F Wilson - Sims

“All I can tell you,” she said, “is that I believe in his cause and he’s never let me down. I don’t intend to let him down.”

He sighed. “Fair enough. I’m trusting your judgment. For now.”

Down near Tenth, Romy stopped before a dirty white doorway next to an equally dirty white roll-up garage door and pressed a buzzer. She glanced up into the eye of an overhead security camera and nodded once, signaling that all was clear. The door buzzed open.

Inside, a single dusty bulb glowed in the ceiling. They found Zero, barely visible in the gloom, his tall lean figure swathed in sweater, jeans, ski mask, dark glasses, and gloves, pacing beside a beat-up Ford Econoline delivery van, once white, now soot gray.

“Have you heard any more about this SLA group?” he said without preamble.

Romy sensed the tension in his voice.

“Nothing. I called a few of the cops I know but nothing’s broken yet beyond the identity of the corpse in the ashes: Craig Strickland, a twenty-four-year-old loser with a history of assaults.”

“Doesn’t sound like your typical globulin farmer.”

“They figure he was security. He may have tried to resist. As for the SLA, an all-points has been issued but they and their captives seem to have vanished.”

“Two vans filled with human and sim hostages and no one’s seen a thing?”

“Not yet.”

Zero slammed a gloved fist against the already dented side of the van.

“Damn! Whoare these psychos? What do they hope to accomplish for sims by murdering humans? Not that the world is any poorer for the loss of a globulin farmer, but killing him shifts the focus. The public’s attention is on the murder now, not on the sims the dead man was abusing.”

“Pardon my paranoia,” Patrick said, “but maybe that’s the whole point. Maybe these aren’t sim sympathizers. Maybe SimGen is behind them.”

“I don’t buy that,” Zero said, “but let’s assume SimGen has somehow come to the conclusion that the gains from high-profile murder will, by some stretch of the imagination, outweigh the risks. If that’s true, and if they’re going to spray paint ‘Death to sim oppressors’ at the scene, then why kill only one of the globulin farmers? Why not make a real statement and kill them all?”

“Hostages?”

Zero’s expression was unreadable behind his mask and shades, but Romy could imagine a dour look as he stopped his pacing and faced Patrick.

“How many people can you see stepping forward to pay a globulin farmer’s ransom?”

Patrick shrugged. “Okay. So much for the hostage idea.”

“‘Death to sim oppressors!’” Zero said, slamming his fist against the van again. “Damn them! Idiots!”

Romy had never seen him show so much emotion. She found it oddly exciting.

Down, girl, she told herself as she pulled her digital camera’s chip case from her pocket.

She said, “I may have another piece to add to the puzzle. I took a shot of an Asian man—Japanese, I think—at the scene. He ducked away as soon as he saw the camera. I’ve never seen him before, and it may mean nothing, but he was definitely camera shy.”

Zero seemed to have calmed himself. He took the chip. “I’ll see if he’s anyone we should know about.”

“But what’s the plan?” she said. “What do we do about this SLA?”

“No choice but to wait and see. I doubt we’ll have much of a wait. A group like that won’t want to stay out of the headlines. But in the meantime, we’re ready to make our move against Manassas Ventures.”

Romy stiffened. “When?”

“Monday, first thing in the morning. Are you up for it?”

Monday…she’d have to take a personal day.

“I think so.”

She wasn’t looking forward to this. It involved playing a role, pretending she was a kind of person she despised. She hoped she could bring it off.

Zero’s dark lenses were trained on her. “Something wrong?”

She didn’t want to let him in on her apprehensions. He had enough on his plate.

“I just keep thinking about those sims.” And that was no lie. “Whoever these SLA people are, I hope they’re taking good care of them.”

“Amen to that,” Zero muttered. He shook his head. “‘Free the sims.’ Don’t they understand? Sims have never been allowed to learn to fend for themselves. A free sim isn’t free at all. It’s a lost soul.”

5

THE BRONX

Poor Meerm.

Meerm feel so bad. So more bad than last night. Now Meerm still belly-sick but cold and hungry also too. Also too arm hurt where burn while climb down building side. And leg hurt from fall ground. Hurt-hurt-hurt. Meerm hurt all over.

And Meerm ver fraid. Hide in bottom old empty building. No window and many rat. Rat sniff at Meerm burn. Shoo way, throw rock. Bad place this. And so cold. Meerm miss own room and yum-yum food. Wish go back but room gone. She go look in dark. All burn, all gone.

Meerm ver lonely. Meerm ver fraid. Not know what do. Not know where go.

6

HICKSVILLE, LONG ISLAND

DECEMBER 3

Shortly after 8:00A .M. Romy stepped through the front door of the small two-story office building and made a show of looking at the directory. The vestibule was clean but showing some wear around the edges. Just like the building, which was typical of the boxy, clapboard style popular back in the seventies. The tenants listed—a dentist, a real estate office, an insurance agent—were typical of any suburban office building; all except the lessee of the small corner office on the second floor: a venture capital company she knew was worth billions.

Romy hurried up to the second floor and found the door to Suite 2-C. A strictly no-frills black plastic plaque spelled outMANASSAS VENTURES ,INCin small white letters. She waited outside the door until she heard someone climbing the steps, then she started knocking. A woman in a colorful smock appeared, heading for the dental office, and Romy turned to her.

“When does the Manassas Ventures staff usually arrive?”

The woman looked dumbfounded. “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen anybody coming or going from that office.”

That’s because no one does, Romy thought. Zero had had the place under observation for weeks.

“Really?” Romy said, putting her hand on the doorknob and rattling it. “I’ve been trying to reach them by phone but no one returns my messages, so I thought I’d come over in person and—”

The door swung inward.

“Now isn’t that something,” the dental assistant said as she stepped forward for a peek at the interior. “They must’ve forgot to lock it.”

Morning sunlight streamed through the sheer curtains behind an empty receptionist’s desk and flared the dust motes dancing through the air. No shortage of dust here—the desktop sported a good eighth of an inch.

“Hello?” Romy said, stepping inside. The air smelled stale, musty. No one had opened a window for a long, long time. “Anybody home?”

“Good luck,” the woman told Romy and started back toward her office.

“Thanks.”

Romy had to act quickly. She glanced up, searching for the strand of monofilament she’d been told she’d find hanging from the central light fixture. There it was, a length of fine fishing line, barely visible.

Two of Zero’s people had broken in over the weekend. They’d unlatched the door and rigged the fixture to drop when the fishing line was pulled.

The original plan had been to loosen the hinges on the door so that it would fall outward when Romy tugged on it. She would let it knock her down and claim a terrible back injury. But Patrick had vetoed the idea. An injury caused by the door might leave the landlord as the liable party rather than the tenant. And it was the tenant they were after.