F Wilson: Sims

She glanced briefly at the graceful spire of the new World Trade Center, finally completed after so many years of squabbling over its design, and turned uptown, stretching her long legs as she strolled Broadway for a couple of blocks, then turned left onto Worth Street. She stopped before the soaped-up windows of an empty storefront; ideograms identifying the previous owner, a Taiwanese toy distributor, still graced the windows. Romy pulled out a key, unlocked the door, and entered.

The dust on the floor was tracked with footprints—her own and an indeterminate number of others.

Which ones are Zero’s? she wondered. Or does he have a private entrance?

She strode to the rear and unlocked the door to the basement. This was the part she didn’t like. Had to be rats down there. She’d never seen one, but that meant nothing. She’d seen plenty of their clean, docile, many-times-removed albino cousins, the lab rat. Those she didn’t mind, felt sorry for most of them, actually. But she was not at all anxious to meet a Norwegian brown in its natural habitat. She’d handle the situation if it arose, but she’d rather not have to.

The basement was a dusty, dim-lit space with water dripping in one of the dark corners. A long folding table stretched across the far end. Zero sat behind it. Romy had never arrived before him, so she assumed he called her from here. Back-lit by a low-watt incandescent bulb that reduced him to a silhouette, he was dressed as usual in a bulky turtleneck sweater, a knit watch cap pulled low to his eyebrows, dark glasses, and a scarf wrapped around his lower face all the way up to and over his nose. She’d gauged his height at around six-two, and despite those broad shoulders he appeared to be thin.

She’d almost bolted on her first visit. She’d been anxious—no, make that dry-mouthed, heart-pounding, what-the-hell-have-I-got-myself-intoterrified—but his calm, soothing voice had eased her jangled nerves. And just when she’d begun to relax, he’d jarred her with how much he knew about her: her BS in Biology from Georgetown, her doctorate in Anthropology from UCLA, the intense lobbying she had done for protective legislation for the sims, the furious letters to the editor she’d written, even the fact that she was on the verge of quitting OPRR.

But then he’d really floored her by revealing what he knew about her wild youth—the arrests for DWI, the shoplifting and assault-and-battery convictions, the month she’d spent institutionalized. He also knew how the doctors had cured her…or thought they had.

How had he found out? Juvenile court records were supposed to be sealed, and medical records were supposed to be privileged.

But Zero didn’t care about her past. He was looking to the future and he offered her a way to work for her cause,their cause, behind the scenes. He said he had the money, now he needed the people.

For Romy it had been a dream come true, but she’d hesitated. Zero knew all about her, but what did she know about him? And why all this melodrama with the cellar and the hidden face and the corny code name?

Necessary, he’d told her. Absolutely necessary.

Okay, she could handle that—for a while. But one thing she couldn’t handle was terrorism. She told him she wasn’t going to help blow up office buildings or shoot up SimGen trucks or any of that stuff.

Not that she had qualms about destroying SimGen real estate. She was simply afraid that a certain hidden part of her would enjoy it so much she wouldn’t be able to stop.

Zero told her then that the whole idea behind his organization was to wage war against SimGen and its allies in the government without their ever realizing a war was on. That was why their organization would have no name, no logo, would write no letters, make no bragging phone calls. Its style would be covert; its field of battle would be the interstices—infiltrating, instigating, creating a fifth column in society, within the company itself. Whatever it did to sabotage SimGen’s plans and operations would appear to be random or, ideally, accidental.

The ultimate goal? Shut down the sim pipeline by making sims unprofitable for both the lessor and the lessee. Wake up the world and turn it against anything fashioned by slave labor, even if the slaves weren’t human.

Sign me up, she’d said.

Excellent.

Then Zero had asked her why.

Good question. Romy couldn’t say exactly. She wasn’t trying to make up for some past failings, had no hokey memories of an animal she’d mistreated as a child or a beloved pet who’d died because of her neglect or carelessness.

It was wrong, she’d said. As wrong as wrong could be. A stain on humanity that needed to be scrubbed away. How could she describe how every fiber of her being howled at the shame, the disgrace of it?

Fair enough, Zero had said.

He wanted her to stay in OPRR. Her position in the Division of Animal welfare would explain her repeated presence in areas sensitive to the cause. She might not have a legal right to be there, but as a representative of a government organization—an overzealous representative, perhaps, but a representative nonetheless—she’d have a plausible excuse.

That had been two years ago. Gradually, as she’d proved herself, she’d been allowed to learn more and more about the organization. First off, it was bigger than she’d imagined, and well financed. She knew only a few of its income sources—one of them had surprised the hell out of her—but the source of the bulk of Zero’s money remained a mystery.

So did Zero. Romy had done her damnedest to pierce his veil of secrecy. She knew from his voice—he didn’t use a distorter to disguise it—and from glimpses of pale skin at his throat and between his gloves and cuffs that he was a white male. But his age was indeterminate; twenty, thirty, forty—it was a guess.

One thing she knew for certain: He was intimately connected to SimGen.

He possessed information about the company only an insider could know.

As Romy slipped into the folding chair opposite Zero, she noticed a slim briefcase on the table between them.

“Two questions,” she said. “First: Don’t you think it’s about time I saw your face?”

She was used to the mask by now, but that didn’t lessen her frustration. Her early awe had given way to admiration, and each encounter increased her need to see the face of this remarkable man.

“Not until SimGen stops producing sims.”

“Somebody in the organization must know who you are. Why not me?”

He shook his muffled head. “No one knows. It wouldn’t be good for the organization.”

“Why not?”

“It might prove…disruptive.”

“Disruptive? How—?”

“Next question,” he said. “Which will be the fourth, by the way.”

Romy sighed. She’d have to wait. “All right. Did we instigate this sim union thing?”

“No.”

“Think it’s legit?”

“I fear not.”

“Well, doesn’t matter anyway. Legit or not, there’s not a chance in the world a sim union will happen.”

“I agree. But I don’t want a circus, and I don’t want a shyster collecting donations from sympathetic people and then disappearing with the cash. It will set a terrible precedent and very likely undermine support for a legitimate case when it arises.”

“Do weknow he’s a shyster?”

“No, but I’ve researched him and find nothing that leads me to believe he has the sims’ best interests at heart.”

“Who is he?” Romy asked, liking this less and less. “And where on earth did they find him? Attorney World?”

Zero lifted the briefcase lid and removed an eight-by-ten glossy color photo. He handed it to Romy. “Patrick Sullivan.”

She saw the head and shoulders of a decent-looking guy—not a hottie, but not bad—in his mid-thirties with wavy blond hair and bright blue eyes. But he was an attorney, a member of that vast slick crew using the letter of the law to circumvent its spirit.