Romy shook her head. “No, it’s not. It’s all very simple, really: You do the right thing.”
“But right for whom? What’s good for the right hand may not necessarily be good for the left. In case you don’t know, my specialty is labor relations. It’s all negotiation. The art of the possible.”
His voice was smooth, his eyes intent, his smile sincere. He was good, he was persuasive, and no doubt that he was smart. She wondered if Zero looked like Patrick Sullivan. But Sullivan wasn’t Zero, and Romy wasn’t buying.
“You’ve got to draw a line somewhere.”
He shook his head. “The client and the opposition draw the lines. Then I try to get them to redraw their lines in places that both sides can live with.”
“But these particular clients can’t draw that line,” she told him. “They don’t know how, they wouldn’t know where. So you’ve got to draw it for them, making certain it’s in the right place. And then you’ve got to stand behind that line and say, ‘This far and no farther.’ No matter what is thrown against you—SimGen, the Teamsters, the US Government: ‘This far and no farther.’”
Now Sullivan’s turn to shake his head. “It’s all so clear and simple to you?”
“Crystal and absolutely.”
The tumultuous greeting had run its course, but a second round of cheering followed when Sullivan introduced Romy and announced that she was contributing “lots of money” to pay for the legal battles ahead. That finally died down, and now the sim called Tome was leading a young female toward them.
“Mist Sulliman. Meet new sim. Anj.”
Dressed in the bib overalls and T-shirt that seemed to be the off-duty uniform of the Beacon Ridge sims, Anj was young and slight—couldn’t have weighed more than eighty pounds fully dressed—and clung shyly to Tome, not making eye contact. Romy put out her hand and Tome had to take Anj’s arm and extend it for a handshake. But she needed no prompting to grasp Sullivan’s. Even smiled.
The old sim grinned. “Tome tell Anj all ’bout Mist Sulliman.”
The gathering’s attention shifted from the two humans to the food cart that was being wheeled in by a pair of kitchen sims.
“Lunch,” said Tome. “You eat?”
They both declined and watched as Tome led Anj away.
“Seems awful young, doesn’t she?” Sullivan said.
Romy was seething. “SimGen can’t breed sims fast enough to meet demand, so they’re leasing them out at younger and younger ages.”
She watched them line up, plates in hand, for servings of some sort of stew being ladled out of a big pot with SIMS hand printed in red on the side. A scuffle broke out between two of them when one tried to cut ahead in line. Tome had to leave Anj to break it up, and she stood alone, looking lost.
“It’s criminal,” Romy said.
Sullivan didn’t seem too concerned. “Speaking of lunch, we need someplace to talk. How about—?”
“I had a big breakfast. How about right here?”
“Too crowded.”
“They’re busy eating,” she said, gesturing to the sims seating themselves at the long tables. “Besides, I’m used to being around sims. I work for OPRR. I’m a field agent in its Division of Animal Welfare.”
“Sounds government.”
“Yes and no.”
They found a couple of empty easy chairs angled toward each other and she explained how the Office for the Protection of Research Risks was part of the National Institutes of Health, indirectly funded by the government.
“Then that’s government money?” he said, pointing to the briefcase. “I don’t know if I’ll be allowed to use—”
“My money, Mr. Sullivan,” she replied, glad she could say that truthfully. “Mine. To do with as I wish, and this happens to be what I wish. But I want a commitment from you, Mr. Sullivan.”
“Only judges and opposing attorneys call me Mr. Sullivan. Makes me feel like I’m in court. Call me Patrick.”
And if I do, she thought, looking at him, I suppose I’m going to have to tell you to call me Romy. First names make us sound like friends. Do I want to sound like your friend, Patrick Sullivan? Can I trust you enough?
“Maybe when we know each other better…when I see how much of a commitment you have to this project. I’m more interested in commitment than first names, Mr. Sullivan.”
“I—”
At that moment Anj appeared at his side and squeezed next to him in his chair. “Um, uh…hello, Anj,” he said, looking nonplused and not a little uncomfortable. “Can I help you?”
