Sims

“Yourquarter of a million. Remember?”

Romy smiled. This was turning out to be not such a bad day after all.

2

THE BRONX

Needle Lady and Needle Man take Meerm upstair. Show room. Nice room.

“This is your new home, Meerm,” Needle Lady say.

“Why Meerm new room?”

“Because you’re a special sim.” Needle Lady smile Needle Man. “Very special.”

Meerm say, “All for self? Not share other sim?”

“All yours,” Needle Man say. “The rest of the sims will stay downstairs in the dorm room, just like always. But you’ll be here.”

Meerm walk and look. Nice bed, own bathroom, all for Meerm. Not need share. But Meerm little room still have metal bar window like sim big room downstair.

Meerm sit bed, hold out arm.

“What are you doing, Meerm?” Needle Lady say.

“Stick?”

Needle Lady smile. “No, Meerm, we won’t be taking any blood from you. Except for a tiny little bit now and then, you get to keep your globulins.”

No stick? This ver strange. Always Needle Lady and Needle Man stick-stick-stick. Take Meerm blood ev few day. Take-take-take. Now no stick?

“Meerm blood bad?”

Needle Man laugh, say, “Not at all! In fact, we’re very happy with what we found in it.Very happy.”

Own room. No stick. Meerm happy sim.

3

WESTCHESTER COUNTY, NY

OCTOBER 22

“Mr. Kraft wants to see you in his office,” Maggie said as Patrick passed her desk. The strained look on his secretary’s face told him the managing senior partner wasn’t requesting a social visit.

Patrick’s stomach roiled. Great. He was living out of a suitcase, Pamela wouldn’t return his calls, his clients were either bailing out—like Ben Armstrong who’d taken Jarman’s business to another firm with no explanation—or giving him ultimatums: Say good-bye to the sims or say good-bye to us. And now Alton Kraft was waiting for him. Just what he needed.

Well, at least things couldn’t get much worse. Or could they?

Patrick laid his briefcase on his desk and glanced around. His office was small, as was his window with its limited view of downtown White Plains. But that left extra wall space for his law books. He liked his office. Cozy. He wondered how long he’d be rating a window if his clients kept heading for the hills.

He walked down the hall to Alton’s office, took a deep breath, then stepped inside. A bigger office than Patrick’s. Much bigger. Thicker carpet, bigger desk. Lots of window glass, and still plenty of space for books.

“Hi, Alton.”

“Patrick,” Kraft replied.

No “good morning” or even a “hello.” Just his name, spoken in a flat tone from the man seated behind the mahogany desk. And no handshake. Kraft was something of a compulsive hand shaker, but apparently not today. His blue eyes were ice, glinting within a cave of wrinkles.

Patrick’s gut tightened. This did not look good.

He dropped into a chair, trying to look relaxed. “Maggie said you wanted to see me.”

“A serious matter has come up,” Kraft said, bridging his hands. “One that needs to be addressed immediately. We all know about the recent exodus of your clients—”

“Just a temporary thing, Alton. I—”

Kraft held up his hand. When the senior managing partner held up his hand, you stopped talking and listened.

“We’ve been aware of the losses you’ve been suffering and we’ve sympathized. We were confident you’d recover. But now things have taken an ugly turn. It was bad enough when it was just your client base that was eroding, but now the dissatisfaction is spreading to the partners’ clients.”

“Oh, hell,” Patrick said. He could barely hear his own voice.

“‘Oh, hell’ doesn’t even begin to say it, Patrick. Two of the firm’s oldest and biggest clients called yesterday to say they’re having second thoughts about staying with us. They said they’d always thought of Payes & Hecht as a firm that represented people, a firm above suchstunts —their word, not mine, Patrick—as representing animals. Who do we prefer as clients, they want to know: people or animals? Because it’s time to choose.”

“The sons of bitches,” Patrick muttered.

“They may well be, but they’re sons of bitches who pay a major part of the freight around here.”

And account for a lot of the senior partners’ billable hours, Patrick thought.

The partners had sat back and watched with clucks of the tongue and sympathetic shakes of the head as his client base headed south. No need for immediate concern: The firm adjusted salaries and bonuses according to each member’s billing, so Patrick’s bottom line would take the hit, not theirs. But when they saw their own paychecks threatened…ah, now that was a different story.

Not that Patrick blamed them. He’d do exactly the same.

“I don’t think I have to tell you what needs to be done,” Kraft said.

Patrick knew. Shit, yes, he knew.

“And if I don’t?”

“I’m already taking heat because of this, Patrick. Don’t make it more difficult than it already is.”

Patrick understood. Alton Kraft had been his biggest supporter for partnership. If Patrick looked bad, he looked bad. The partners had probably told him to give Sullivan a choice: Stick with the sims or stay with the firm. Mutually exclusive options.

The decision should have been a no-brainer except for the inconvenient fact that he’d become attached to the Beacon Ridge sims. He enjoyed visiting them, liked the feelings that rolled off them—probably the nearest thing to worship he’d ever experience.

But all that was going to end. Because on his next visit he’d have to tell them he was dropping their case. He’d make up something good, and they’d believe him, and they wouldn’t hold it against him, because Mist Sulliman the best, Mist Sulliman never lie to sim, Mist Sulliman never let sim down.

Yeah, right.

Mist Sulliman feel like slime mold.

He fought the urge to grab Kraft by his worsted lapels and shout, Fuck you, fuck the firm, and fuck all its candy-assed clients!

Instead, he sighed and nodded. “All right.”

He’d lost his house, his girlfriend, and a shitload of clients. He couldn’t afford to lose his job too.

“Good man,” Kraft said. He rose and thrust out his hand. “I’ll tell the others.”

Nowthe handshake. Patrick made it as perfunctory as possible and beat it the hell out of there. Or maybe crawled was more like it. Or slithered. He felt like he’d just ratted out a friend to the police. If the carpet had been shag he would have needed a machete to reach the door.

As he passed Maggie again she cocked her head toward the waiting room farther down the hall.

“New client. No appointment. Wants to know if you can squeeze her in.”

“Anew client? No kidding? What’s my morning look like?”

“Empty.”

Figured. “Then by all means, ‘squeeze her in.’”

A few minutes later Maggie showed a statuesque brunette into his office and introduced her as Romy Cadman. Short dark hair, dark eyes, full lips, and long legs. Dressed on the casual side in a sweater and flared slacks under a long leather coat, all black.

Patrick’s spirits lifted. Nothing like a new client, and a beautiful one to boot.

Maggie placed the woman’s card on his desk:Romy Cadman—Consultant.

“I won’t take up much of your time, Mr. Sullivan,” she said as he rose to shake her hand.

Patrick fixed on her eyebrows, so smooth, so dark, tapering to perfect points. Penciled? No, just naturally perfect. But he couldn’t find much warmth in the deep brown eyes below—at least not for him. All business. A woman with a mission. Aconsultant with a mission.

“Take as much as you need,” he said, thinking, I’ve gotaaaaall day. He gestured to a seat. “Please.”

“That won’t be necessary.” Because she remained standing, so did Patrick. “I understand, Mr. Sullivan, that you’ve come under a lot of pressure from SimGen lately.”

“SimGen?” What was she talking about? “No…I haven’t heard a thing from SimGen.”

“Indirectly, you have. They’ve been contacting all your clients and either cajoling or coercing them into dropping you.”

Patrick decided he’d sit now. It sounded so paranoid, but only for a second or two, and then it made terrible sense.

“How do you know? Howcan you know?”

“Not important,” Ms. Cadman said. “What matters is whether they’re succeeding.”

“What do you mean?”

She cocked her hip and released an exasperated sigh. “They want you to drop the sims. Are you going to stand up to SimGen, or cave in?”

Cave in…hell of a way to put it. At least he knew where Ms. Romy Cadman’s sympathies lay. So no way was he going to tell her he’d decided to do just that: cave in. His eyes drifted to those long legs. They looked strong.

“May I inquire as to your interest in this?”

“I want to see the sims get a fair shake.”

He glanced at her card again.Consultant …to whom?

“Are you with one of those animal rights groups?”

“My interest is personal. So what’s your decision, Mr. Patrick Sullivan, attorney at law?”

The subtle little twist she put on those last three words gave Patrick the impression that somehow she’d already guessed the answer.

“I haven’t come to one yet.”

She stared at him a moment, her expression dubious. Then she put her briefcase on the table and released the catches.

“Very well. If you’re sitting on the fence, perhaps this will tip you toward the sims.”

She gave the briefcase a one-eighty swivel, lifted the top, and Patrick found himself nose to nose with more cash than he’d ever seen in one spot in his life—he’d handled bigger checks, sure, but this wascash .

Hoping his eyes weren’t bugging, he lifted a packet and fanned it.

“All twenties, Mr. Sullivan.”

“How—?” The words seemed to catch in his throat. “How many?”

“Exactly twelve hundred and fifty. To spare you from doing the math, that’s a quarter of a million dollars. When I have your assurance that you will continue the fight, I will deposit all of it into the sim legal defense fund.”

Patrick eyed the money. This would take him a long way into that case; and with other contributions he could stir up during the proceedings, probably all the way through, with maybe a good chunk left over at the end.

Tempting…Jesus, it was tempting. The added prospect of spending time with this woman because of it made the offer even more tempting. Pamela had been gone for weeks and…

No. Staying with the sims meant being booted from the firm…going solo. He didn’t care for that idea. Payes & Hecht could be a cutthroat place at times, but even on the worst days he found a certain level of comfort in having a firm behind him. Like a security blanket—one trimmed with barbed wire, perhaps, but still…

And where would he be after the sim case, whatever the outcome? Who’d be his future clients? Sims? Hardly.

Uh-uh. Tempting as all that cash might be, he wasn’t going to commit professional seppuku for it. But he couldn’t say that to this beautiful woman.

Painfully he pulled his gaze away from the money and looked at her.

“I’ll take that into consideration, Ms. Cadman.”

“Good.” She snapped the cover closed on all that beautiful green. “When do you expect to finalize your decision?”

“Before the end of the day.”

“Wonderful.”

One word…but the acid she managed to lace through it seared him to the core. She was looking right through him, and her eyes, the twist of her lips, everything in her body language radiated contempt.

“My number is on the card. Call me when you decide.”

She turned and walked out, leaving him mired in a pool of dismay. A woman like that, you wanted her looking at you with admiration, not like something that had just crawled out from under a rock.

But what else was he supposed to do? What elsecould he do? Sometimes you simply had to be pragmatic.

Patrick sighed. The perfect cap on the worst weeks of his life.

He heard a patter behind him and turned toward the window. It had begun to rain. Great.

With his mood darker than the weather, Patrick stepped out into the hall. Off to his right he spotted the pretty lady with the briefcase full of pretty money waiting for the elevator.

“I’m going to grab a cup of coffee,” he told Maggie.

“Want me to get it for you?” she said, looking up from her computer screen.

“Thanks, but you’re busier than I am at the moment.”

Down the hall, laughter echoed from the open doorway of the kitchenette that housed the coffee maker and a small refrigerator. He slowed his approach when he heard his name.

A voice he recognized as belonging to Rick Berger, one of the younger associates, was saying, “…and so when Istill won’t give Skipper a steak instead of dog chow, he says, ‘I’ll get you! I’m calling Sim-Sim Sullivan!’”

More laughter. Patrick felt his face flush. Setting his jaw he turned and glanced back at the waiting area. The elevator doors were sliding open and Romy Cadman was stepping inside. He broke into a run.

“Ms. Cadman! Hold those doors!”

She turned and gave him a curious look, but put out a hand to stall the doors. He hopped into the cab beside her.

“I’ve made up my mind,” he told her.

She blinked, shock and disbelief playing tag across her features. “You mean—”

I know I’m going to regret this, he thought, but fuck ’em. Fuck ’em all.

“Damn right. Want to meet my clients?”

Her smile lit the elevator. “I’d love to.”

4

Romy’s head spun as she followed Sullivan’s BMW through the downpour to the golf club.

What happened back there? she wondered. There he was, standing in his office, and he’s clearly out of the picture—wouldn’t say so to her face, but she’d seen defeat in his eyes, his posture,I quit written all over him—and a couple of minutes later he’s jumping into the elevator with her and not looking back.

Had he truly been on the fence and she’d misread him? She’d been sosure …

Well, no use in beating it to death. He was still on board. That was what counted. She didn’t know how good Sullivan was, but at least the sims still had a lawyer.

He stopped next to a high privet hedge and she pulled in behind him. She grabbed her umbrella and stepped out of her car. The umbrella was auto open which was good because she had the briefcase in her other hand. She had no intention of leaving it in the car.

An umbrellaless Sullivan came splashing over to her.

“Let me help,” he said, reaching for the briefcase.

She handed him the umbrella handle. “Help with this.”

“Aaawww,” he said, grinning.

Nice smile. Gave him a boyish look. Like a mischievous child.

Together they sloshed through the soggy grass toward a barrack-like building.

“Most of the caddies and gardening sims should be in. Not a golf day. You’ll have to come back at night after the kitchen and dining room close to catch all of them.”

Patrick knocked and they were admitted by a grinning sim he introduced as Tome. Romy was prepared for the barrack, and her tours of the SimGen dorms prepared her for the vague musty odor that attended a crowd of sims. But she was totally unprepared for the reception.

Like Jesus’ return to Jerusalem: cheering, waving, jumping on furniture, and cries of “Mist Sulliman!” from a dozen sim throats. Everything short of throwing palm fronds at his feet.

Flushed and looking a little embarrassed, Sullivan turned and gave her a self-conscious shrug. “My clients.”

“My God,” she said, unable to hide her awe. “They…they love you.”

A sheepish grin. “Yeah, well…”

“No. They truly do. How could you have ever even considered…?”

