F Wilson - Sims

Not as if it’s going to interfere with my love life, Patrick thought, thinking of the persistently elusive Romy.

“Tome ready, Mist Sulliman,” the sim said, standing before him with straightened spine and thin shoulders thrown back.

“Let’s go then,” Patrick said, smiling at himself as much as at Tome. He felt like Cary Grant teaching Gunga Din to drill. Not a bad feeling; not bad at all. “Time to see the world, Mr. Tome.”

13

NEWARK, NJ

“Hey, you sim.”

Finger poke Meerm. Open eyes and see sim look in face.

“You new sim? You no work. Why you ride?”

“Cold. Hurt. Sick.”

“Beece tell drive man.”

“No!” Meerm sit up. Look out window. Bus on bridge cross water. Whisper, “No tell mans! Mans hurt Meerm!”

“Mans not hurt.”

“Yes-yes! Mans hurt Meerm. Make Meerm sick. Please-please-please no tell mans!”

Other sim look round, say, “Okay. No tell mans.” Sit next Meerm. “I Beece.”

“I Meerm.” Look window. “Where go?”

“Call Newark. Sim home there.”

Ride and ride, then bus stop by big building. Meerm follow Beece and other sim out. Up stair to room of many bed, like room of many bed in burned home.

Meerm say, “Mans hurt here?”

“Mans no hurt. Mans feed. Sim sleep. Sim work morning.”

Beece show Meerm empty bed. All other sim go eat. Meerm hide. Beece and other sim bring food. Meerm eat. Not yum-yum food like old burned home but not garbage food.

Meerm sleep on empty bed. Warm. Fed. If only sick pain stop, Meerm be happy sim.

14

MANHATTAN

DECEMBER 13

Patrick paced his new office space, waiting for Romy. He’d asked her to show up early for their meeting with the Manassas Ventures attorneys. The prime reason was to offer her some coaching on how to respond to them. The second was to spring a little surprise.

He stopped next to an oblong table in the space that did double duty as his personal office and conference room, and looked around. The offices of Patrick Sullivan, Esq., occupied the fourth floor of an ancient, five-story Lower East Side building; gray carpet, just this side of industrial grade, white walls and ceiling—the latter still sporting its original hammered tin which he’d decided he liked. His degrees and sundry official documents peppered the walls between indifferent prints he’d picked up from the Metropolitan Museum store. And of course he had his books and journals scattered on shelves and in bookcases wherever there was room.

He heard the hall door open. Romy. He called out, “Back here!” but the woman who came through the door was not Romy.

“Mr. Sullivan?”

An older woman in an ancient tan raincoat, frayed at the sleeves and at least three sizes too big for her.

He recognized her: the space-alien-abducted-and-impregnated lady whose sim child had been stolen and given to Mercer Sinclair. He remembered everything about her except her name.

“Alice Fredericks,” she said. “Remember?”

“Yes, of course. How are you, Miss Fredericks?”

“I could be better. I still haven’t found a lawyer yet.”

“To sue SimGen about the space aliens?”

“Yes. And for taking my sim child. I looked you up and learned you’d opened a new office, so I came straight here. Will you take my case now, Mister Sullivan?”

How to let this poor lady down easy?

He gave her an apologetic shrug. “I’m afraid my schedule’s rather full now.” He glanced at his watch. “And I’m expecting a client for an important conference in just a few minutes and—”

“Oh, I’m so sorry. I should have made an appointment.”

“That’s okay.” He pushed a legal pad and a pen across the table to her. “But I’ll tell you what. Leave me your number and I’ll call you when my schedule opens up.”

“Then you’re not afraid?” she said, scribbling on the sheet.

“Of SimGen? Never.”

“I meant the space aliens. You’re not afraid of the space aliens?”

“Never met one I couldn’t take with one hand.”

“Thank you,” she said, puddling up again. “You don’t know what this means to me.”

“I’m sure I don’t.”

“That’s the number of the phone in the hall outside my room. Just ask for me and someone will get me.”

Patrick nodded. He felt a little bad, giving her the brush like this, but it was the gentlest way he knew to get her out of his office.

Romy entered as Alice was leaving.

“Who was that?”

“A poor soul with a crazy story about SimGen.” Patrick shook his head. “If she’s representative of my future clientele, I’m in big trouble. But never mind her.” He spread his arms. “What do you think of my new office?”

“Not bad,” she said, looking around as she seated herself at the mini conference table.

She was being generous, he knew. “I know what you’re thinking, and I agree: I need a decorator.”

“Not really.” She smiled faintly as she gazed up at the patterned ceiling. “I kind of like the anti-establishment air of the place.”

“So do I. Gives me a feeling of kinship with the likes of Darrow and Kuntsler.”

She smiled. “Darrow, Kuntsler and Sullivan. What a firm.”

“Better than my old firm, Nasty, Brutish and Short.”

He studied her across the table as she smiled. She looked good. The wicked shiners she’d developed after the Great Injury had faded from deep plum to sickly custard yellow. The sutures were gone from her scalp; she’d been able to hide the angry red seam by combing her short dark hair over it, but today she’d left it exposed for all the world to see.

“Want some coffee?” he said.

She shook her head. “I’m tense enough, thank you.”

“How about decaf? I can have my legal assistant perk up a pot in no time.”

“Assistant? I didn’t know you’d hired anyone.”

“You don’t expect a high-powered attorney like me to stoop to filing my own papers, do you?” Patrick turned toward the file room and called out, “Assistant! Oh, assistant! Can you come here a minute?”

Tome, who’d been waiting quietly and patiently behind the door as instructed, said, “Yes, Mist Sulliman.”

Romy’s eyes fairly bulged. “That sounds like—”

And then Tome, ever so dapper in his new white shirt, clip-on tie, and baggy blue suit, stepped into the room.

“It is!” she cried. She leaped to her feet and crossed the room in three long-legged strides. She threw her arms around Tome and hugged him as she looked at Patrick with wonder-filled eyes. “But how? You couldn’t…you didn’t…”

“Kidnap him? Not quite.”

She kept her arms around the old sim as Patrick explained Tome’s post-traumatic depression and the arrangement with Beacon Ridge. Because she was taller than Tome, Romy’s bear hug pressed his head between her breasts.

Hey, that’s where I should be, Patrick thought as Tome grinned at him.

Nothing salacious or suggestive in that smile, just pure happiness. Being away from the barracks had worked wonders on the old sim. Within two days he was up and about, eating with gusto. And once Patrick had taught him the rudiments of filing, Tome took to the task with religious zeal.

Romy barraged Tome with questions about how he was feeling and what he’d been doing since the tragedy. Patrick had things he needed to discuss with Romy so he gave them a little time to catch up, then interrupted.

“Tome, would you mind doing some more filing before our guests arrive?”

“Yes, Mist Sulliman.”

After Tome disappeared into the file room, Romy turned to him. “Does he bunk here?”

“No. We’re roomies.”

“Roomies?” She gave her head a slow shake. “Am I hearing and seeing things? I’ve heard hallucinations can be an aftereffect of head trauma.”