F Wilson - Sims

Patrick eyed the money. This would take him a long way into that case; and with other contributions he could stir up during the proceedings, probably all the way through, with maybe a good chunk left over at the end.

Tempting…Jesus, it was tempting. The added prospect of spending time with this woman because of it made the offer even more tempting. Pamela had been gone for weeks and…

No. Staying with the sims meant being booted from the firm…going solo. He didn’t care for that idea. Payes & Hecht could be a cutthroat place at times, but even on the worst days he found a certain level of comfort in having a firm behind him. Like a security blanket—one trimmed with barbed wire, perhaps, but still…

And where would he be after the sim case, whatever the outcome? Who’d be his future clients? Sims? Hardly.

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 elsecould 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 Istill 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.”

4

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 sosure …

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.”