His blue eyes widened, not in surprise that she’d guessed, more in fear that she’d say it out loud. But she’d never do that—not to his sims. Everyone, even sims, needed someone or something to believe in, even if their god was made of tin.

And that need in these sims further bolstered her conviction that all sims were too close to human to be treated as they were…as property…as slaves.

“It’s all very complicated,” he said.

Romy shook her head. “No, it’s not. It’s all very simple, really: You do the right thing.”

“But right for whom? What’s good for the right hand may not necessarily be good for the left. In case you don’t know, my specialty is labor relations. It’s all negotiation. The art of the possible.”

His voice was smooth, his eyes intent, his smile sincere. He was good, he was persuasive, and no doubt that he was smart. She wondered if Zero looked like Patrick Sullivan. But Sullivan wasn’t Zero, and Romy wasn’t buying.

“You’ve got to draw a line somewhere.”

He shook his head. “The client and the opposition draw the lines. Then I try to get them to redraw their lines in places that both sides can live with.”

“But these particular clients can’t draw that line,” she told him. “They don’t know how, they wouldn’t know where. So you’ve got to draw it for them, making certain it’s in the right place. And then you’ve got to stand behind that line and say, ‘This far and no farther.’ No matter what is thrown against you—SimGen, the Teamsters, the US Government: ‘This far and no farther.’”

Now Sullivan’s turn to shake his head. “It’s all so clear and simple to you?”

“Crystal and absolutely.”

The tumultuous greeting had run its course, but a second round of cheering followed when Sullivan introduced Romy and announced that she was contributing “lots of money” to pay for the legal battles ahead. That finally died down, and now the sim called Tome was leading a young female toward them.

“Mist Sulliman. Meet new sim. Anj.”

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.”

Mercer was stunned. “A quarter—how do you know?”

Voss glanced at the security chief. “Mr. Portero’s people have been monitoring the fund.”

Portero’s people…Mercer knew Voss didn’t mean the SimGen security department Portero headed.Portero’s people —SIRG. No one referred to them by name. They were elsewhere, far off the SimGen campus, and Mercer wasn’t the least bit surprised that SIRG had devoted a small part of its vast resources to keeping an eye on Patrick Sullivan’s activities.

He shivered ever so slightly at the thought of being the object of that cold scrutiny.

“Who’d give that kind of money to a small-town ambulance chaser?”

“That boy’s no rube. He was ready and waitin with an injunction when Beacon Ridge tried to trade some of its sims to another club. And he had another ready in record time when we issued that recall on them. He’s anticipated us at every turn. He may be an opportunist, but he’s a smart one.”

“Fine. He got lucky. But where did the money come from?”

“A cashier’s check,” Voss said. “That’s all I know.”

“Perfect,” Mercer said, cracking his knuckles in frustration. “So we can’t trace it.”

“Yes, we can,” Portero said, speaking for the first time. “And we did.”

Mercer stared at the security chief, standing there in his dark suit with his hands tucked behind his back, straight as a board, like some parade ground tin soldier waiting to be inspected.

“Why didn’t you say so in the first place?”

Mercer thought he sensed an instant of hesitation in Portero but couldn’t be sure. He doubted this man had an uncertain cell in his body…and yet, he’d seen something flash across his face.

“We are looking into an unexpected aspect of the situation.”

“Which is?”

“The purchaser of the cashier’s check was a Ms. Romy Cadman. You may remember the name: She led the OPRR inspection team.”

Mercer stiffened. “OPRR? You don’t think—?”

Voss shook his head. “OPRR’s budget just barely covers its expenses. Even if it had the surplus it wouldn’t jeopardize its funding by getting involved in something like this.”

“Is she independently wealthy?” Mercer said, feeling his unease growing by the second. “Where’d she get that kind of money?”

“She lives modestly on a modest income,” Portero said flatly. “She purchased the check with cash. That is all we know—so far.”

A quarter of a million in cash. And probably more where that came from. Someone out there wanted Sullivan to succeed.

Again that sense of malevolent convergence through which he could almost hear the gears of some giant piece of machinery starting to turn…an engine of destruction. But whose engine? Whose destruction?

“I don’t like this,” Mercer said.

“Neither do my people,” Portero said. “We’re going to handle matters from here.”

“Meaning what?” Ellis said.

Mercer glanced at his brother. Their eyes met. On this they could agree; neither of them was comfortable with the way Portero’s people handled problems.

“Meaning this situation is spinning out of control. Your attempt to stop Sullivan failed. Now it’s our turn.”

“Now wait a minute,” Voss said, both chins jiggling as he hauled his bulk out of the chair. “Wait just one damn minute. Don’t you folks say another word until I’m on the right side of that door. I don’t need to hear this.”

He hustled across the gray carpet and let himself out.

As soon as the door closed Ellis turned to Portero. “You’re not planning to—”

“No plans have been finalized, but direct action will be taken.”

“No!” Ellis said, rising. “I’m not going to sit by while you and your people pull more of your dirty tricks.”

“You have no choice, I’m afraid,” Portero said without changing his inflection. “The matter is out of your hands. Sullivan has proven smarter and more stubborn than anyone anticipated. Even though the chance that his suit will set a precedent is remote, the mere possibility that he might succeed is unacceptable. My people have decided to stop him now, before he uses the courtroom to plant himself in the national consciousness.”

“My God!” Ellis moaned, shutting his eyes. “Why did we ever become involved with you?”

Portero didn’t answer. No answer was needed. But here again, for the second time in as many minutes—a rare occurrence, to be sure—Mercer could agree with his brother. He wished at times like these that they’d found another way to finance their start-up back in the seventies. But he knew that when he settled down later and was able to regain his perspective, this feeling would pass, and once again he’d appreciate how SimGen never could have achieved its current dominance without SIRG’s help.

Portero said, “We also intend to learn the source of the Cadman woman’s money.”

“How will you do that?”

“Not your concern.” And again a flash of something in Portero’s ebony eyes, almost like regret this time. “But we will know.”

6

WESTCHESTER COUNTY

OCTOBER 26

“Mr. Sullivan?”

Patrick looked up from the box he’d just folded closed. He was nearly finished packing up the books in his office. Strangely enough, he wasn’t the least bit sad about leaving Payes & Hecht. And from the cool reception he’d received in the hallways, he gathered the feeling was mutual.

Only Maggie seemed genuinely sorry to see him go. She was out now, scrounging up more boxes for him, so there’d been no one to intercept his visitor.

He saw a thin, aging woman in a faded blue flowered dress and a rumpled red cardigan sweater. She wore a yellow scarf around her head, babushka style, and clutched a battered black handbag before her with both her bony hands. Her pale hazel eyes peered at him and she nodded vigorously.

“Yes, you’re him,” she said. “I recognize you from the TV.”

“Yes, ma’am?” he said. “Can I help you, Ms….?”

“Fredericks.Miss Alice Fredericks.” She offered a smile that might have been girlish had she possessed more teeth. “I wish to retain your services, Mr. Sullivan.”

The poor woman didn’t look like she had enough for her next meal. Not that it mattered. He was no longer with the firm.

“I’m afraid I—”

“I want you to sue SimGen for me. I can tell you’re a brave man. You’re taking on the company on behalf of those poor dear sims, so I figure you’re just the man, in fact theonly man with the guts to tackle them for me.”

This was interesting.

“That’s very gratifying. On what grounds would you wish me to tackle them, may I ask?”

Her face screwed up, accentuating her wrinkles, and she looked as if she was about to cry. “They took my baby!” she wailed.

Baby? Patrick stared at her. A warning bell clanged in his brain. SimGen might have some skeletons in its corporate closets, but he doubted stealing babies was one of them. And this woman was long, long past the baby-bearing years.

“When did this happen?”

She sobbed. “Years and years ago! I…I’m not sure how many. Things get fuzzy…”

“Why have you waited so long to go after them?”

“I’ve been to every lawyer in New York City and no one will take the case. They’re all afraid!”

“I find that hard to believe, Miss Fredericks. There are literally thousands of lawyers in the city who would get in line to sue SimGen.”

“Sure…until they hear about the space aliens.”

Oh, Christ. No need for a warning bell anymore. There it was, right out on the table: a big, multicolored bull’s-eye withLooney Tunes scrawled across it.

Patrick didn’t want to ask but had to. “Aliens?”

“Yes. Space aliens abducted me, impregnated me, and then when I delivered, it was a sim. But I loved him anyway. That didn’t matter, though. They took my baby boy away from me. And do you know who they handed him to? Right in front of me? Mercer Sinclair! Mercer Sinclair took my baby and I want him back!” She sobbed again.

She wasn’t scamming. Patrick had a sensitive bullshit meter and it wasn’t even twitching. This poor woman believed every word.

“I sympathize, Miss Fredericks, but—”

“And you know what Mercer Sinclair did with my son, don’t you? He made the whole race of sims from him. And he did it for the aliens so that earth can be repopulated by a slave race that the aliens can use around the galaxy.”

Patrick blinked. A living breathing talking issue ofWeekly World News had walked into his office. It might be funny if the woman weren’t so genuinely upset. And he might be tempted to sit down and listen to her—purely for entertainment—if he didn’t have such a burning need to put this place behind him.

“Tell you what, Miss Fredericks. I’m leaving the firm, so I won’t be able to help you. But you could try one of the firm’s associates. I suggest you go down the hall and find Mr. Richard Berger’s office and tell him your story. And tell him I referred you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Sullivan. I’ll do that right now.”

That should teach Berger to call him Sim-Sim Sullivan.

7

MANHATTAN

“Perrier?” Judy said. “Are my ears playing tricks or did I just hear you order water?”

Ellis had been taking in Tavern On The Green’s sunny, glass-walled Terrace Room with its hand-carved plaster ceiling and panoramic view of Central Park. The park was more impressive when in bloom, but even here in the fall he found a certain stark, Wyethesque beauty in the denuded trees. The Terrace Room’s seating capacity was 150. Today it seated only four: Ellis, Judy, his daughter, Julie, and son, Robbie, the birthday boy. He’d rented out the entire space for a family luncheon.

Ellis turned to his ex-wife. Judy was looking better than ever. With her perfectly coiffed blond hair, her diamond bracelets, and her high-collared, long-sleeved, clinging pink dress made out of some sort of jersey material—Versace, he guessed, because she’d always loved Versace—she fit perfectly in this ornate setting. Judy was only two years his junior, but Ellis thought he must look like her father. She was enjoying her wealth from the divorce settlement. Far more than Ellis was enjoying his own.

“Yes,” Ellis told her. “I’ve decided to take a vacation from alcohol.”

“That’s wonderful, Ellis.” He knew she meant it. The divorce had been amicable: Ellis had told her she could have anything she wanted. That said, she’d taken a lot less then she could have—more than the GNP of a number of small nations, to be sure, but still, she could have grabbed for so much more. “How long has this been going on?”

“Since the summer.”

“What made you…?”

“Lots of developments, lots of things happening. Things I want to keep an eye on.”

“And Mercer? How’s he?”

“The same. Eats, sleeps, and drinks the business. Still obsessed with SimGen’s profits and its image. Someday he’ll look around and wonder where his life has gone.” He leaned closer and lowered his voice. “Did you hold on to all that SimGen stock from the settlement?”

Her brows knitted. “Yes. Why?”

“Wait till after the earnings report at the December stockholders’ meeting, take advantage of the bounce, then dump it.”

“Is something wrong?”

“Things might become…unsettled. I want you and the kids protected. But mum’s the word. Just sell quietly and stick it all in T-notes, okay?”

She set her lips and nodded.

“Good.” He straightened, put on a happy face, and looked around the table. “But enough about me and Mercer and business. This is a celebration.” He turned to Robbie. “How’s the birthday going so far?”

His son shrugged, a typical fifteen-year-old’s studied nonchalance mixing with embarrassment at being out on the town with his folks and his younger sister on his birthday. He was underdressed in denims for the occasion, but that was to be expected of a boy his age; his buzz-cut hair revealed a bumpy skull. Hardly attractive, Ellis thought, but it was the style. So was the turquoise stud in Robbie’s left eyebrow. At least he showed no signs of a splice, and Ellis prayed he never would. He realized it was a teenager’s duty to irk his parents, but he hoped Robbie would find his own ways rather than galloping after the herd.

“Okay, I guess.”

Ellis smiled. He wasn’t making any appreciable progress developing the new sim line he so desperately wanted, but he was feeling good about himself nonetheless, better than he had in years, and he wanted to share it. Only on rare state occasions did they get together as a family, but he’d used Robbie’s fifteenth birthday as a reason, and it was as good an excuse as any.

“Just okay?” Ellis said. “This is your favorite restaurant, right?”

He had a big day planned. After lunch they’d head for Broadway where he had four precious front-row seats forWordplay! , the hot new musical comedy everyone said was a must-see. Then dinner at Le Cirque, followed by a Knicks game in the SimGen skybox.

As Robbie shrugged, Julie chimed in. “I can’t wait to see the play!”

She was thirteen and the light of Ellis’s life. Judy had dressed her in a plaid wool skirt and a white blouse. Julie’s pod backpack was suede, sporting the Dooney & Bourke logo. Robbie was an intelligent kid, but Julie was brilliant. She had a wonderful future ahead of her.

A memory surfaced…of the day SIRG had threatened Julie to assure his silence, to keep him in line. And it had worked…for a while…until he’d found another way to make things right. But God help Julie and Robbie if SIRG ever found out.

He shoved the memory back into the depths. Nothing was going to ruin today.

“You just want to see Joey Dozier,” Robbie sneered.

“Who’s he?” Ellis said, fully aware he was a teen heartthrob who’d moved from a hit TV sitcom to lead in a Broadway play. “Never heard of him.”

Julie got a dreamy look in her eyes. “He’sgorgeous! ” she said, as if that explained it all.

Ellis started to laugh but it died in his throat as he saw the small crowd of sign-carrying protesters appear at the Terrace Room windows. Their chant of “Free the sims! Free the sims!” began to echo through the glass.