The young sim said nothing as she draped herself across his lap, then curled up and began sucking her thumb. She looked so small and fragile in those baggy overalls.
“Too young,” Romy said. And through her cooking anger she could imagine Raging Romy beginning to stir. “They’re sending them out too damn young.”
Sullivan sat stiff as a board in his easy chair. “What’s she doing?”
Romy noticed Anj’s eyelids drooping. “Looks like she’d going to take a nap.”
“Great. And what do I do while she’s catching Z’s?”
“Just sit there while we finish our discussion,” Romy said, not particularly liking herself for the enjoyment she was taking in his discomfiture. “Commitment, remember?”
“You’re going to make me sick of that word.”
“I won’t need to mention it again if I get it from you.”
“Commitment how?”
“That you’ll devote enough of your professional time to the sims to see that they get a fair shake.”
“Time?” he said, eyebrows rising. “You want time, you got it.”
“But it’s more than time.” How could she explain this? “There’s an obscure Paul Simon song called ‘Everything Put Together Falls Apart.’ It doesn’t get played much but—”
“I remember it. A jazzy, bluesy thing.”
“That’s it. I don’t recall the lyrics but I’ve never forgotten the title, because I’ve always added my own coda: unless you act . The world does not become a better place and stay a better place on its own. It takes effort. Constant effort, because entropy is the default process. And so every day is a battle against the tendency for things to devolve to a lower state—of existence, of civilization, of meaning, of everything that matters. That’s why I’ve brought you this money. Because everything put together falls apart—unless you act.”
“But I can’t see sims as entropic. If anything—”
“To create a new self-aware species is a magnificent accomplishment; to use them as slaves is to drag that accomplishment through the mud; to accept that circumstance is poison for the human soul.”
He sighed and nodded. “Can’t argue with that. All right, I’ll promise you more than time. As of today I’m quitting Payes & Hecht to devote myself full time to these guys.”
Romy couldn’t help but wonder if Sullivan was quitting his firm or his firm was quitting him. No matter. Either way he’d have only one client.
“Excellent, Mr. Sullivan. I’ll deposit the money this afternoon.”
“It’s going to be a long, bumpy road,” he said. He gestured around at the barrack. “I mean, let’s face it: This isn’t a bad life. These sims have it pretty good, don’t you think?”
“Maybe, but they’re a lucky minority. You can’t imagine what I’ve seen. As a matter of fact…”
She stopped herself. Did she dare? Yes. Why not? Mr. Patrick Sullivan needed something to rile him up, stiffen his spine.
“Tell you what,” she said. “I’ll call you in the next day or two and bring you along as I wind up an investigation I’ve been pursuing for weeks. You game?”
He shrugged. “Sure. I’ll just need—”
Anj whimpered. Her eyes remained closed in sleep.
“Misses her mother, I’ll bet,” Romy said.
Sullivan stared down at the young sim. “Afraid I can’t help her there.”
“Want me to take her?”
He raised a hand and gingerly, gently, began stroking her stiff, stringy hair. “No. That’s all right.”
Romy realized she was catching a glimpse of a facet of Patrick Sullivan that he hid from the world, perhaps even from himself.
“You prefer Patrick to Pat?” she said.
He glanced up with a surprised expression, then grimaced. “Pat sounds like an androgynous serving of butter, and Patty makes me sound like I should be holding up the bar at the Dublin House Pub. Just Patrick.”
“All right, Patrick,” she said. She hesitated, then figured, what the hell. “And you might as well call me Romy.”
5
SUSSEX COUNTY, NJ
OCTOBER 25
“Sullivan quit the firm rather than drop the sims!” Mercer Sinclair said.
He pushed his chair back from his desk and began to pace his office. His personal news service had picked up Sullivan’s announcement that he was going into solo practice, and informed him via his computer first thing this morning. Immediately he’d called Voss and Portero. Somehow his brother had got wind and showed up as well. Not that Ellis would contribute anything. Not that Mercer cared. He was too baffled, too pissed to care.
