come to trust Zero, and if he said someone was guarding them, then Patrick would buy it.
“All right,” he said, turning back. “Where were we?”
Zero said, “The man in the photo looked Japanese so I scanned him into a computer and had it comb the databases of the Japanese government and major Japanese corporations.” He held up a printout of a full-face photo of someone who bore a passing resemblance to the man in Romy’s shot. “This came back with a sixty-three percent confidence match.”
“That’s him,” Romy said without hesitation.
“You’re sure? The computer wasn’t.”
“Don’t care. I saw him live and that’s him.”
“Fine,” Patrick said. “Now…who him?”
“Yoshi Hirai, Ph.D.,” Zero said. “Top recombinant man for Arata-jinruien Corporation.”
“Which is…?” Patrick had never heard of them.
“A division of Kaze Group and one of SimGen’s potenti
al competitors. They want to raise their own sims but so far haven’t met with any success. They even started a dummy corporation to pirate the sim genome but were caught. They’ll do anything to cut into the sim market.”
“What was a creep like that doing at the fire?” Romy asked.
“Exactly what I’d like to know.”
Patrick said, “Could the SLA be Japanese? But why hijack sims when they can lease as many as they want? And why these globulin farm sims?”
“Never mind why,” Romy said. “How about where? Where are those sims? That’s my concern. I hope they don’t end up like their farmers, or get spirited off to Japan. We’ll never find them.”
11
RIVERSIDE PARK
Meerm so very sad. Live all alone in bush. Walk night, hide day. Find clothes, dirty, smelly, but warm. Wear three shirt and two pant. Steal blanket. Carry all night while search food.
Pain wake Meerm in bush home. Dark come now. Many people walk. Meerm know must stay hid till late. Meerm so hungry. Peek out bush. Ver near big round building made stone. See lady point, say, “Granztoom.”
Meerm not know what granztoom.
Meerm move along wall, stay dark spot. Climb to street. Put blanket over head and walk. Keep face down, look sidewalk. So fraid people hurt if see Meerm, but people walk fast, not look Meerm.
Meerm look for light-front place people eat. Can find food in dark behind. But see no place yet. Street dark. Hear noise behind. Meerm so scare, push against wall, turn. Building door open. Sim come out. Two sim, three sim, many sim. Meerm watch as more sim than count line up straight at curb.
Meerm see bus come and all sim go in. Meerm so cold, so hurt, so lone. Meerm drop blanket and go behind last sim. Climb step, sit empty seat. Bus dark and warm. Meerm curl up, close eye.
12
WESTCHESTER COUNTY, NY
Patrick’s breath steamed in the night air as he strolled across the rear lawn of Beacon Ridge toward the sim barrack. He’d been back only once since the night of the poisoning. He wasn’t sure exactly why he’d come tonight. Talking about sims with Romy and Zero this afternoon had made him think of Tome. He’d returned to Katonah to sign some papers dealing with his property—someone had made an offer on what was left of his home and he’d accepted—and gave in to an urge to see how the old sim was doing.
As he reached for the knob on the barrack door it opened and out stepped Holmes Carter. He jerked his portly frame to a halt, obviously startled.
“Sullivan?”
“Carter. Fancy meeting you here.”
Carter didn’t offer to shake hands, neither did Patrick. They’d reached a détente but that didn’t make them friends.
“I was just about to say that myself,” Carter replied. “You’re trespassing, you know.”
“Yeah, I know. But ease up. I’m not looking for new clients. Just visiting an old one. Promise.”
“Tome?”
“Yeah.” Patrick noticed Carter staring at him from under his protruding forehead, saying nothing. “Something wrong?”
“I guess you could say I’m amazed. I figured since the sims dropped the union idea and were no further use to you, we’d never see you again.”
“That’s usually the way it goes with client-attorney relationships, but these were special clients.”
Another long stare from Carter. He was making Patrick uncomfortable.
“You’re full of surprises, aren’t you, Sullivan.” Then he sighed. “Maybe it’s a good thing you’re here. Tome isn’t doing too well.”
Aw, no. “Is he sick?”
“I had a vet check him and she says no. He does his washroom duties, but just barely. He’s listless, eating just enough to stay alive, and spending all of his free time in his bunk.”
It occurred to Patrick that Holmes Carter seemed to know an awful lot about this aging sim.
“What brings you down to the barracks? Never knew you to be one to mix with the help.”
He looked away. “Just checking up on him. So sue me, I’m worried.”
Now it was Patrick’s turn to stare. He remembered how Carter had pitched in to help the poisoned sims, and now this.
“You’re no slouch in the surprise department yourself, Holmes.” This had to be one of a handful of times he’d addressed the man by his first name.
“The board wants him declared D and replaced. I was giving him a pep talk but I’m not getting through. Want to take a crack at him?”
Patrick knew that if Tome were human he’d have been offered grief counseling after the killings. The poor old guy must be really hurting.