The tuxedoed maitre d’ hurried to Ellis’s side.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Sinclair. I’ve called the police. They will be here in a few minutes.”

Ellis looked around the table. Judy was ignoring them, Julie was watching, fascinated, and Robbie, the birthday boy, looked ready to crawl under the table.

“How did they know I’d be here?” Ellis asked, furious. He’d booked the whole room just to avoid an incident, even used a pseudonym.

“Someone must have recognized you.”

Pretty fast work, considering he left all the public appearances to Mercer. Probably someone on the Tavern staff. However it had happened, he wasn’t going to let them ruin the day he had planned.

He pushed back his chair and rose. “I’ll handle this.”

“Ellis, no!” Judy said, placing a hand on his arm.

“Mr. Sinclair, the police—”

“Could take a while to get here. In the meantime I want to talk to these people.”

He crossed to a door leading out to the lawn and stepped through. The shouting grew louder as the crowd—a three-to-one ratio of women to men—recognized him. He stood impassively for a moment or two, then raised his hands.

When they quieted enough for him to be heard he said, “Please. I’m trying to have lunch with my family.”

Cries of “Aaaaaw!” and “Pity the poor man!” rose, and one woman stepped forward to snarl, “Yeah! Eating lunch grown and harvested by slave labor!”

Ellis stepped forward. He’d noticed something interesting about a number of the protesters.

“If this is supposed to accomplish something,” he told them, “I assure you it won’t. Perhaps a more sincere group might make a point, but not a bunch of hypocrites.”

Ellis kept moving into the gasps of “What!” and “You bastard!” and “What right?” and pointed to the snarling woman’s handbag.

“Balducci, right?”

Her only reply was a stunned look.

“Sim made!” Ellis pivoted and jabbed a finger at the insignia on a man’s windbreaker. “Tammy Montain—sim made!” As he slipped deeper into the throng, pointing out all the popular labels that used sim labor, crying “Sim made!” over and over, he knew he should be careful. But these people angered him, and not simply because they’d interrupted his lunch.

Finally he was back where he’d started and could see by their expressions and averted eyes that he’d taken the steam out of them.

“How can you be part of the solution when you’re part the problem?” he said, knowing it was a cliché but knowing too that it would hit home. “You really want to ‘free the sims’? The fastest way is to boycott any company that uses them as labor. Companies understand one thing: the bottom line. If that’s falling off because they use sim labor, then they’re going tostop using sim labor. It’s as simple as that. But you can’t show up here wearing sim-made clothes and shoes and accessories and expect anyone with a brain to take you seriously. If you’re sincere about this you’re going to have to make some sacrifices, you’re going to have to let the Joneses have the more prestigious sim-made car, the more fashionable sim-made sweater. Otherwise, you’re just blowing smoke.”

Ellis stepped back inside and closed the door behind him. He had no idea what the protesters would do next, but the question was made moot by the arrival of half a dozen cops who began herding them off.

He returned to the table to find his family staring at him.

“Dad,” Robbie said, wide-eyed. “You were great!”

“Ellis?” Judy said. Ellis noticed a tremor in her voice, and were those…?

Yes, she had tears in her eyes. “For a moment there you were like…like you used to be.”

He looked into her moist blue eyes. God, he wanted her back, more than anything in the world.

“I don’t know if I can ever be like I used to be, Judy,” he said, knowing his soul was scarred beyond repair. “But if things go right, if a few things happen the way I hope they will, I should be able to present a reasonable facsimile.”

“But Dad,” Robbie was saying, “you were, like, telling them how to, like, so screw your own company.”

Ellis put on a pensive expression. “You know, Robbie, now that you mention it, I believe I was. I’ll have to be more careful in the future.”

“Will sims ever evolve into humans?” Julie said, looking up at him with her mother’s huge blue eyes.

Ellis stared at her, momentarily dumb.

“She’s studying evolution in school,” Judy offered.

Ellis cleared his throat and controlled the sudden urge to run from the room. He’d rather be off the subject of sims—this was Robbie’s birthday after all—and especially off their evolutionary genetics, but how could he not answer the jewel of his life?

“Doyou think they will?”

“Well,” she said slowly, “we humans evolved from chimps, and sims are a mix of chimps and humans, so won’t sims evolve into humans someday?”

“No,” Ellis said, choosing his words carefully. “You see, humans didn’t evolve from chimps; chimps and humans are primates and both evolved from a common primate ancestor, an ape that had evolved from the monkeys.”

“A gorilla?”

“No. Gorillas branched off earlier. Let’s just call our common ancestor the mystery primate.”

Julie grinned. “Why call him ‘mysteryprimate’?”

“Because we haven’t found his bones yet. But we don’t need to. Genetics tells the story. So even though we may never identify the mystery primate’s remains, we know he existed and we know that at some point millions of years ago, whether because of a flood or a continental upheaval or climactic changes in Africa, a segment of the mystery primate population became separated from the larger main body. This smaller group wound up stranded in a hotter, drier environment, probably in northeast Africa; some theories say it was an island, but whatever the specifics, the important point is they were cut off from all the other jungle-dwelling primates. And there, under pressure to adapt to their new environment, they began to evolve in their own direction.”

“But didn’t the mystery primates in the jungle evolve too?”

“Of course, but because they were in an environment they were used to, they had little need for change, so they evolved more slowly, and in a different direction: toward what we now call chimpanzees. Meanwhile the primates in the separated group, in a drier, savanna-like environment, were changing: They were growing taller, their skin was losing its hair and learning to sweat in the hotter temperatures; and because they were no longer in a lush jungle where food was hanging from every other tree, they had to learn to hunt to keep from starving. This added extra protein to their diet which meant they could afford to enlarge a very important organ that needs lots of protein to grow. Do you know what that organ is?”

“The brain,” Julie said.

“You aresmart ,” he told her. “Absolutely right. The sum of all these changes meant that they were evolving into hominids.”

“Humans, right?”

“Humans are hominids, true, but it took millions of years for the first hominids to evolve intoHomo sapiens .”

“But once they got back to the jungle, couldn’t the hominids get back together with the mystery primates?”

Bright as Julie was, Ellis wondered how far he could delve into the intricacies of evolutionary drift with a thirteen-year-old. He paused, looking for an analogy. He knew she played the cello in her school orchestra…maybe she could understand if he related evolution to music.

“Think of DNA as a magnificent symphony, amazingly complex even though it is composed with only four notes. Every gene is a movement, and every base pair is a musical note within that movement. So if one of those base pairs is out of sequence, the melody can go wrong, become discordant. If enough are out of place, it can ruin the entire symphony. But sometimes changes can work to the benefit of the symphony.

“Imagine the sheet music for a concert arriving in a city far from where it was composed. The local musicians look at it and say, ‘No one around here is going to like this section, nor that movement; we’d better change them.’ And they do. And then that version is shipped off to another city even farther away, and those local musicians find they must make further changes to satisfy their audience. And on it goes, until the music is radically different from what was on the original sheets.

“This is what happened to the sheet music of the hominid’s DNA. It was progressively changed by different environments; but the chimp DNA never left its hometown, so it changed relatively little. And because they’d been separated, with the genes of one group never having a chance to mix with the genes of the other, each group kept evolving in its own direction, causing their genomes to drift further and further apart.

“At some point millions of years ago both groups reached the stage where neither was a mystery primate anymore. By the time the hominids started spreading into different areas of Africa, it was too late for a reunion. The hominids were playing Bach, while the chimps sounded like heavy metal. They couldn’t play together. Too many changes. One of the most obvious was the fusion of two primate chromosomes in the hominids, leaving them with twenty-three pairs instead of the twenty-four their jungle cousins still carried.”

“But sims have only twenty-two pairs, right?” Julie said. “What happened—?”

“That’s way too long a story for now,” Ellis said quickly. “Suffice it to say that the two groups had evolved so far apart that they could no longer have children together. Once that happened, their evolutionary courses were separated forever. So you see, a chimpanzee cannot evolve into a human any more than a human…”

His voice dried up.

Julie said, “But that doesn’t mean a sim won’t evolve into a human.”

“Sims are different, Julie. Theycan’t evolve. Ever. To evolve you must be able to have children, and sims can’t. Each sim is cloned from a stock of identical cell cultures. They are all genetically equal. Evolution involves genetic changes occurring over many generations, but sims have no generations, therefore no evolution.”

“This is pretty heavy luncheon chatter, don’t you think?” Judy said.

Ellis was grateful for the interruption.

“Your mother’s right.” He chucked Julie gently under the chin. “We can continue this another time. But did I answer your question?”

“Sure,” Julie said with a smile. “Sims will always be stuck being sims.”

Not if I can help it, Ellis thought.

8

SUSSEX COUNTY, NJ

“You’re not getting another beer, are you?” Martha called from the upstairs bedroom.

Harry Carstairs stood before his open refrigerator, marveling at the acuity of his wife’s hearing.

“Just one more.”

“Harry!” She drew out the second syllable. “Haven’t you had enough for one night?”

No, he thought. Not yet.

“It’s just a light.”

“Aren’t you ever coming to bed?”

“Soon, hon.”

She grumbled something he didn’t catch and he could visualize her rolling onto her side and pulling the covers over her head. He twisted the cap off the beer, took a quick pull, then stepped over to the bar. There he carefully lifted the Seagram’s bottle and poured a good slug into his beer.

Gently swirling the mixture, he headed for his study at the other end of the house.

He was drinking too much, he knew. But it took a lot of booze to put a dent in a guy his size. Still he didn’t think it was a real problem. He didn’t drink during the day, didn’t even think about it when he was surrounded by the hordes of young sims he oversaw. Their rambunctious energy recharged him every morning, filling his mind and senses all day.

But when he got home, when it was just Martha and he, the charge drained away, leaving him empty and flat. A dead battery. Not that there was anything wrong with Martha. Not her fault. It was all him.

He wished now they’d had kids. Life had been so fine before when it was just the two of them. And SimGen, of course. Martha worked for the company too, in the comptroller’s office. SimGen became part of their household, turning their marriage into a ménage à trois. But it had been a rewarding arrangement. They’d built their dream house on this huge wooded lot, traveled extensively, and had two fat 401(k)s that would allow them comfortable early retirement if they wanted it.

But a few years ago he’d begun to feel an aching emptiness in their home, to sense the isolation of the surrounding woods. He knew the day, the hour, the moment it had begun: When Ellis Sinclair had informed him about the sudden death of a sim.

Not just any sim. A special sim, one Harry had known throughout his entire time at SimGen. He’d taught that sim chess and turned him into a damn good player. They used to play three or four times a week.

And then he was gone. Just like that. Died on a Saturday, into the crematorium on Sunday, and his quarters stripped by the time Harry returned to work on Monday morning.

The boilermakers—Martha thought they were just plain beers—numbed the ache. But the ache seemed to require more anesthetic with each passing year.

Harry settled himself at his desk and reached out to restart the computer chess match he’d paused in midgame when—

He stopped. That feeling again. A prickling along his scalp…as if he was being watched.

Harry abruptly swiveled his chair toward the window directly behind him and caught a glimpse of a pale blur ducking out of sight. He sat stunned, frozen with the knowledge that he hadn’t been imagining it. Someone had been watching him through that goddamn window!

He leaped from his seat, lumbering toward the sliding glass doors that opened from his study onto the rear deck. He slipped, fell to one knee—damn boilermakers!—then yanked back the door and lurched onto the deck.

“I saw you, damn it!” he shouted, voice echoing through the trees, breath fogging in the cold air. “Who are you? Who thefuck are you!”

He stopped, listening. Where’d he go? But the woods were silent.

And then Martha’s voice, frightened, crying: “Harry! Harry, come quick!”

Harry ran back inside, charging the length of the house, shouting her name. He made it up the stairs to the master bedroom where he found her standing in the dark, staring out the big window overlooking the front yard.

“What is it?”

“I saw someone out there!” Her hand fluttered before her mouth like a hummingbird over a flower. “Just a glimpse. He was moving away toward the road but I know I saw him!”

“Nowdo you believe me?”

He’d told her before about this feeling of being watched but Martha had always chalked it up to his drinking.

“Yes! Yes, I do! And I’m calling the police!”

“Good. You do that,” Harry said, feeling a deep rage start to burn—damn, it was good to feel something again. He headed for the stairs. “And tell them to hurry. Because if I get to him first they’ll have to scrape what’s left of him into a goddamn bucket!”

“Harry, no!” Martha cried.

Harry ignored her. His blood was up, he could feel it racing through his head, his muscles. He’d been spooked, he’d been doubted, he’d even doubted himself, but now it was clear he’d been right all along and it was time for a little payback, time to kick some major donkey.

He hit the front drive running and sprinted for the street. In seconds his heart was thudding, his lungs burning.

Out of shape. And four sheets to the wind. But he was going to catch this fucker, and before he wiped up the road with him, he was going to find out why he—

Ahead…to the right…a car engine turning over, gears engaging, tires squealing on pavement.

Shit!

By the time Harry reached the street all he could see was a distant pair of taillights shrinking into the darkness.

He bent, hands on thighs, grunting and gasping for air. Maybe it was for the best. If he had caught up with the guy he might have been too winded to do much more than grab him and fall on him and hope he crushed the fucking hell out of him.

But the worst part was he still had no answers. Why was somebody watching him? Why should anyone care enough about him to come out here and sit in the cold dark woods to watch him play chess with his computer?

Get a life, man!

One thing was certain—no, make that two…two things were certain.

First, he was going to get a gun. Tomorrow.

Second, he was going to stop drinking. At least stop drinking so much. Also tomorrow.

Right now he was thoroughly rattled and needed a double of something. Anything. Just so long as it was a double.

9

MANHATTAN

OCTOBER 29

“There it is,” Romy said, pointing.

