F Paul Wilson - Sims 02 (4 page)

 
          
Uh-uh. Tempting as all that cash
might be, he wasn’t going to commit professional seppuku for it. But he
couldn’t say that to this beautiful woman.

 
          
Painfully he pulled his gaze away
from the money and looked at her.

 
          
“I’ll take that into consideration,
Ms. Cadman.”

 
          
“Good.” She snapped the cover closed
on all that beautiful green. “When do you expect to finalize your decision?”

 
          
“Before the end of
the day.”

 
          
“Wonderful.”

 
          
One word…but the acid she managed to
lace through it seared him to the core. She was looking right through him, and
her eyes, the twist of her lips, everything in her body language radiated
contempt.

 
          
“My number is on the card. Call me
when you decide.”

 
          
She turned and walked out, leaving
him mired in a pool of dismay. A woman like that, you wanted her looking at you
with admiration, not like something that had just crawled out from under a
rock.

 
          
But what else was he supposed to do?
What else could he do? Sometimes you simply had to be pragmatic.

 
          
Patrick sighed.
The
perfect cap on the worst weeks of his life.

 
          
He heard a patter behind him and
turned toward the window. It had begun to rain.
Great.

 
          
With his mood darker than the
weather, Patrick stepped out into the hall. Off to his right he spotted the
pretty lady with the briefcase full of pretty money waiting for the elevator.

 
          
“I’m going to grab a cup of coffee,”
he told Maggie.

 
          
“Want me to get it for you?” she
said, looking up from her computer screen.

 
          
“Thanks, but you’re busier than I am
at the moment.”

 
          
Down the hall, laughter echoed from
the open doorway of the kitchenette that housed the coffee maker and a small
refrigerator. He slowed his approach when he heard his name.

 
          
A voice he recognized as belonging to
Rick Berger, one of the younger associates, was saying, “…and so when I still
won’t give Skipper a steak instead of dog chow, he says, ‘I’ll get you! I’m
calling Sim-Sim Sullivan!’”

 
          
More laughter.
Patrick felt his face flush. Setting his jaw he turned and glanced back at the
waiting area. The elevator doors were sliding open and Romy Cadman was stepping
inside. He broke into a run.

 
          
“Ms. Cadman! Hold those doors!”

 
          
She turned and gave him a curious
look, but put out a hand to stall the doors. He hopped into the cab beside her.

 
          
“I’ve made up my mind,” he told her.

 
          
She blinked, shock and disbelief
playing tag across her features. “You mean—”

 
          
I know I’m going to regret this, he
thought, but fuck ’em. Fuck ’em all.

 
          
“Damn right. Want to meet my
clients?”

 
          
Her smile lit the elevator. “I’d love
to.”

 
          
Romy’s head spun as she followed
Sullivan’s BMW through the downpour to the golf club.

 
          
What happened back there?
she
wondered. There he was, standing in his office, and he’s
clearly out of the picture—wouldn’t say so to her face, but she’d seen defeat
in his eyes, his posture, I quit written all over him—and a couple of minutes
later he’s jumping into the elevator with her and not looking back.

 
          
Had he truly been on the fence and
she’d misread him? She’d been so sure …

 
          
Well, no use in beating it to death.
He was still on board. That was what counted. She didn’t know how good Sullivan
was, but at least the
sims
still had a lawyer.

 
          
He stopped next to a high privet
hedge and she pulled in behind him. She grabbed her umbrella and stepped out of
her car. The umbrella was auto open which was good because she had the
briefcase in her other hand. She had no intention of leaving it in the car.

 
          
An umbrellaless Sullivan came
splashing over to her.

 
          
“Let me help,” he said, reaching for
the briefcase.

 
          
She handed him the umbrella handle.
“Help with this.”

 
          
“Aaawww,” he said, grinning.

 
          
Nice smile.
Gave
him a boyish look.
Like a mischievous child.

 
          
Together they sloshed through the
soggy grass toward a barrack-like building.

 
          
“Most of the caddies and gardening
sims
should be in. Not a golf day. You’ll have to come back
at night after the kitchen and dining room close to catch all of them.”

 
          
Patrick knocked and they were
admitted by a grinning sim he introduced as Tome. Romy was prepared for the
barrack, and her tours of the SimGen dorms prepared her for the vague musty
odor that attended a crowd of
sims
. But she was
totally unprepared for the reception.

 
          
Like Jesus’ return to
Jerusalem
:
cheering, waving,
jumping
on furniture, and cries of
“Mist Sulliman!” from a dozen sim throats.
Everything short
of throwing palm fronds at his feet.

 
          
Flushed and looking a little
embarrassed, Sullivan turned and gave her a self-conscious shrug.
“My clients.”

 
          
“My God,” she said, unable to hide
her awe. “They…they love you.”

 
          
A sheepish grin.
“Yeah, well…”

 
          
“No. They truly do. How could you
have ever even considered…?”

 
          
His blue eyes widened, not in
surprise that she’d guessed, more in fear that she’d say it out loud. But she’d
never do that—not to his
sims
. Everyone, even
sims
, needed someone or something to believe in, even if
their god was made of tin.

 
          
And that need in these
sims
further bolstered her conviction that all sims were too
close to human to be treated as they were…as property…as slaves.

 
          
“It’s all very complicated,” he said.

 
          
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?”