F Wilson - Sims

“You’re not going back?”

“I’ll be in after lunch. I’m going to stop off at the golf club and tell my clients the good news.”

But when Patrick arrived at the barrack he found the sims already celebrating.

“You’ve heard about the ruling already?” he said when he found Tome.

“No,” the old sim said, his eyes bright.

“Then why the party?”

“Gabba go D.”

“Is she hurt? What happened?”

Tome laughed, a wheezy sound. “No, she fine. Go D: no can wash dish now. Hands too hurt. Move old sim home.”

“Oh,” Patrick said. “You mean she’s being retired.”

“Yes-yes. Retired. Retired. Go D.”

D…Patrick had read somewhere that the expression to “go D” had come from the clause in the SimGen lease agreement that allowed lessees to return any sim that became defective, disabled, diseased, or decrepit for a fresh replacement.

Defective, disabled, diseased, decrepit…which one was Gabba? One look at her gnarled fingers and hunched back told the story. Arthritis was having a field day in her joints.

And then a thought struck Patrick like a blow—obviously the club hadn’t thought of it yet, but what if they decided to declare all their sims “D” and turn them in? How would that impact the case?

Or what if SimGen issued a recall that just happened to include the Beacon Ridge sims, and removed them all?

As he approached Gabba where she sat on one of the sofas, Patrick made a mental note to prepare preemptive injunctions to head off any such maneuvers. Had to be on his toes. He was playing with the big boys now.

“So, Gabba,” he said, dropping into the chair opposite her. “Looking forward to retirement?”

The old sim shook her head. Her brown eyes were moist. “No. Gabba want stay.”

“But winter’s coming,” he told her. “Those old joints will be much more comfortable in Arizona.”

Years ago SimGen had pulled a public relations coup by transforming a tract of Arizona desert into a retirement community for sims who were “D.” The company did it to reassure the public that sims no longer useful in the workforce were not destroyed. Instead they lived out their years in warmth and comfort. Reporters from all the media were toured regularly through the community, returning with videos and photos of disabled sims lounging in sunny tranquillity.

“No friend there. Friend here.”

“A nice old girl like you? You’ll make friends in no time.”

“No want new friend. Want here friend.”

Good lord, was that a tear slipping down her cheek? Did sims cry?

Wanting to change the subject, he looked up at the other sims crowding around. Time for an announcement.

“One thing you will miss, Gabba,” he said, letting his voice rise, “is all the excitement that will be going on here during the next few months because”—he shot his fist into the air—“the judge has decided to hear the case!”

The sims began capering about and yelling.

“Is true?” Tome said, grabbing his hand.

“Sure is. I just came from there.”

He let out a screech. “Mist Sulliman best!”

And then the sims took up a chant: “Sulli-MAN! Sulli-MAN! Sulli-MAN!” Stamping their feet, clapping their hands, pounding on the tables until the barrack shook with the chant. “Sulli-MAN! Sulli-MAN! Sulli-MAN!”

They love me, Patrick thought. No bitching about bills or unreturned calls. They think I’m the greatest.

He realized that these were the best damn clients he’d ever had—and most likely ever would.

16

SUSSEX COUNTY, NJ

“It’s the greatest job in the world,” said the bear of a man guiding her through the dorms.

Romy liked Harry Carstairs. She felt herself respond instantly to his gentle eyes, his soft manner, and the warm shake from his huge hand. As for the young sims—gangly, three-foot-tall versions of the adults, dressed in overalls color-coded for age—well, they obviously adored him, crowding around, murmuring his name, touching him as he passed as if he were a god. He cradled a yellow-overalled two-year-old female on his hip now as he showed Romy around.

“How so?” she said.

“Look at them.” He gestured to the crowded dorm as they walked among the seemingly endless rows of bunk beds. “So full of life and energy. It’s almost contagious. I get a buzz just walking through here.”

Romy had to admit the young sims were fun to be around—a positive tonic after the breeders in the natal center. She signed “hello” to a few of the older ones and they shyly signed back.

She wondered how Carstairs could reconcile the obvious affection he had for them with the fact that they were all destined to be slaves.

“How do you channel all that energy?” she asked as they edged toward a quieter corner. “How do you get them to sit still long enough for training?”

“We’ve developed a whole system of operant conditioning, routines of Skinnerian techniques but with no punishment—only positive reinforcement.”

“I’m glad to hear that.”

Romy had heard that SimGen treated its “product” well, but she’d wanted to see for herself. It seemed true. Not, she was sure, because the company was particularly humane; it simply had learned that a benign atmosphere during development resulted in the best workers.

“We start off with the social basics,” Carstairs said. “Toilet training is numero uno.”

Romy smiled. “I can imagine.”

“Next it’s how to dress and care for themselves, then the manual skills necessary for the kind of work they’ll be leased out for, and of course we stress all along the most important skill of all; language. We start with signing and move to vocalization as quickly as possible. They’re not all that intelligible when they leave here, but they can comprehend what they’re told and take instruction.”

She noted that he failed to mention the idea that was drummed incessantly into young sims’ brains throughout their upbringing: that they existed to work.

“How long does all this take?” she asked—she already knew the answer.

Carstairs’ gaze drifted away. “About five years, depending on the sim.”

Romy mimicked shock. “You’re sendingfive-year-olds out to work?”

“The ones that are ready, sure. Don’t forget, they’ve been genetically altered for accelerated growth and development.”

“Which shortens their life spans and leaves them old before their time.”

“We’re working on that. We had to crank out sims fast in the early days; now we’re getting to the point where we have the facilities to allow us a longer view. Longer lives are obviously better for the sims and, coincidentally, better for SimGen.”

“So you won’t have to send five-year-olds off to work.”

“Only chronologically five. With the hormonally enhanced diets they receive here they’re physically into their late teens when we let them go.”

“But up here…” She tapped a finger against her head. “…they’re children. How do you feel about sending children into that cold, cruel world out there?”

“Am I on trial or something here?” Carstairs said.

“Of course not.” Be professional, Romy reminded herself. Cool and professional.

“SimGen does its damnedest to see that a sim’s world is neither cold nor cruel. That’s why we don’t sell them. They always belong to SimGen—that way we can protect them.”

“They’re still just kids,” Romy said, fighting to keep the bitterness out of her voice. “Just kids.”

The rest of the dorm tour was a little tense.

“I think it’s time for lunch,” Luca Portero said with a grin as they once again seated themselves in the Jeep. “There’s this sweet little restaurant just a few miles from here where they have the greatest…”