Patrick squinted down the garbage-strewn alley to where a naked bulb glowed dimly above a dented metal door. Back in the Roaring Twenties, a speakeasy might have hid behind a door like that. Here in the twenty-first century he knew nothing so innocuous awaited him.

“I don’t like this.”

A week had passed since Romy Cadman had barreled into his life. She’d called him this afternoon, suggesting they meet in the city for a late dinner, and then she wanted to show him a few sights.

They had an excellent meal in the Flatiron district, with perhaps a little too much wine, and Patrick found himself feeling more than a little amorous. Butamour did not appear to be on the menu.

A real shame, because Romy Cadman was without a doubt the most exciting, most fascinating woman he had ever met. Being in her company reduced all the other women he’d known in his life to wraiths. But he couldn’t get past the firewall she’d set up along her perimeter.

He came close, though. At one point during dinner the conversation had strayed from sims and legal matters to the theater; somehow the subject of ballet came up, and Patrick had seen a change in Romy as she enthused over an upcoming production ofSwan Lake . She smiled and her eyes sparkled as she went on about her favorite dancers and performances. Patrick wished he’d known more about the subject, but ballet had always left him cold. He did a good job of looking interested, though. Hell, he’d try toe dancing himself if it would keep this woman’s guard down.

But too soon the subject ran out of steam and her defenses were back in place. She wasn’t playing hard to get, shewas hard to get. At least where he was concerned.

After dessert, as he’d helped her into her long black leather coat, he said, “I’m surprised you’d wear something like this.”

“Cleathre?”

“This is cleathre?” Cloned leather. He’d heard of it but had never actually seen it. He fingered the smooth, supple surface. “Feels like the real thing.”

“Itis the real thing. It’s just that no animals had to die to make it.”

Cleathre and furc, cloned from skin cells of cows, minks, sables, even pandas, were the hottest new thing in the fashion industry. Ethically pure, esthetically perfect, and not cheap.

From the restaurant she’d cabbed him down to this crummy ill-lit neighborhood in the West Teens, so far west he could smell the river.

He felt like a fish out of water: overdressed and under-leathered. Romy’s coat matched the dominant color of the passing locals, but Patrick’s white shirt, paisley tie, and herringbone overcoat made him stand out like a Klansman at an NAACP meeting.

“Nothing to worry about,” she said.

“Easy for you to say. You’re staying out here.”

He glanced around uneasily. He was no country boy, knew Manhattan pretty well, in fact; but this was a part of the city he tended to avoid. Clubs down here were in the news too often, usually connected to stories about shootings and drug overdoses.

Romy’s smile had a bitter twist. “I’d go in with you, but it’s not exactly my kind of place.”

“You keep saying that, but it doesn’t help me. Before I walk in there I’d much rather know whose kind of place itis than whose kind it isn’t.”

“You need to find out for yourself.”

“Okay then, why don’t I find out in the daytime?”

“Because the action at a place like this doesn’t get rolling until about now.”

“This is all because I said I thought sims had a pretty cushy existence, right?”

“Stop stalling,” she said, giving him a gentle punch on the shoulder. “Are you going to knock on that door or not?”

Patrick tried a grin. “I’d love to, except that it means leaving you out here alone on these mean streets.”

“Oh, I can take care of myself,” she said, and this time her smile had a touch of warmth in it. She pulled a finger-length vial from her pocket. “One spray of this will stop a horse.”

Was this a rite of passage, a trial by fire? Was this what he had to do to win her? Or at the very least, earn the right to try? He glanced at her intent dark eyes under those perfect brows. If so…

“Okay,” he said. “Here I go.”

He walked the dozen or so paces to the door, took a deep breath of urinetinged air, and rapped on its battered, flaking surface.

A narrow window slid open and two dark eyes peered out at him.

“Yeah?” said a harsh voice.

Feeling as if he’d stepped into a particularly corny episode of the oldUntouchables , he said, “I’d, um, like to come in.”

“Ever been here before?”

“No, um, a bartender at the Tunnel sent me.”

“What’s his name?”

“Tim. He told me to tell you that Tim sent me.”

Actually, Patrick had never met Tim, but Romy had told him to say that.

The door opened. Fighting the urge to turn and trot back down the alley, he stepped inside. The door slammed shut behind him and Patrick found himself sharing a long narrow hallway with a two-legged slab of beef who probably held graduate degrees in bar bouncing: shaved head, earrings, crooked nose, and a steroidal body stuffed into a sleeveless black T-shirt emblazoned withMOTHER ’S. An old Guns n’ Roses tune vibrated from the end of the hall.

The slab held out his hand. “Twenty-five bucks.”

“What for?”

“Door charge.”

“Twenty-five bucks just to walk in?”

“You see busloads of gooks marchin through here? This ain’t no sightseein stop. Pay up or walk.”

Patrick reached into his pocket. “Tim didn’t say anything about a door charge.”

“He’s not supposed to.” The bouncer grinned and stuck out his tongue—long and forked—and waggled it in Patrick’s face.

A splicer, Patrick thought, trying to hide his revulsion. What the hell has Romy got me into?

Patrick handed him the money.

“Welcome to the Jungle.” The bouncer pointed toward the end of the hall. “Mona will take care of you,” he said, then cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “Incoming! Newbie!”

Patrick hurried down the hallway, brushing the sides in his haste. The faster he went, the sooner this would be over. He hoped.

Mona—at least he assumed the obese woman in the tight red dress exposing acres of cleavage was Mona—met him at the end of the hall. Another splicer: oversized lizard scales ran up the sides of her face and across her throat and who knew where else. She and the bouncer must be a couple—both into reptiles.

Tattoos and piercings had once been considered avant garde, but eventually were mainstreamed. Then tailored genes and nonhuman splices hit the black market and the bod-mod crowd jumped on them like cats on a nipcoated mouse.

“Hi, honey,” she said, showing pointed teeth in a big welcoming grin. “First time, huh?”

“Uh, yeah.”

First time forwhat ?

“Everybody’s a little nervous the first time.” She took his arm and led him around a corner. “Let me introduce you to the girls first, then you take your time and pick the one you want. The base charge is two-fifty and that allows you half an hour. We charge extra if you go over, and of course there’s surcharges for any specialties you want…”

Patrick stopped cold when he saw them.

“Kinda gets you, don’t it,” Mona said. “Nobody ever imagines they could look this good.”

The “girls” were female sims, but nothing like Patrick had ever seen or imagined. Someone had caked them with makeup, either styled and dyed their hair or fitted them with wigs, then dressed them in vinyl or studded leather or lingerie—satin teddies, frilly see-through nighties, the whole Frederick’s of Hollywood catalog. And their legs—most of them had shaved legs. Sims as a rule were only slightly hairier than humans, and the hair was coarser, but they didn’t shave their legs or underarms. Patrick had never seen a shaved female sim, or ones with such breasts—they must have had implants.

“Good Christ!” he blurted. “What have you done to them?”

He did his best to hide his revulsion as Mona gave him a sharp look, but God it wasn’t easy. Sim whores…

She grinned again and gave him a knowing wink. “You don’t like them all dolled up? That’s all right. I think I know your type.”

“You do?” That possibility was almost as unsettling as the sight of these sim sex slaves.

She pointed to two unshaven, unenhanced females lounging nude on a couch.

“We’ve got Teen and Mone over there. They work in our special jungle room for clients who like their sims just the way you’d encounter them in the wild.”

“In the wild? They don’toccur in the wild! They’re…manufactured!”

“Hey,” Mona said, her smile fading. “Are you here to have fun or nitpick my ass?”

Patrick stared, he gawked, he gaped in shock at their surreal sicko getups. His stupefaction that anyone could find these pathetic creatures even remotely erotic quickly faded, replaced by a deeper revulsion as he noticed the bruises on their shaved limbs, their dead dull eyes. They looked like desiccated shells as they sat and smoked and stared at him.

Smoked…he’d never known a sim to smoke.

He had to get out of here. Now.

“I…I think I’ve changed my mind.”

“What’s the matter?” She looked genuinely offended. “We got the best in town.”

Patrick started backing toward the hallway. “I’m sure you do, it’s just that I…nothing personal, but I don’t think I’m ready yet.”

Glaring now, Mona said, “Then why’d you come?”

“A friend told me to.” God, he wanted to kill Romy. “Said I’d find it enlightening. But I don’t.”

He turned and headed for the door where the bouncer waited.

“Jerry!” Mona called out behind him. “Something’s not right with this guy.”

Jerry placed himself between Patrick and the door.

“You got a problem, pal?”

Oh, no, Patrick thought as his gut clenched. He’s going to beat the shit out of me.

“Yeah,” Patrick said, pressing one hand against his stomach and the other over his mouth. “I think I’m going to be sick.” He retched for effect.

“Don’t you even fuckin dream of it, asshole! You puke in here, you’re gonna clean it up—with your tongue!”

Patrick retched again, louder this time. “Oh, God!” He doubled over.

“Motherf—”

He felt the back of his coat bunch as Jerry grabbed a fistful of fabric, heard the door swing open, and then he was propelled into the stink of the alley. He stumbled, almost lost his footing, but managed to stay upright as he skidded to a halt against the brick wall on the far side.

Patrick didn’t stop to look back. He pushed off the wall and hurried from the alley at something just short of a trot. He found Romy waiting for him on the sidewalk.

“Well?” she said, raising her eyebrows.

“Damn it, Romy!”

He’d half expected some sort of ha-ha-the-joke’s-on-you attitude, but she was all business.

“I take it you ran into a few sims.”

“You know damn well I did!” God, he was pissed. He felt besmirched, belittled, diminished. If she’d been a guy he’d be taking a poke at her right now. “Why the hell—?”

She held up one hand to silence him and raised the other to her lips. He realized she was holding a PCA.

“My man inside confirms the sims are there. It’s a go.”

“What’s a go?” Patrick said.

“A raid,” she said. “Let’s get out of the way.”

She led him across the street. The first blue-and-white NYPD units were screeching to a halt in front of the alley by the time they reached the opposite curb. Patrick watched fascinated as a small horde of blue uniforms swarmed toward the dented door.

Patrick stared at Romy. “You’re a cop?”

“No. And this sort of work isn’t really a kosher part of my OPRR duties, but I’ve made it so. I snoop around. I talk to people, people talk to me. I’ve been watching this place for some time. Took me a while to find the rear exit. Once I had that, I brought in NYPD.”

“Then what did you need me for? Why’d you send me in there?”

Her gaze was focused on the alley, her dark eyes hard and bright as she watched the cops knock open the door with a short steel battering ram.

“To make sure the sims were inside. You never know who’s got a source in a precinct house. If they got wind of the raid they’d have the sims stashed out of town and I’d have egg on my face and the cops would be less cooperative next time I came to them.”

If she thought that was going to mollify him, she was dead wrong.

“You could have told me, damn it! Why’d you send me in there with no idea what I’d be getting into?”

“Would you have gone in if I had?”

“Well…” He let the word trail off but knew the answer would have been a definite no.

“I didn’t think so. But because you did, you played a meaningful part in reeling in some single-celled organisms posing as human beings,things ”—she managed to inject so much contempt into the word—“who make pond scum look tasty.” A wry smile. “Ain’t that cool?”

Patrick had to admit it was, but he wasn’t about to say so.

“What happens to them?”

“The humans won’t see daylight for a long, long time. Those sims in there have been either abducted or leased under false pretenses. The charges will range from grand theft to fraud to pandering to cruelty to animals to operating a criminal enterprise to promoting bestiality and whatever else the prosecutors can think of. You’re the lawyer. You can imagine.”

Patrick nodded, mentally adding a few more charges.

Romy kept talking. “And the perps—do I sound like a cop?—are guaranteed to get slammed with max sentences. SimGen, as you’ve learned firsthand, is relentless when it comes to anyone messing with their product. Their contacts in the judicial system, the ones who guarantee them favorable rulings whenever necessary, also see to it that anyone who transgresses against them lands lower-lip-deep in doo-doo. And after the criminal courts are through with the bastards, SimGen chases them down in civil court and gets dibs on everything they’ve ever owned in their life and everything they’ll earn till Resurrection Day.”

“Is that admiration I hear?”

Romy shook her head. “No. But you’ve got to respect SimGen’s efficiency. When their ends coincide with mine—as in rescuing sims from these oxygen wasters—I’m only too happy to take advantage of that efficiency. But we part on thewhy : My reasons are personal and ethical, theirs are purely business and public relations.”

“What happens to the sims?” he said, remembering the tarted-up females.

“Someone from SimGen will be by to pick up the poor things and take them to the Jersey campus where they’ll rehab the ones they can and retire the ones they can’t.”

“Doesn’t exactly sound like the Evil Empire to me.”

She turned and glared at him. “Oh, but they are, Patrick Sullivan. That sleazy little operation across the street couldn’t have existed without SimGen, because SimGen made the sims that were mistreated in there.”

“Hey, Ford makes cars and some people get drunk and kill people with them or use them to rob banks or rig them with dynamite.”

She rolled her eyes. “You don’t see the difference between a hunk of tin and those creatures you’re representing in court?”

“Of course I do. I just—”

“SimGen created a new species and enslaved it. Sims feel pain, they feel pleasure, they laugh, theythink , damn it! And they’re slaves. A sentient slave species…you don’t think that’s evil?”

“Well, when you put it that way…”

“What other way is there to put it? They’ve got to be stopped.”

Patrick laughed. “And who’s going to do that? You?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

He couldn’t believe this. She actually seemed serious. “You don’t really think—”

“Something’s rotten in SimGen,” she said. “They’re dirty. When I was there I could smell it. And when I find out what they’re hiding, I’m going to bring them down.”

“You.”

She set her jaw. “Me…with a little help from some friends.”

“What friends?”

“Just…friends.” She stepped off the curb. “I’m going in to check over those sims, catalogue any injuries or evidence of drugging before the SimGen folks arrive. Want to come along?”