“I can’t believe it!” he went on. “Is the man crazy? Has he suddenly become a crusader? What’s gotten into him?”
Abel Voss cleared his throat. “An infusion of cash, it appears.”
“Really? How much?”
“Quarter mil was deposited to his sim defense fund two days ago.”
Mercer was stunned. “A quarter—how do you know?”
Voss glanced at the security chief. “Mr. Portero’s people have been monitoring the fund.”
Portero’s people…Mercer knew Voss didn’t mean the SimGen security department Portero headed.Portero’s people —SIRG. No one referred to them by name. They were elsewhere, far off the SimGen campus, and Mercer wasn’t the least bit surprised that SIRG had devoted a small part of its vast resources to keeping an eye on Patrick Sullivan’s activities.
He shivered ever so slightly at the thought of being the object of that cold scrutiny.
“Who’d give that kind of money to a small-town ambulance chaser?”
“That boy’s no rube. He was ready and waitin with an injunction when Beacon Ridge tried to trade some of its sims to another club. And he had another ready in record time when we issued that recall on them. He’s anticipated us at every turn. He may be an opportunist, but he’s a smart one.”
“Fine. He got lucky. But where did the money come from?”
“A cashier’s check,” Voss said. “That’s all I know.”
“Perfect,” Mercer said, cracking his knuckles in frustration. “So we can’t trace it.”
“Yes, we can,” Portero said, speaking for the first time. “And we did.”
Mercer stared at the security chief, standing there in his dark suit with his hands tucked behind his back, straight as a board, like some parade ground tin soldier waiting to be inspected.
“Why didn’t you say so in the first place?”
Mercer thought he sensed an instant of hesitation in Portero but couldn’t be sure. He doubted this man had an uncertain cell in his body…and yet, he’d seen something flash across his face.
“We are looking into an unexpected aspect of the situation.”
“Which is?”
“The purchaser of the cashier’s check was a Ms. Romy Cadman. You may remember the name: She led the OPRR inspection team.”
Mercer stiffened. “OPRR? You don’t think—?”
Voss shook his head. “OPRR’s budget just barely covers its expenses. Even if it had the surplus it wouldn’t jeopardize its funding by getting involved in something like this.”
“Is she independently wealthy?” Mercer said, feeling his unease growing by the second. “Where’d she get that kind of money?”
“She lives modestly on a modest income,” Portero said flatly. “She purchased the check with cash. That is all we know—so far.”
A quarter of a million in cash. And probably more where that came from. Someone out there wanted Sullivan to succeed.
Again that sense of malevolent convergence through which he could almost hear the gears of some giant piece of machinery starting to turn…an engine of destruction. But whose engine? Whose destruction?
“I don’t like this,” Mercer said.
“Neither do my people,” Portero said. “We’re going to handle matters from here.”
“Meaning what?” Ellis said.
Mercer glanced at his brother. Their eyes met. On this they could agree; neither of them was comfortable with the way Portero’s people handled problems.
“Meaning this situation is spinning out of control. Your attempt to stop Sullivan failed. Now it’s our turn.”
“Now wait a minute,” Voss said, both chins jiggling as he hauled his bulk out of the chair. “Wait just one damn minute. Don’t you folks say another word until I’m on the right side of that door. I don’t need to hear this.”
He hustled across the gray carpet and let himself out.
As soon as the door closed Ellis turned to Portero. “You’re not planning to—”
“No plans have been finalized, but direct action will be taken.”
“No!” Ellis said, rising. “I’m not going to sit by while you and your people pull more of your dirty tricks.”
“You have no choice, I’m afraid,” Portero said without changing his inflection. “The matter is out of your hands. Sullivan has proven smarter and more stubborn than anyone anticipated. Even though the chance that his suit will set a precedent is remote, the mere possibility that he might succeed is unacceptable. My people have decided to stop him now, before he uses the courtroom to plant himself in the national consciousness.”
