F Wilson - Sims

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 withSIMS 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—”

“Mymoney, 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 andstay 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.”