Patrick hesitated. He’d already been inside once and wasn’t keen on going back.

“I don’t know…I’ve got an early day tomorrow…”

“I know. Beacon Ridge has filed some new motions on the federal appeal.”

That gave him a mild jolt. “You’re really staying on top of this, aren’t you.”

“I tend to keep a close eye on my investments. As a matter of fact, I was planning on coming up to White Plains tomorrow.”

“What for?”

“To see you in action.”

“Ah, yes. Your investment.” He wasn’t sure if he liked the idea. He wasn’t some trick pony.

“If you hang around awhile you could give me a ride up there.”

Nowhere was an interesting development. “Where are you staying?”

“Don’t know yet. How’s your motel?”

Whoa! His heart did a pole vault. “Not fancy, but decent. As a matter of fact, you could save yourself a few bucks and stay in my room.”

She laughed from deep in her throat. God, what a sound. He could listen to her laugh all night. Visions of that marvelous tight body began to play in his head…in bed next to him, straddling him…Pamela had been gone for too long and right now every Y-chromosome in his body was doing a mating dance.

“I don’t think so.”

He raised his hands. “Nothing salacious here. The room’s got two double beds. You could have the other one.”

“How generous,” she said with a wry twist to her smile.

“And listen, I’ll be a Boy Scout. Really. You can have your bed, I’ll have mine, and we’ll turn the lights out and just lie there and talk.”

Patrick didn’t quite believe he’d just said that, but it was true. He’d settle for talk, anything to stay close to this woman.

“I appreciate the offer,” Romy said, “but I’m a private sort of person. But you will drive me?”

Drive you…aw, lady, don’t say things like that.

“Sure.”

“Great. We’ll have to stop at my office to pick up my overnight bag.”

“No problem.”

And on the way home, lady, I’m going to do my absolute damnedest to convince you that two rooms is one too many.

10

WESTCHESTER COUNTY, NY

OCTOBER 30

Romy glanced at the clock numerals glowing on the dashboard of Patrick’s BMW. Hard to believe it was quarter to three already.

Time flies when you’re having fun.

Well, not fun, exactly. But it had been a good night. And she felt very good about putting those sim abusers behind bars.

She watched Patrick as he maneuvered along the winding curves of the Saw Mill River Parkway, deserted at this hour except for the single pair of headlights a couple of hundred yards behind them. He’d handled himself well tonight. And she’d been heartened by how deeply the sim bordello had shaken him.

“Tired?” she said.

“A little. How about you?”

“Not a bit.” She was totally wired.

“I could perk up,” he said with a grin. “That is, if you decide to take up my offer on the rooming arrangements.”

She laughed. “You don’t give up, do you.”

After those splicer slimeballs had been carted off, and the cops had returned to Manhattan South, and SimGen had picked up the sims, they’d retrieved his car from the garage, picked up her bag, and headed for the northern suburbs. Patrick had spent the early part of the trip on the make, pitching his idea of sharing a room. Finally he seemed to have run out of gas.

Romy had to admit that a bout of sweaty, energetic sex would be perfect right now. Might take the edge off this persistent adrenaline buzz. But not with Patrick Sullivan. They’d be working too closely over the next few months. That level of intimacy in their relationship would further complicate an already complicated situation.

And her track record with relationships of any sort was downright miserable. She no sooner got close to someone than she seemed to scare them away.

Like Jeff Hogan, a bright, funny computer game designer who worked for Acclaim out on Long Island. They started going out last spring, grew close, but not close enough that Romy could tell him about Zero and the organization. He must have sensed she was keeping something from him—no doubt thought she had another guy—and one night he went so far as to follow her. Fortunately she spotted him and aborted her planned meeting with Zero. But that was it for Jeff Hogan.

“Give up?” Patrick said. “I don’t know the meaning of the words.”

She smiled. “If you’re half this tenacious on behalf of your clients, I don’t think the sims can lose.” The smile faded. “Still think all sims have it cushy?”

“Not those.”

“Ever hear of a globulin farm?”

“Never.”

Romy said, “When you get sick, when a virus or bacterium invades your body, you fight back through your immune system. It forms proteins, immune globulins known as antibodies, to kill the invaders. That’s called active immunity. But let’s say you jab yourself with a needle that’s infected with, say, hepatitis B or C. You could ward off infection by either of those viruses through passive immunity—by being injected with antibodies or immunoglobulins from someone already immune to them.”

Patrick was getting the picture. A few months ago he’d have to ask another half dozen questions to fill in the blanks, but after what he’d seen tonight, he felt up to doing some of the filling himself.

“Let me guess: Since sims are so close to humans, some slimeball gets the bright idea of kidnapping or hijacking a bunch and infecting them with viruses and selling off the immunity of whichever ones survive.”

“Exactly,” Romy said. “And sometimes if a sim survives one virus, they infect it with another, and then another, until they can harvest a multiimmune globulin. The more diseases covered, the higher the price per dose.”

“Ain’t science grand,” Patrick said.

“But it’s not a one-time thing. A sim will produce those antibodies for as long as it lives. All the farmers have to do is keep it alive and healthy and they’ve got themselves a cash cow they can literally milk for years.”

“Great,” he said in a sour tone.

“But even they don’t have it a tenth as bad as some of the cases I’ve seen. Try to imagine a sim tossed into a cage with three pit bulls.”

“Aw no.”

“Or two sims shoved into a pit, knives duct-taped into both hands, and bullwhipped until they fight to the death.”

“Stop!”

“And some are simply tied up in a basement and tortured for days, weeks.”

“Christ, Romy,please! ”

She’d seen too much, too damn much over the years. Tears welled in her eyes.

“I don’t know why…maybe it’s because they’re so unassertive, or because they have no franchise, but sims seem to bring out the very worst in the worst of us. The racists who’re so desperate to feel superior to something, anything, even if it’s not human; others who think God gave them the animal kingdom as their playground, to do absolutely anything with that they damn well please; and the sick souls who want to vent their psychoses on something weak and defenseless. Serial killers, teenage gangs, they’ve found a new target: Kill a sim for kicks. Damn them.” She heard her voice break. “Damn them all to hell.”

“Easy,” Patrick said, reaching across, finding her hand, squeezing it. “Easy.”

Romy couldn’t gauge the genuineness of the gesture, whether he really felt for her or was simply pressing his case to be roommates, but she didn’t pull away.

The interior of the car brightened. Romy glanced in her sideview mirror and saw that the car behind them was closer now, coming up fast. Patrick noticed it too.

“Looks like someone wants to pass,” he said.

She felt the BMW decelerate as Patrick eased up on the gas to allow the other car to go by. She looked out her window at the ravine beyond the guardrail and suddenly had a premonition.

“Don’t slow down!” she cried.

“Wha—?”

“Hit the gas! Don’t let it pass!”

Too late. The other car had gained too much momentum. It pulled alongside—Romy could see now that it was a big, heavy Chevy van—and then cut a hard right into the Beemer’s flank.

She screamed as the impact sent a shock of terror through her chest. Patrick cried out and the car swerved as he was knocked away from the steering wheel. Metal screeched, sparks flew as the steel guardrail ripped along the outside of her door, just inches away. Patrick grabbed the wheel, trying to regain control, but then the van hit them again, harder, and this time the Beemer climbed the guardrail, straddled it for an endless instant, then toppled over.

Romy’s window exploded inward, peppering her with safety glass as the car landed on its passenger side—she heard someone screaming and recognized the voice as her own. She hung upside down in her seatbelt as the Beemer rolled onto its roof, then over to the driver side where it slidbounced-rattled the rest of the way down a slope of softball-size chunks of granite. She felt as if she were trapped in some wild amusement park ride that had gone horribly wrong. Finally the car hit the bottom of the ravine and bounced back onto its wheels.

Battered, shaken, her heart pounding madly, she shook off the shock and looked at Patrick. He was a shadow slumped against the wheel—the airbag hadn’t deployed. She heard him groan and thought, We’re alive!

But this was no accident. Someone had tried to kill them!

And then she saw forms moving into the beam of the one remaining headlight, crouching shapes in dark jumpsuits, looking like commandos.

Realization stabbed into her brain: Already down here! Waiting for us! All planned! We were targeted to be knocked off the road at that point!

She found the door lock toggle, hit it. Locks wouldn’t do much good, but Patrick’s window, though cracked, was still intact. She leaned close to him.

“Don’t move!” she whispered in his ear.

He gave her a groggy look. “What?”

“Keep quiet and play dead!”

She pushed his head down so it was resting against the steering wheel, then slumped herself against him and watched through narrowed lids.

Three of them, moving quickly and cautiously, squinting in the light. Must have been waiting in the dark for a while. She thought she spotted a fourth figure hanging back at the edge of the glow.

She slipped her hand into her pocketbook, searching for something, anything she might use to protect herself. Her fingers closed around a metal cylinder, twice the length of a lipstick. Oh, yes. In the confusion she’d all but forgotten about that.

“Somebody kill those lights!” said the middle figure.

“Got it.”

One figure veered toward Patrick’s side of the car while the other two approached Romy’s. A hand snaked through her window. She steeled herself as fingers probed her throat.

“Got a pulse.”

“Great. Get her arm out here. I’ll shoot her up. Got that recorder ready?”

The third man was rattling Patrick’s door. “Hey, it’s locked. Find the switch over there.”

A hand fumbled along the inside of her door. Over the first man’s shoulder she saw the other lift an inoculator.

No!

She felt her fear nudging Raging Romy. Come on! she thought. Wake up! Where are you when I need you?

As soon as she heard the door locks trip open, she began spraying. Not a five- or ten-percent capsicum spray, but a concentrated stream of CS tear gas. The nearer of the two caught the full brunt of it. Clawing at his eyes, he cried out and lurched backward, knocking into his partner; Romy was moving too, pushing open her door and leaping out, arm extended, giving the inoculator man a faceful. He shouted and, arms across his face, turned and tried to run blind, but tripped and fell over the first guy.

Raging Romy was back.

“What the fuck?” she heard the third man say from Patrick’s side of the car. She turned and saw him start to move around toward her.

“Run, Patrick!” she screamed. “Run now!”

Before taking her own advice, she went to work on the two bastards on the ground, using her boots to hurt them where they lived, putting all the considerable strength of her legs and much of her body behind the kicks. Raging Romy wanted to give them more, take the time to do the job right so it would be a long, long while before they were able to try something like this again, but the third man had reached the front of the car and she had to run.

Patrick lay trembling against the steering wheel, trying to control his bladder, afraid he was going to be killed. The guy on his side of the car had just yanked the door open when all hell broke loose to Patrick’s right—shouts, cries, moans, and then Romy telling him to run. The guy outside his door was moving away and so Patrick kicked it the rest of the way open and did just that.

He didn’t pick a direction, he simply ran with everything he had. A quick glance over his shoulder showed no one in pursuit, and a slim figure, glints of light flashing from her glossy cleathre coat, fading into the night on the far side of the car. Romy. Thank God.

He ran on, still afraid for his life, but he had a chance now, and that left room enough in his panicked brain for questions: Who? Why? And room for shame. He was running instead of fighting. Even though he wasn’t a fighter, he felt he should be back there kicking multiple butts to defend Romy. Instead, she’d taken the lead and sprung them both. What kind of a woman had he become involved with?

At least they were running in opposite directions. That would split the opposition.

He spotted a large dark splotch ahead to his right—a tiny grove of trees, tall bushes maybe—and headed for it. He could stop there, get his bearings, and then try to make it back up to the road.

As he entered the grove he had a vague impression of a shadow hugging one of the dark tree trunks immediately to his right, but he kept pushing into the foliage.

“Not so fast, little man,” said a deep voice.

And then something rammed into his abdomen, a fist, plunging toward his spine, almost reaching it. As Patrick grunted in airless agony and doubled over, another fist slammed into the back of his neck, collapsing him to his knees. He retched.

“Got him!” the voice bellowed.

Through the red and black splotches flashing in his vision, Patrick was aware of a flashlight flicking on and off. A moment later he heard thumping footsteps approach.

“Ricker?” said the voice that belonged to the guy who’d opened his car door.

“Over here. Where’s Hoop and Cruz?”

As Patrick’s breathing eased and his head cleared, he glanced left and right: two pairs of identical black sneakers leading to black pants with elastic cuffs.

“Down. Bitch was playing possum. Maced them and took off. They’re getting their eyes back but—”

“Damn fuck better! Got to catch her before she gets to the road and stops a car!”

“That might be up to me and you—she did some real damage to their balls before she left.”

“Shit! All right, let’s do this guy, dump him back in his car, and go after her.”

Do?Panic clawed at Patrick’s brain.

For the second time tonight, he felt himself grabbed by the back of his coat. This time he was hauled to his feet.

“Steady him,” the big one, the one called Ricker, said as a pair of massive arms twined around Patrick’s head and neck like anacondas.

“Wh-what’re you doing?” he cried, although he sensed with a sick terrifying certainty what was coming.

“What the accident didn’t, buddy boy,” said Ricker’s voice close to his ear.

Patrick writhed in their grasp and cried out his fear as he felt those arms tighten, but he was trapped and pinned and helpless as a moth about to have its wings plucked…

…and then a jarring impact, an agonized “Uhnh!” from Ricker, a startled “What the—?” from the other, and the murderous grip loosened, the arms fell away, and something slammed against Patrick’s back, knocking him face first onto the ground. He heard scuffling feet, grunted as someone’s heel kicked him in the ribs, then winced as he heard a loud, wet, crunchingsmack! followed by a brief light rain of warm heavy droplets against his head and the back of his neck. After that, a heartbeat of silence, followed by the impacts of two heavy objects thudding to the ground, one on his left, another on his right. Then…

…silence.