“My God!” Ellis moaned, shutting his eyes. “Why did we ever become involved with you?”
Portero didn’t answer. No answer was needed. But here again, for the second time in as many minutes—a rare occurrence, to be sure—Mercer could agree with his brother. He wished at times like these that they’d found another way to finance their start-up back in the seventies. But he knew that when he settled down later and was able to regain his perspective, this feeling would pass, and once again he’d appreciate how SimGen never could have achieved its current dominance without SIRG’s help.
Portero said, “We also intend to learn the source of the Cadman woman’s money.”
“How will you do that?”
“Not your concern.” And again a flash of something in Portero’s ebony eyes, almost like regret this time. “But we will know.”
6
WESTCHESTER COUNTY
OCTOBER 26
“Mr. Sullivan?”
Patrick looked up from the box he’d just folded closed. He was nearly finished packing up the books in his office. Strangely enough, he wasn’t the least bit sad about leaving Payes & Hecht. And from the cool reception he’d received in the hallways, he gathered the feeling was mutual.
Only Maggie seemed genuinely sorry to see him go. She was out now, scrounging up more boxes for him, so there’d been no one to intercept his visitor.
He saw a thin, aging woman in a faded blue flowered dress and a rumpled red cardigan sweater. She wore a yellow scarf around her head, babushka style, and clutched a battered black handbag before her with both her bony hands. Her pale hazel eyes peered at him and she nodded vigorously.
“Yes, you’re him,” she said. “I recognize you from the TV.”
“Yes, ma’am?” he said. “Can I help you, Ms….?”
“Fredericks. Miss Alice Fredericks.” She offered a smile that might have been girlish had she possessed more teeth. “I wish to retain your services, Mr. Sullivan.”
The poor woman didn’t look like she had enough for her next meal. Not that it mattered. He was no longer with the firm.
“I’m afraid I—”
“I want you to sue SimGen for me. I can tell you�
�re a brave man. You’re taking on the company on behalf of those poor dear sims, so I figure you’re just the man, in fact the only man with the guts to tackle them for me.”
This was interesting.
“That’s very gratifying. On what grounds would you wish me to tackle them, may I ask?”
Her face screwed up, accentuating her wrinkles, and she looked as if she was about to cry. “They took my baby!” she wailed.
Baby? Patrick stared at her. A warning bell clanged in his brain. SimGen might have some skeletons in its corporate closets, but he doubted stealing babies was one of them. And this woman was long, long past the baby-bearing years.
“When did this happen?”
She sobbed. “Years and years ago! I…I’m not sure how many. Things get fuzzy…”
“Why have you waited so long to go after them?”
“I’ve been to every lawyer in New York City and no one will take the case. They’re all afraid!”
“I find that hard to believe, Miss Fredericks. There are literally thousands of lawyers in the city who would get in line to sue SimGen.”
“Sure…until they hear about the space aliens.”
Oh, Christ. No need for a warning bell anymore. There it was, right out on the table: a big, multicolored bull’s-eye withLooney Tunes scrawled across it.
Patrick didn’t want to ask but had to. “Aliens?”
“Yes. Space aliens abducted me, impregnated me, and then when I delivered, it was a sim. But I loved him anyway. That didn’t matter, though. They took my baby boy away from me. And do you know who they handed him to? Right in front of me? Mercer Sinclair! Mercer Sinclair took my baby and I want him back!” She sobbed again.
She wasn’t scamming. Patrick had a sensitive bullshit meter and it wasn’t even twitching. This poor woman believed every word.
“I sympathize, Miss Fredericks, but—”
“And you know what Mercer Sinclair did with my son, don’t you? He made the whole race of sims from him. And he did it for the aliens so that earth can be repopulated by a slave race that the aliens can use around the galaxy.”
Patrick blinked. A living breathing talking issue of Weekly World News had walked into his office. It might be funny if the woman weren’t so genuinely upset. And he might be tempted to sit down and listen to her—purely for entertainment—if he didn’t have such a burning need to put this place behind him.
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