He stepped past Carter into the barrack.
“I’ll give it a shot.”
With Carter following, Patrick wandered through the familiar front room, past the long dining tables and battered old easy chairs clustered around the TVs in two of the corners. The gathered sims glanced at him, then returned to what they were doing. He thought of the joyous welcomes that used to greet him, but most of those sims were dead or still at work, finishing up in the club kitchen. These replacement sims didn’t know him.
But wait…he remembered one sim, a caddie…
“Where’s Deek?” he said.
Carter glanced around. “I don’t see him. Might be sitting outside. The other survivors seemed to have bounced back, but not Tome.”
That’s because he was the patriarch, Patrick thought.
He proceeded into the rear area and looked around. The dorm area was dimly lit; his gaze wandered up and down the rows of bunk beds, searching for one that was occupied.
“Left rear corner,” Carter said. “Lower bunk.”
Patrick started forward, puzzled. He’d already looked at that bunk and had thought it was empty. But now he could see a shape under the covers, barely raising them, curled and facing the wall.
“Tome?” he said.
The shape turned and Patrick recognized Tome’s face as it broke into a wide smile.
“Mist Sulliman?” The old sim slipped from under the covers and rose to his feet beside his bed. “So good to see.”
Patrick’s throat constricted at the sight of Tome’s stooped, emaciated form. Wasn’t he eating at all?
“Good to see you too, Tome.”
He held out his hand and, after a second’s hesitation, Tome reached his own forward.
“You come see Mist Carter?” Tome said as they shook hands.
“No, Tome. I came by to see you.” Patrick saw something in Tome’s eyes when he said that, something beyond gratitude. “But Mister Carter tells me you’re not doing well. He says you spend all your free time in bed. Are you sick, Tome? Is there anything I can do?”
“Not sick, no,” he said, shaking his head. “Tome sad. See dead sim ever time walk through eat room. Can’t stay. Tired all time.”
Patrick nodded, understanding. Tome had to go on living in the building where the sims he’d considered his family were murdered, had to eat in the room where they died. No wonder he was wasting away.
Then Patrick had an idea, one he knew would cause complications in his life. But the sense of having failed Tome and his makeshift family had been dogging Patrick since that terrible and ugly night, and helping him now wasn’t something he merely wanted to do, it was something he needed to do.
“You know what you need?” Patrick said. “You need a change of scenery. Wait here.”
He went back to Carter, pulled him into a corner and, after a ten-minute negotiation, the deal was set.
“All right, Tome,” he said, returning to the bunk. “Pack up your stuff. You’re going on a vacation.”
Tome’s brow furrowed. “Vay-kaysh…”
Poor old guy didn’t even know what the word meant. Patrick decided not to try to explain because this wasn’t going to be a real vacation anyway. Simply removing Tome from the barracks might be enough, but Patrick thought the old sim would want to feel useful.
“You’re going to stay with me for a while. I’ve got a brand
new office and I need a helper.”
Tome straightened, his eyes brighter already. “Tome work for Mist Sulliman? But club own—”
“That’s all taken care of.”
Patrick had convinced Carter to allow him to take over Tome’s lease payments for a month or so. As club president, Carter had the authority, and the board couldn’t squawk too much because it wasn’t costing the club a penny. The lease payments wouldn’t be cheap but Patrick had all that money left in the Sim Defense Fund and figured it wouldn’t be a misappropriation to use some of it to help a sim.
As for keeping Tome busy, the old sim had taught himself to read so it shouldn’t be a big stretch for him to learn to file.
“Unless of course,” Patrick said, “you’d rather stay here.”
“No, no,” Tome said, waddling over to a locker. “Tome come.”
As Patrick watched him stuff his worldly belongings into a black plastic trash bag, he wondered at his own impulsiveness. He’d been planning to convert the second of the two bedrooms in his newfound apartment into a study, but he guessed that could wait. Let Tome have it for a month or so. Who knew how much of his abbreviated lifespan the old sim had left?
Not as if it’s going to interfere with my love life, Patrick thought, thinking of the persistently elusive Romy.
“Tome ready, Mist Sulliman,” the sim said, standing before him with straightened spine and thin shoulders thrown back.
“Let’s go then,” Patrick said, smiling at himself as much as at Tome. He felt like Cary Grant teaching Gunga Din to drill. Not a bad feeling; not bad at all. “Time to see the world, Mr. Tome.”
13
NEWARK, NJ
“Hey, you sim.”
Finger poke Meerm. Open eyes and see sim look in face.
“You new sim? You no work. Why you ride?”
“Cold. Hurt. Sick.”
“Beece tell drive man.”
“No!” Meerm sit up. Look out window. Bus on bridge cross water. Whisper, “No tell mans! Mans hurt Meerm!”
“Mans not hurt.”
“Yes-yes! Mans hurt Meerm. Make Meerm sick. Please-please-please no tell mans!”
F Paul Wilson - Sims 03 Page 4