He waited in panicked confusion, holding his breath, playing dead, praying he’d survive the night. Silence persisted. Warily he raised his head, inching it upward, spitting the dirt from his lips. To his left he saw a pair of blackclad legs and sneakered feet, only this time they were horizontal. With growing alarm he slowly rotated his head left—

—and scrambled to his feet with a startled cry when he found a bloodstained face and dead staring eyes only inches from his own.

Heart hammering, he backed away from the two still forms, the one who’d been struggling with his car door, and the bigger one, the one called Ricker, the one who’d been about to snap his neck when—

When what? What had just happened here?

He did a full, stumbling turn as he edged out of the grove, searching the shadows for something, anything that might account for the two dead men, but found only more shadows. When he reached the edge of the foliage he ran, blindly at first, but then a passing splash of light from above told him where the roadway was. He veered right and began to claw his way up the steep slope, stumbling, slipping, the rough granite tearing his pants, cutting his skin. Finally he reached the battered steel guardrail and pulled himself over.

No one else in sight. Where was Romy? God, he hoped she was okay.

Aching and bleeding, he slumped against the cold metal and tried to catch his breath.

Not in shape, he thought as he searched his pockets for his PCA. And even if he were, he wasn’t in shape for a carjacking and dead bodies. He was a talker, not a fighter. He—

Shit! He’d plugged the PCA into the recharger in the car!

All right. As soon as he claimed a second wind, he was going to start running, and keep on running until a car showed up. And then he was going to stop it and have them call 911.

Lights glowed beyond the curve to his left. As a car careened into view, he rose and staggered across the shoulder toward the roadway, waving his arms. Only when he was completely exposed and vulnerable did it occur to him to wonder whether it might be friend or foe.

Moot question. The car hurtled past without even slowing.

Patrick looked down at his wrinkled, torn, bloodstained suit. I wouldn’t stop for me either.

Maybe he’d be lucky and the driver would call in about a disheveled crazy looking man wandering the Saw Mill. But the way his luck was running…

He ducked and turned as he heard a noise on the slope below…moving closer. Someone climbing his way. He peeked over the guardrail and sighed with relief when he recognized her.

“Romy!” he said, rising and extending his hand. “Thank God you’re safe!”

And please don’t say, No thanks to you, my hero.

He helped her over the rail and noticed she wasn’t even breathing hard.

“Are you all right?” she said, giving him the once-over as she straightened her coat. “Where are you bleeding from?” Was that real concern in her eyes?

“What? Oh…only a little of that’s mine.”

He recounted what had happened in the grove.

She glanced between him and the dark pool of the ravine. “And you didn’t see who it was who saved you?”

“Not a hair, not a trace.”

She nodded, looking around. “Typical.”

“What’s that mean?” And then he realized she didn’t look the least bit shocked or worried.

“It means the organization is looking out for you.”

“What organization? Those ‘friends’ you mentioned earlier? Who—?”

She pivoted and held up a hand to shush him. “Hear that?”

He heard a car engine gunning in the ravine. No way that could be his. They both leaned over the rail, squinting into the dark.

“When I was hiding in the brush down there I spotted another van just like the one that drove us off the road. On my way back up here I noticed that the two guys I gassed were gone.”

“You think they took the bodies with them?”

“I’ll bet on it. This wasn’t a couple of beered-up Teamsters. These people had a plan and they were following it by the numbers, military style.”

Patrick noticed her stiffen, as if a bell had just rung. “What?”

She shook her head. “Nothing.”

As the sound of the van’s engine faded, Patrick stared again into the dark ravine, trying to locate his BMW, and was struck by how perfectly their “accident” had been planned. If he had trouble locating his car in the shadows below—and he had a fair idea where it should be—a passing car wouldn’t have a clue.

A shudder cut through his body. He began to tremble inside.

“Don’t tell me ‘nothing,’” he said. “Somebody tried to kill us and—”

“They were going to shoot me up with something first…to ask me questions.”

“Oh, Christ! What are we into here? Whowere they?”

“SimGen, I suspect.”

“No way! With their clout in court and Congress, they don’t need to hire killers.”

“Who’s got more to lose?”

“No, Romy, I don’t buy it—I won’t buy it. They’re—”

She leaned close. Intensity radiated from her like heat from a reactor core. “They’re hiding something, Patrick. And whatever it is, the two of us—you, me—we’ve touched a nerve. We’ve somehow threatened that secret.”

“Just great,” he said. “One of the largest corporations in the world has painted a bull’s-eye on my back.” He held up his hands and watched them shake. “Look at me—I’m a wreck.”

“The shakes are normal,” Romy said, holding out her own trembling hands. “Just excess adrenaline. It’ll pass. How do you feel otherwise?”

“How does terrified sound?” He wasn’t ashamed to admit it: He was shaken to his core. “It’s not every day someone tries to kill me.”

“The all-important question is: Have they scared you off?”

“Oh, they’ve scared me, but not off,” he said, hoping he sounded a lot braver than he felt. “You see, they made a big mistake when they ruined my practice: It left me with only one client. Ican’t quit.”

Romy smiled at him, and he sensed genuine regard in her eyes. Somehow that made the terrors of the past few minutes almost worthwhile. Almost.

“And I’ll tell you something else,” he said, feeling a growing anger blunt the edge of his fear. “I’m still not convinced SimGen was behind what happened here, but just in case it was, I’m putting them on notice.”

Her eyes never left his face. “How?”

“I’m sure I saw the word ‘SimGen’ on the side of the van that sideswiped us. How about you?”

“Come to think of it,” she said, touching an index finger to her temple, “I believe I did too.”

“Of course you did. We’ll make sure it’s in the police report, and I’m going to mention it in every interview over the next week or so. SimGen will deny it of course, but a suspicion will be implanted in the public mind. SimGen will bepraying nothing happens to us.”

“I love it,” she said. “Turns the tables in a wonderfully underhanded way.”

“I aced Underhanded 101 and 102 in law school.”

“I’ll bet you did.” She pulled a PCA from her coat pocket. “Time to call the cops.”

11

SUSSEX COUNTY, NJ

“I understand,” Luca Portero said for what seemed like the hundredth or thousandth time, trying to calm the voice on the other end of the hard-encrypted line.

Truth was, he didn’t understand. Not one damn bit.

He rubbed his burning eyes. Somewhere outside this sealed office in the subbasement of SimGen’s Basic Research building, the sun was preparing to rise. Luca hadn’t slept in twenty-three hours, but he wasn’t the least bit physically tired. The fatigue weighing on him like a lead-lined shroud was mental, from hammering his brain for an explanation as to how such a simple op could go so fatally wrong.

“Doyou understand, Portero?” said the voice.

It belonged to Darryl Lister, Luca’s old CO, the man who’d brought him into SIRG. Just like back in the service, Lister was his direct superior, and the next stop up the ladder from Luca. Lister was understandably upset about being awakened ahead of his alarm clock with the news that two of their men were dead. He’d hung up on Luca, then called him back half an hour later—after checking with the SIRG higher-ups, no doubt.

“Then maybe,” Lister continued, “just maybe you can helpme understand how six pros go out to process a couple of soft-shelled yuppies, and two come back in body bags, while the yups are still walking around. You were running the op. Explain, please.”

Lister’s tone surprised Luca. He sounded nothing like the Captain he’d known back in their Special Forces days. Hell, they’d stalked through Kabul and Baghdad together; he was one of the few men in the world Luca respected. Why was he coming on so managerial?

Couldn’t worry about that now. Had to give him answers.

Luca once more reviewed the set-up, groping for a flaw. He’d handpicked the men, all seasoned SIRG operatives. Using a bogus identity he’d personally rented the vans from two different companies—could have used unmarked SimGen vehicles but didn’t want to chance a trace. Then last night, after weeks of surveillance on Sullivan and Cadman, a golden opportunity: the two of them together driving through Westchester in the dead hours of the morning. A couple of quick calls and everyone was in position, waiting for it to go down.

So far, so good. Not a hint that it was going to go down the toilet.

He reran his mental tape of what he’d learned from debriefing the survivors. According to Snyder and Lowery—the wheel man and his back-up in the first van—the hit on Sullivan’s car had been perfect: over the rail and down the slope. As planned, they’d driven away and left their rented van at a body shop that knows how to keep a secret.

After that the story murked up. The two survivors of the wet team, Cruz and Hooper, had spent too much time recovering from their doses of Mace to see anything. And they were still limping from the tap dance the Cadman woman had done on them.

Luca shook his head, torn between rage and admiration. Some kind of broad, that Romy. He couldn’t help but admire the way she’d engineered the raid on that sim whorehouse. And then she’d made asses of two of his best men. Maybe they were still alive thanks to her. He could use someone like her.

When Cruz and Hooper could finally see and walk again, they’d found Ricker and Green dead; they’d gathered up the corpses and hauled ass out of there in the second van.

“I put Ricker in charge,” Luca said.

“Good choice,” Lister replied. “I’d have done the same. But Ricker is dead, and that’s what disturbs me, Portero. How does Ricker wind up with a cracked skull? Who do you know who could take Ricker in hand-to-hand?”

“Nobody.”

“Damn right. He was a fucking animal.”

No argument there. Ricker wasn’t just big and tough, he was experienced and smart. No one was going to take him down without a struggle, and not without him taking one or two down with him. But according to Cruz and Hooper, they never heard a sound.

And Ricker’s body…his throat had been crushed—that explained the silence—and his head had been smashed. Looked like he’d leaned out of a speeding subway and got clocked by a support girder. Same with Green.

In fact, if Luca wasn’t so sure it was impossible, he’d think someone had grabbed Ricker and Green by their necks and smashed their heads together…like a bully brother breaking his sister’s dolls. But who could manhandle two guys as fit and jacked as Ricker and Green like that?

An icy length of barbed wire dragged along Luca’s spine.

“According to what you’ve told me,” Lister said, “Ricker and the team didn’t know where they were going until less than an hour before they hit the road. Even you didn’t know. So how did whoever took them out know? Sounds to me like they were already there waiting.”

“Or they were followed.”

“But why follow them at all? Unless…shit! The Japs! I bet it’s the Japs! That goddamn Kaze Group has been sticking its dirty fingers deeper and deeper into the biotech pie, and now—”

“I doubt it’s the Japs,” Luca said. “They’ve got no reason to protect Sullivan.”

“Maybe they just want to keep us off balance.”

Luca began to feel an unsettling suspicion. He hesitated, as if uttering the words might turn the possibility into a reality. But Lister—and SIRG—had to know.

“I think there’s a new player in the game.”

“Where’d you get an idea like that?”

“A gut feeling. And the fact that we’ve never had to deal with a countermove like this.”

A pause while Lister digested that. “Who on earth…?”

“I have no idea—yet. But I’m going to find out.”

“You do that. But don’t lose us any more men in the process. Whoever these people are, they play rough.”

“Rough,” Luca said, clamping his jaw. “They don’t know rough. Not by half.”

“And somethingyou should know,” Lister said. “Word from upstairs is that this was a bad idea.”

“Bad?” Anger dueled with a sudden stab of cold fear. “It was approved! What the hell are they trying—?”

“Careful what you say, Portero. The wrong people might hear and you could find yourself back where you came from, living on your pension while pimping for your mother—and happy to be allowed to do so. Comprende?”

Lister’s unexpected attack rocked Luca. “What?What did you just say?”

Rage flared through him, making him want to reach through the phone and kill. He didn’t care about the swift and inevitably deadly reprisal from SIRG, he wanted to crush Lister’s larynx, wanted to see his eyes bulge, his face turn purple while Luca screamed in his ear that yes, my mother was a whore, but only because she had to be and she’s not anymore, and yes, she doesn’t know who my father was, but…

“Sorry,” Lister said. “That was uncalled for. I’m just…you wouldn’t believe the pressure that’s coming down.”

Luca said nothing. All right, so SIRG was squeezing Lister, big time. That still didn’t give him the right…

“Look,” Lister said. “Whatever you thought they said before, they now say the lawyer is not key. If he goes, he can be replaced in minutes by another lawyer, maybe a better one, who might cause even more problems.”

Lister paused, as if expecting a comment. They’re right, Luca grudgingly admitted. No shortage of lawyers. But he said nothing.

Lister went on: “The sims—thisparticular group of sims—are key. No other group has come forward looking to unionize, only these. Why, we don’t know. Why, we don’t care. Point is, SIRG wants the focus of your efforts from now on to be the Beacon Ridge sims. Are we clear on that?”

“Completely.”

Calmer now, Luca already was germinating an idea. A simple plan. A one-man job. And he knew just the man.

This time there’d be no slip-ups because he’d take care of it himself.

Because this had become personal.

Romy Cadman had made him look bad. Hurt his reputation. Now she was going to hurt.

12

WESTCHESTER COUNTY, NY

“I’m fine, really,” Romy said.

She stood in an empty ladies’ room speaking to Zero on the secure PCA he’d given her. It was clear after last night that she was under surveillance, so she’d picked a spot at random and wound up in a coffee shop not far from the federal district courthouse in White Plains. At this hour—10:32A .M.—the dining area contained only a handful of late breakfasters, and the ladies’ room was empty; she’d checked all the stalls before calling.

“You’re sure? Absolutely sure?”

The concern in his voice touched her. “Absolutely. Those martial arts lessons you made me take came in handy.”

“I never thought you’d be in physical danger, but I felt it best you be prepared for it.”

“If nothing else, it’s helped me keep my cool.”

Relative cool, she thought. Her nerves were still jangled. She’d tried to rest at the motel—in her own room, much to Patrick’s dismay—but sleep had remained steadfastly out of reach; so she’d compensated this morning by drinking too much coffee, which did nothing to settle her nerves.

She caught sight of herself in one of the mirrors. A little haggard looking, but not half bad for someone who’d ducked an attempt on her life just a few hours ago.

“But murder?” she said. “Somehow I don’t see the brothers Sinclair sitting around and deciding to have us killed.”

