F Wilson - Sims

He glanced around and spotted Romy’s long black cleathre coat among the gaggle of onlookers standing outside the yellow police tape.

“Not exactly my idea of a fun place to spend a Saturday morning,” he said as he reached her.

“You’re here,” she said, but no smile lit her grim expression. “Good. We can get started.”

“‘How are you, Patrick?’” he said. “‘Did you sleep well?’ Why, yes, Romy. Thank you for asking. And how was your night?”

“Save it,” she said, lifting the tape and ducking under. “Follow me.”

Patrick complied as she approached a burly, clipboard-wielding sergeant.

“Excuse me, Sergeant,” she said, holding up a leather ID folder. “Romy Cadman, OPRR. Please fill me in on what you’ve found.”

The sergeant swiveled his head and gave her a quick up and down with his pale blue eyes.

“O-P-what?”

“Office for the Protection of Research Risks. We’re federal. We monitor labs and test subjects, animal and human. Lieutenant Milancewich at Manhattan South notified me that this building might have housed an unlicensed lab and that sims could have been involved.”

Patrick knew Romy had no authority to be here, but said nothing, just stood by and admired her moxie as she weathered the sergeant’s hostile stare.

“He did, did he? Well, I ain’t heard of no OPRR and no Lieutenant Milancewich, and you’re one hell of a long way from Manhattan South. We can handle this just fine without no feds nosing into it.”

“Of course you can,” Romy said. “OPRR has no investigative authority. We’re only offering help. We know labs. We can trace diagnostic equipment better and faster than anyone. We know lab animals. If sims were used as test subjects here, we can help you track them. Our interest is purely statistical: We’re keeping tally of illegal labs and what biologicals they produce.” She opened her cleathre coat to return her ID folder to an inner pocket, revealing in the process a tight, black, ribbed knit sweater and long legs slinking from a short black skirt. “We’re a resource, sergeant. Use us.”

The sergeant’s eyes lingered on her coat as she tied it closed, then he stuck out his hand.

“Andy Yarger.”

Romy smiled and shook his hand. “Call me Romy.”

Patrick resisted an impulse to close his eyes and shake his head. If that had been him popping up in front of Sergeant Yarger with an OPRR ID, he’d have been kicked back on the far side of the yellow tape before he’d spoken word one. But Romy had just reduced this Bronx-hardened cop to a lap dog.

The weaker sex? Yeah, tell me about it.

“And who’s this?” Yarger said, jutting his chin Patrick’s way.

“That’s my assistant, Patrick.”

Patrick smiled and nodded at the sergeant, thinking, That’s me, all right: faithful sidekick and gofer.

Yarger narrowed his eyes. “Ain’t I seen you before?”

“About the lab equipment?” Romy prompted.

“Your lieutenant friend was right. We found bits and pieces of all sorts of lab equipment in the wreckage. Some of it’s been identified as—lemme see.” He consulted his clipboard. “Here we go: hematology machines, blood chemistry analyzers, immu…immuno…”

Romy was nodding. “I get the picture. Who identified the equipment?”

“Couple of M-E’s boys.”

“M-E?” Patrick said when he saw Romy’s stricken look. “Sims were killed?”

“We should be so lucky. Nah. Just one very dead, very crisp human corpse. Male, age unknown.”

Patrick stared at the burned-out ruins and couldn’t help grimacing. They reminded him of what remained of his house, and how “crisp” he could have been.

“What a way to go.”

“Wasn’t the fire that got him. A bullet saved him from that.”

“Really?” Patrick said. “You’re sure?”

Yarger gave him a steely look.

“What he means,” Romy added quickly, “is how can you tell if he was, as you say, ‘very crisp’?”

The sergeant poked an index finger against the center of his forehead. “Ain’t never seen no fire burn a little hole here and blow off the back of a skull, know what I’m saying?”

“I hear you,” Romy said. “But no, er, ‘crisp’ sims?”

“Not yet anyways. Don’t expect to find none either.”

“But Lieutenant Milancewich mentioned sims.”

“Right. We have a witness who saw armed men herding a bunch of sims and some humans into a couple of vans just before the place lit up.” He shook his head. “I don’t know what sort of incendiary devices they used, but they musta been beauts. Place went up like it was made of paper.”

“But therecould be dead sims in there,” Romy persisted.

Yarger crooked a finger and started moving away. “C’mere. I’ll show you why there won’t be.”

Patrick and Romy followed him to a taped-off area near the corner. Yarger stopped and pointed to the sidewalk.

“That’s why.”

Red spray-painted letters spread across the pavement.

FREE THE SIMS!

DEATH TO SIM OPPRESSORS!

SLA

“SLA?” Patrick said with a glance at Romy.

Her face was troubled when she met his eyes. “I know what you’re thinking,” she whispered. “But no. Impossible. He’d never.”

“The Symbionese Liberation Army?” Patrick raised his voice to cover hers. “Didn’t they kidnap Patty Hearst?”

“Different group,” Yarger said. “These assholes are the ‘SimLiberation Army.’ Don’t that beat all.”

“How do you know?” Romy said.

“That’s what they called themselves in the note they left.”

“What else did it say?”

“Buncha sim-hugger garbage. The usual stuff. You know the rap.”

“May I see it?”

Yarger gave Romy a you-gotta-be-kidding look. “Forensics got it.” He turned as someone called his name. “Yeah. Be right there.” Then back to Romy. “Look, you wanna leave me your card, we’ll call you if we think we need help. But don’t wait up for it. And for the time being, stay on the other side of the tape, okay?”

Patrick expected Romy to press him further, but she simply nodded. Patrick lifted the tape for her and she ducked under. She pulled out a compact camera and began snapping pictures.

“For your scrapbook?”

“For Zero. He’ll want to see.”

“Speaking of Zero,” he said, leaning close and whispering. “Did you call him about this?

“You don’t call Zero. You leave a message.”

“Could he be behind this?”

She lowered her camera. Her look was fierce. “I told you—”

“Does he consult you on everything he does? Of course not. So how do you know?”

She started snapping pictures again. “I just do. He lets me take care of the brothels and places like this. That’smy job.”

“Well just what sort of place is it—or I guess I should say,was it?”

“A globulin farm.”

“A what?”

“I thought I explained that when—wait. Did you see that Asian man?”

“No. Where?”

“He was in that knot of people over there. I just pointed the camera in his direction and he ducked away. Where did he go?”

She rose on tiptoe to scan the area, then quickly ducked back.

“Oh, hell!” She spun, turning her back to Patrick as she started moving toward the corner. “Don’t look around, just follow me.”

“Why?”

“Just do it. I don’t want to—”

“Well, well!” said a man’s voice behind him. “If it isn’t Ms. Romy Cadman of OPRR. Fancy meeting you here.”

“Shit!” Romy hissed; it sounded more like escaping steam than a word.

As she turned, so did Patrick. He saw a swarthy, broad-shouldered man in a gray overcoat swaggering toward them. Patrick took an instant dislike to his smug expression. But his cold, dark eyes were his most arresting feature. Patrick felt like a mouse being scrutinized by a rattlesnake. But then the man’s gaze flicked away. Patrick had been demoted from lunch to background scenery.