“That decision was reached elsewhere, I’m sure. By someone connected to the company but with his own best interests at heart.”

“Someone also connected to Manassas Ventures, perhaps?”

“Perhaps. Our investigation into that little company keeps coming up empty. It seems to exist in a vacuum. We’ve avoided direct inquiries, keeping everything back door because we don’t want to let them know anyone’s interested. But if nothing pans out soon we may have to arrange a little accident.”

“Accident?”

He went on without elaborating. “In the meantime we want to keep you and Patrick alive and well. Connecting SimGen to the vans was a brilliant stroke. Your idea?”

“No. Patrick’s.”

“Clever fellow. The Beacon Ridge sims could do a lot worse.”

“I’m beginning to see that.” After last night, despite his tough talk, she’d half expected him to wake up this morning and run off with his tail tucked between his legs. But he was in court now, arguing motions. “What I don’t see is how you managed to be down in that ravine with us.”

“Iwasn’t there.”

“I don’t mean you personally—the organization.”

“We had a tail on Portero.”

That startled her. “For how long?”

“Long enough to see him rent a couple of vans. After that, we kept an eye on the vans. When some mercenary types became attached to the vans, I suspected strong-arm tactics were in the works. Some of our people followed one van to that ravine and you-know-who intervened.”

“I’m glad.”

“So am I. I’d never forgive myself if…” He cleared his throat. “Anyway, the gloves are off, I’m afraid. The organization is going to mount its own surveillance on you and Patrick. The Beacon Ridge barrack as well.”

Romy’s stomach turned. “Oh, no. You don’t think—”

“Anything is possible. And we must be prepared for it.”

13

THE BRONX

NOVEMBER 6

Meerm not hungry. Get good food in Meerm room, special food, come on own plate. Meerm not have get self from pot like down in sim big room. Meerm room food better. Yum-yum. Meerm wish she feel better so she like food more.

Meerm lonely sometime in own room. But Meerm not downstair where Needle Lady and Needle Man stick sharp thing in sim, take blood. Take-take-take. And hair face man do very bad hurt thing to Meerm and other sim. But not here Meerm room. No sharp stick here. No one hurt Meerm in own room.

Meerm room top floor. Meerm like look window at sky. Dark now. See light on street down below. Sometime Meerm wish—

“Helloooo, Meerm!”

Meerm turn, see Needle Man come through door. Needle Lady come behind. They ver happy. Needle Man hold big bottle, drink yellow bubble water in glass.

“Your latest test results are in,” Needle Lady say, “and we love you, Meerm!”

“Why love Meerm?”

Needle Man laugh, say, “Because you’re going to make us rich!”

“Yes!” Needle Lady yell. “We’re going toown SimGen!”

“Now, now, Eleanor,” Needle Man say. “Let’s not be greedy. We’ll settle for half!”

They laugh-laugh-laugh.

“Who’d ever think,” Needle Man say, “that two humble globulin farmers would be able to put a company like SimGen up against the wall?”

“We haven’t put it there yet,” Needle Lady say. “I still have to get up the nerve to make the call.”

“And when we do, we’ve got to be careful. We’ll be playing with the big boys, and they’re not going to like what we have to tell them.”

They stop laugh, stop smile. Drink more.

Ooh! Tummy hurt. Meerm want feel better. Why hurt?

14

WESTCHESTER COUNTY, NY

NOVEMBER 13

“I’ve got to tell you,” Patrick said to Romy as they sat in the sim barrack. Anj was going through her now standard routine of draping herself across Patrick’s lap whenever he visited. He’d found it cute before; a warm-fuzzy moment. Now…“After what I saw in that brothel, I’m not as comfortable with this as I used to be.”

“That’s understandable,” she said. “You never viewed them in a sexual context before.”

“I still don’t…can’t.” The memory of the brothel still gave his gut a squeamish twist. “But knowing that other people do…”

She was out from the city again, checking on her investment, as she liked to put it. Night had fallen but she’d hung around. For the past week Patrick had entertained a faint hope that their ordeal in the ravine might forge a bond that would lead to a closer, more intimate relationship. That hope was fading. She seemed warmer toward him, but for the most part Romy remained all business.

“How’s your car?”

“Totaled. Just like my house.” And my love life, he mentally added. Why don’t I just join a monastery and make it official? “Haven’t seen any insurance money on either, but I’m making do.”

“You still haven’t been scared off then?” she said.

“I’m not looking to be a martyr, but no.”

She smiled. “I never took you for the martyr type.”

“You mean there’s a martyr type? Who the hell would want to be a martyr?”

“More than you’d think. In the right setting it can be a form of celebrity.”

“I guess so. Who was it who said that some people climb onto the cross merely to be seen from a greater distance?”

“Camus, I believe.”

Patrick was startled—happily. “You’ve read Camus?”

She shrugged.

Here was a side of Romy he’d never imagined. He wanted to delve deeper but she steered him right back to business.

“Do you see any legal speed bumps ahead?” she asked.

“Not in the immediate future,” he began, then noticed Tome hovering at his shoulder.

“’Scuse, Mist Sulliman, but Anj must eat.” He tugged the sleeve of the young sim’s T-shirt. “Come, Anj. Dinner come.” As he led her toward the tables, Tome turned and said, “You eat too?”

Patrick glanced around. Most of the sims had gone through the line and were chowing down. He eyed the rich dark stew being ladled from the big pot and wasn’t even tempted.

“No, thanks, Tome. I’m, uh, cutting back.”

Romy lowered her voice. “Maybe we should give it a try. Just a taste…to be good guests.”

“It’s made from dining-room leftovers,” he whispered from a corner of his mouth.

“I believe I’ll pass too,” Romy called out, then turned to Patrick. “By the way, are you still living in that motel?”

“Still.”

“Aren’t you cramped?”

“Yes and no. I thought I’d go nuts in a place like that—you know, without all my things. But I’ve found I don’t miss them as much as I thought I would. No house, no furniture, no office, no status car…I should be in a deep depression but oddly enough I’m not. I’ve got this strange, light feeling…unencumbered, I guess you could say. I feel as if I’ve been cut free from weights I didn’t even know were there. That sound weird to you?”

“No,” she said softly, and he thought he detected some warmth in her smile. “Not weird at all.” She seemed to catch herself and looked away in the direction of the sims. “By the way, if we’re not eating here, where do you suggest?”

“How do you feel about Cajun food?”

“Love it. I’ll eat anything blackened—catfish, redfish, potholders, you name it.”

“Great. I know this little place in Mount Kisco…”

They talked about their favorite foods—one of Romy’s was sushi which, despite heroic efforts, Patrick had never developed a taste for. He was beginning to believe that the evening was shaping up to be ripe with promise when a loud groan and a clatter interrupted them.

Patrick turned and saw that one of the caddie sims had knocked his plate off the table and was doubled over, clutching his abdomen. As he watched, a second sim slipped off the bench and slumped to her knees, moaning.

“What the hell’s going on?” Patrick said.

But Romy was already on her feet. “Oh, God!” she cried. “Something’s wrong with the food!” She rushed forward, shouting. “Don’t eat the food! It’s bad!Bad! ”

Too late. Patrick watched helplessly as one sim after another doubled over and crumpled to the floor, writhing in pain.

“What is it?” he said. “Ptomaine?”

She shook her head, her face ashen. “Spoiled food doesn’t act this quickly. They’ve been poisoned, damn it! Somebody’s poisoned their food!”

Patrick pulled out his PCA and punched in 911. “I’ll call an ambulance—lotsof ambulances!”

“To take them where?”

“To the emer—” He stopped. “Shit!”

“Right. No hospital’s going to take them. They’re not human.”

“Then how about a veterinary hospital?”

“Is there one around? And even if there is, how do we get them there? I don’t know of an ambulance service in the world that’ll transport animals.” She pulled out her own PCA. “But I know someone…”

“This organization of yours?”

She glanced at him, then turned away. He thought he heard her say “Zero.”

Patrick had to do something. With frustration mounting to the detonation point he looked around and saw Tome still standing.

“Tome! You didn’t eat?”

The older sim shook his head. “Not chance.”

“Get up to the clubhouse! Fast! Tell them you’ve all been poisoned!”

As Tome ran off, Patrick hurried to the dorm area and began pulling blankets and pillows from the bunks. He couldn’t do anything about whatever toxin had been used to poison them, but at least he could try to make the sims more comfortable.

“Good idea,” Romy said, close by. He looked up and saw her beside him with an armful of blankets. “Help is on the way.”

“Who? How much?”

“I don’t know.”

They hurried back to the eating area where it looked like a bomb had exploded: benches on their sides, tipped tables, spilled trays, and moaning, pain-wracked casualties strewn about the floor. Patrick recognized Nabb, his caddie when he’d played golf here—the last time he’dever play golf here—that fateful September day he became involved with these sims. He lay doubled over on his side, arms folded across his abdomen.

“Here you go, buddy,” he said, slipping a pillow under his head.

“Hurt, Mist Sulliman,” Nabb groaned. “Hurt ver bad.”

He draped a blanket over him. “I know, Nabb. We’re getting help.”

He spotted Deek, another caddie he knew, and tried to make him comfortable.

“Why hurt, Mist Sulliman?” Deek said, looking up at him with watery brown eyes. “Why?”

“Because someone…” A blast of fury forced him to stop and look away. Who? Who would or could do something like this? He found it incomprehensible.

“Sweet Jesus!” someone gasped.

Patrick looked up and saw Holmes Carter and a slim, dapper man he didn’t recognize standing behind Tome in the barrack doorway. The stranger moved into the room, leaving the pudgy Carter alone, looking like a possum frozen in the glare of oncoming headlights.

“Tome wasn’t kidding!” the stranger said to no one in particular. “What happened here?”

“They started getting sick after eating the stew,” Patrick said. “Who are you?”

“Dr. Stokes. I’m an anesthesiologist. And I already know who you are.” He didn’t offer to shake hands; instead he knelt beside one of the sick sims, a female. “This one doesn’t look so hot.”

Tell me something I don’t already know, Patrick wanted to say, but bit his tongue.

“None of them do. Can you help?”

“I’m not a vet.”

Romy’s eyes implored him. “Help them! Please! You treat humans. How much closer to human can you get?”

Dr. Stokes nodded. “Point taken. Let’s see what I can do.”

As the doctor began pressing on the sim’s abdomen, asking her questions, Patrick glanced around and spotted a small, huddled form under one of the tables. With a cold band tightening around his chest, he rushed over—Anj. She lay curled into a tight, shuddering ball.

“Anj?” Patrick crouched beside her and touched her shoulder; her T-shirt was soaked. “Anj, speak to me.”

A whimper was her only reply. Patrick gathered her into his arms—Christ, she was wringing wet—and carried her over to Dr. Stokes. Her face was so pale.

“This one’s just a baby,” he told Stokes. “And she’s real bad.”

Patrick gently lay Anj on the floor between them. Romy was there immediately with a pillow and blanket.

“Diaphoretic,” Stokes said, more to himself than Patrick. He held her wrist a moment. “Pulse is thready.”

“What’s that mean?”

“She’s going into shock.” He turned back to the first sim he’d been examining. “This one too. They’re going to need IVs and pressors. What in God’s name did they eat?”

Before Patrick could answer, he heard the sound of a heavy-duty engine, slamming doors, and Carter saying, “You can’t drive that up here!”

He looked up and saw two grim-faced men, one in a golf shirt, the other in a sport coat, file through the door with some kind of cart rolling between them. They pushed past Carter as if he were a piece of misplaced furniture. Two more strangers, a man and a woman, both in flannel shirts and jeans, followed them.

“You can’t just walk in here!” Carter said. “This is a private club!”

Ignoring him, they pulled stethoscopes and blood pressure cuffs from the cart and fanned out into the room. The woman came over to where Patrick, Romy, and Stokes stood. She looked to be about fifty, her long brown hair streaked with gray and tied back. She nodded to Romy, then without a word she knelt beside Anj and the other sim and began taking blood pressures.

“They’re shocky,” Stokes offered.

The woman looked up. Her face was expressionless, all business, but her eyes looked infinitely sad. “You a doc?”

“Yes, I’m an—”

“We’ve got saline in the cart. If you want to help, you can start drips on these two.”

Stokes nodded and headed for the cart. The stranger moved on.

Patrick turned to Romy. “Who are these people?”

“Doctors.”

“From SimGen?”

She shook her head and bit her upper lip. Romy’s usually steely composure had slipped. She looked rattled, something Patrick never would have thought possible. Maybe it was the helplessness. Patrick felt it too—a need to do something but not knowing what.

“Your people then,” he said. “Your organization. How’d they get here so fast?”

“They’ve been on standby.”

“You mean you expected this?”

“Expected someone might try to hurt them.” Her eyes were black cauldrons. “Excuse me. I need a little air.”

He watched her breeze past Holmes Carter, still standing by the door, sputtering like an over-choked engine. Tome squatted against a far wall, his face buried in his arms. And all around Patrick, the strange, silent doctors, gliding from one sick sim to another.

Feeling useless, he decided he could use a breath of night air himself, but first he had something to say…

He stopped before Carter. “This your doing, Holmesy?”

Carter’s round face reddened, his third chin wobbled. “You son of a bitch! If I was going to poison anyone it would be you, not these dumb animals. They’re just pawns in your game.”

The genuine outrage in Carter’s eyes made Patrick regret his words. He backed off a bit. “Well…somebody poisoned them.”

“If you’re looking to place blame, Sullivan, find a mirror. This never would have happened if you hadn’t started poking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

Stung, Patrick turned away. The truth of Carter’s words hurt and clung to him as he stepped out into the night.

Some sort of oversized commuter van was parked on the grass outside. The doctors had driven it straight across the club’s rear lawn to the barrack door; Patrick could trace the deep furrows under the pitiless glow of the moon peering down from the crystal sky. Up on the rise he spotted a number of Beacon Ridge members standing outside the clubhouse, gawking at the scene. And Romy…where was Romy?

He walked around the barrack and spotted her down the slope by the border privet hedge. But she wasn’t alone. A tall dark figure stood beside her. After a moment, Romy turned and began walking back up the slope; the tall man faded into the shadows of the hedge.

“Who was that?” he asked as she approached.

“No one.”

“But—”

Her face had settled into grim lines. “You didn’t see a thing. Now let’s go back inside and make ourselves useful.”

Patrick was about to comment on what seemed to be a lot of hush-hush, undercover nonsense but bit it back. It wasn’t nonsense at all. Not when poison was part of someone’s game plan.

Romy stopped dead in the doorway and he ran into her back, knocking her forward. He saw immediately why she’d stopped.

Chaos in the barrack. The formerly silent, seemingly imperturbable doctors were in frenzied motion, pumping ventilation bags and thumping sim chests.

“I’ve got another one crashing here!” one called out. He was on his knees next to an unconscious sim. He looked up and saw Romy and Patrick. “You two want to help?”

Patrick tried to speak but could only nod.

“Name it,” Romy said.

“Each of you get an Ambu bag from that cart and bring them over here.”

Romy was already moving. “What’s an Am—?”

“Looks like a small football with a face mask attached,” the doctor said.

Romy opened a deep drawer, removed two of the devices, handed one to Patrick. On their way back, to his right, he noticed Holmes Carter kneeling, using one of the bags to pump air into a sim’s lungs.

Carter…?

To their left, the woman doc waved and called out. “Romy! Over here! Quick!”

Romy peeled off and Patrick kept on course toward the first doc. He stuttered to a stop when he saw the patient.

Anj.

She lay supine on the floor, limp as a rag doll with half its stuffing gone; the front of her bib overalls had been pulled down and her T-shirt slit open, exposing her budding, pink-nippled, lightly furred breasts.

“Don’t just stand there!” the doctor said. He was sweaty, flushed, and looked too young to be a doctor. He had his hands between Anj’s breasts and was pumping on her chest. “Bag her!”

Patrick’s frozen brain tried to make sense of the words as they filtered through air thick as cotton.

“Bag…?” Was she dead?

“Give me that!” The doctor reached across Anj and snatched the Ambu bag from Patrick’s numb fingers. He fitted the mask over Anj’s mouth and nose and squeezed the bag. “There! Do that once for every five times I pump.”

Patrick dropped to his knees and managed to get his hands to work, squeezing the bag every time the doctor shouted, “Now!” and wishing someone would cover her. Every so often the doctor would stop pumping and press his stethoscope to Anj’s chest.

“Shit!” he said after the third time. “Nothing! Keep bagging.” He pawed through what looked like an orange plastic tool box, muttering, “No monitor, no defibrillator, how am I supposed to…here!”

He pulled out a small syringe capped with a three- or four-inch needle. He popped the top, expelled air and a little fluid, then swabbed Anj’s chest with alcohol.

Patrick blinked. “You’re not going to stick that into—”

That was exactly what he did: right between a pair of ribs to the left of her breast bone; he drew back on the plunger until a gush of dark red swirled into the barrel, then emptied the syringe.

The doctor resumed pumping, crying, “One-two-three-four-five-bag!”

They kept up the routine for another minute or so, then the doctor listened to Anj’s chest again.

“Nothing.” He pulled a penlight from the plastic box and flashed it into her eyes. “Fixed and dilated.” He leaned back and wiped his dripping face on his sleeve. “She’s gone.”

“No,” Patrick said.

But Anj’s glazed, staring eyes said it all. Still he resumed squeezing the bag, frantically, spasmodically.

“No use,” the doctor said.

“Try, damn it!” Patrick shouted. “She’s too young! She’s too…” Heran out of words.

“Her brain’s been deprived of oxygen too long. She’s not coming back.”

Patrick dropped the bag and leaned over her. An aching pressure built in his chest. He felt his eyes fill, the tears slip over the lids and drop on Anj’s chest.

A hand closed gently on his shoulder and he heard the young doctor say, “I know how you feel.”

Patrick shrugged off his hand. “No, you don’t.”

“I do, believe me. We couldn’t save her, but we’ve got other sick sims here and maybe we can save some ofthem . Let’s get to work.”

“All right,” Patrick said, unable to buck the doctor’s logic. “Just give me a second.”

As the doctor moved off, Patrick pulled the edges of Anj’s torn T-shirt together. They didn’t quite meet so he pulled up the bib front of her overalls. Then he pushed her eyelids closed and stared at her.

How could he feel such a sense of loss for something that wasn’t even human? This wasn’t like puddling up at the end ofOld Yeller . This wasreal .

He pulled off his suit coat and draped it over the upper half of her body. He hovered by her side a moment longer; then, feeling like a terminally arthritic hundred-year-old man, he pushed himself to his feet and moved on.

The next half hour became a staggering blur, moving from one prostrate form to another, losing sim after sim, and pressing on, until…finally…it was over.

Spent, Patrick leaned against a wall, counting. He felt as if he’d been dragged behind a truck over miles of bad road. He’d cried tonight. When was the last time he’d cried? Romy sagged against him, sobbing. He counted twice, three times, but the number kept coming up the same: nineteen still, sheet-covered forms strewn about the floor.

The woman doctor they’d met earlier drifted by; he flagged her down.

“How many did you save?” he said.

She brushed a damp ringlet away from her flushed face. “Six—just barely. We’ve moved them into the sleep area. They’ll make it, but it’ll be weeks before they’re back to normal. Counting the older sim who didn’t eat, that leaves seven survivors.”

“The bastards!” Romy gritted through her teeth. “The lousy fucking bastards!” She pushed away from him and began pounding the wall with her fist, repeating, “Bastards!” over and over through her clenched teeth.

She dented the plasterboard, punched through, then started on another spot.

Patrick grabbed her wrist. “Romy! You’re going to hurt yourself!”

She turned on him with blazing eyes; she seemed like another person and for an instant he thought she was going to take a swing at him. Then she wrenched her arm free and stalked toward the door.

Though physically and emotionally drained, Patrick forced himself to start after her. But when he spotted Tome crouched in a corner, his head cradled in his arms, he changed course and squatted next to him.

“I’m sorry, Tome,” he said, feeling the words catch in his throat. “I’m so sorry.”

Tome looked up at him with reddened eyes; tears streaked his cheeks. “Sim family gone, Mist Sulliman. All gone.”

“Not all, Tome. Deek survived, so did some others.”

But Tome was shaking his head. “Too many dead sim. Family gone. All Tome fault.”

“No-no-no,” Patrick said, putting a hand on his shoulder. “You can’t lay that on yourself. If anybody’s to blame here—besides the son of a bitch who poisoned the food—it’s me.”

Tome kept shaking his head. “No. Tome know. Tome ask Mist Sulliman. If Tome nev ask, Mist Sulliman nev do.”

“That doesn’t make you responsible for…this. You wanted something better for your family, Tome, and we’re not going to let this stop us. I swear—”

“No, Mist Sulliman.” He struggled to his feet. “We stop. Family gone. No law bring back. We stop. Other sim die if no stop.”

“You can’t mean that!” Patrick said, stunned. “That’ll mean that Anj and Nabb and all the others died for nothing!”

Tome turned and slid away. “No union, Mist Sulliman. Tome too tired. Tome too sad.”

“Then they win! Is that what you want?”

“Tome want sim live,” he said without looking back. “That all Tome want now.”

Patrick fought the urge to grab the old sim and shake some sense into him. They couldn’t quit now—public opinion would rush to their side after this atrocity. He took a step after him, but the utter defeat in the slump of those narrow shoulders stopped him.

He remembered the night they met, when Tome explained what he and the other sims wanted:Family…and one thing other…respect, Mist Sulliman. Just little respect.

And now your family’s been murdered, Patrick thought. And the only respect you’ve gained is mine. And what’s that worth?

Flickering light to his left caught his eye. He saw Reverend Eckert’s face on the TV screen in the corner. The voice was muted but Patrick knew the bastard could only be spewing more of his anti-sim venom. With a low cry of rage he stalked across the room, picked up an overturned bench, and raised it above his head. But before he could smash the set, a hand grabbed his arm.

“Please don’t do that,” said a voice.

He turned and found Holmes Carter standing behind him. On any other day he would have teed off on the man, but Carter had surprised the hell out of him tonight—worked as hard as anyone to save the sims. And he looked it: His sport coat was gone and his wrinkled shirt lay partially unbuttoned, exposing a swath of his bulging belly. Right now he looked shellshocked.

Patrick knew exactly how he felt.

“Why the hell not?”

“What will the survivors watch?”

Damn him, he was right.

Patrick lowered the bench and extended his hand. “I want to thank you, Holmes. I take back anything I’ve ever said to offend you.”

“Sure.” Carter gave the hand a listless, distracted shake and looked around. “Gone,” he said dazedly. “Just like that, three-quarters of our sims…gone. Nabb…he used to be my favorite caddie, and now he’s dead. Why?” He looked at Patrick with tear-filled eyes. “What kind of sick person would do this? What kind of a world have we created?”

“Wish I knew, Holmes. It gets stranger and stranger.”

Carter sighed. “I realized something tonight. These sims…they’re…they were…part of Beacon Ridge. We knew them. We liked them. I’m going to tell the board to grant collective bargaining rights, and I’m going to insist that the survivors remain together as long as they want.”

Patrick opened his mouth to speak but found himself, for possibly the first time in his adult life, at a loss for words.

Carter smiled wanly. “What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?” He gave his head a single sad shake. “Wasn’t that part of the exchange that set this whole mess in motion?”

Patrick nodded, remembering their little confrontation in the club men’s room. “Yes…yes, I believe it was. This is good of you, Holmes.”

“I just wish I’d done it yesterday.”

Without another word Carter turned and wove his way through the dead sims toward the door.

We’ve won, Patrick thought—a reflex. The thought died aborning. He looked around at the sheeted forms and knew that if this was winning, he’d much rather have lost.

He heard an engine rumble to life outside. He looked around and realized that the mysterious doctors had disappeared. He hurried to the door in time to see the truck roll away across the grass toward the road.

Romy stood there, leaning against the barrack wall. He approached her cautiously. She seemed to have spent her rage, so he filled her in on the latest developments.

“Tome’s decision doesn’t surprise me,” she said in a low, hoarse voice. “Sims aren’t fighters. But after what you’d told me about the club president…”

“Yeah. I guess I had him wrong. People never cease to surprise me, for good or for ill. Like these phantom doctors of yours. Where did they come from, where did they go? They pop out of nowhere with no explanation, and then they’re gone.”

“I told you—” Romy began.

“I don’t want to hear about some nameless ‘organization’ again. How about some specifics? Who’s behind you? And who killed those two guys when we were run off the road the other night? I want answers, Romy.”

Her expression was tight. “Do you? Well then maybe you’re in for one more surprise tonight.”

“I don’t think I can handle another.” He noticed a strange look in her eyes, wary yet flirting with anticipation. “But I’ll bite. What?”

“Someone wants to meet you.”

15

Romy drove. A mostly silent ride during which she replied to his questions with terse monosyllables. He sensed an inner struggle but hadn’t a clue as to what it might be about. In his brain-fragged state, Patrick didn’t have the strength or the will to probe.

She stopped at a small cabin on the edge of Rye Lake. Patrick stepped from her rented car and looked around.

The surrounding woods lay dark and silent; the cabin was an angular blotch of shadow with no sign of habitation; on its far side a dock jutted into the lake where tendrils of mist rose into the chill air from the glassy moonlit water.

“Doesn’t look like anyone’s home,” he said.

Romy was moving toward the cabin. “Look again. And use your nose.”

Patrick sniffed the air. A wood fire somewhere. And now he saw a thin stream of smoke drifting from the cabin’s chimney. Okay, so someone was inside. But who? Along the way Romy had told him that he’d find out when they got there. Just what she’d told him when she’d led him to the sim whorehouse. This time would be different. He wasn’t going through that door until—

But Romy wasn’t waiting for him. She was already halfway to the house.

He hurried to catch up to her. “This cloak and dagger stuff is getting to me.”

“Relax. You may find a cloak here, but no dagger.” Without warning she leaned forward and kissed him—too briefly—on the lips. “Thanks.”

“What for?”

“For hanging in there tonight. For caring.”

Patrick touched his mouth where the warmth of Romy’s lips lingered. He wanted more, but she’d already opened the door and pushed through. He followed her into the dark interior, lit only by the glow from the fireplace.

“Over here, Romy,” said a deep voice near the fire. Patrick could make out a dark form seated in a high-backed chair, positioned so that the light came from behind him. The figure leaned forward and extended a hand. With a start Patrick realized he was masked. “Welcome, Mr. Sullivan.”

Hesitantly Patrick stepped forward and shook the hand, surprised to find it was gloved. “And you are…?”

“My name is Zero.”

And that stands for what? Patrick thought. IQ? Personality rating? But he said, “Interesting name.”

“Forgive the melodramatic trappings,” Zero said, “but we take security very seriously.”

Melodramatic barely touches this, Patrick thought. I’m standing in the dark talking to a masked man.

But it was right in tune with the nightmarish unreality of the past few hours.

“Just who might ‘we’ be?”

“A loose-knit organization I’ve put together.”

“An organization…what’s it called?”

“I’ve resisted naming it. Once a group gives itself a name, it tends to take on a life of its own; the group can become an end in itself, rather than simply a means.”

“What end are we talking about here?”

“In a nutshell: to protect existing sims from exploitation and stop SimGen or anyone else from producing more.”

“Tall order.”

“We know.”

“How many members?”

“Many.”

“Like those doctors who showed up tonight?”

“Yes. Volunteers. They were on standby in case of disaster.”

“Which we had—in spades.”

“Yes. Mistakenly I had expected more direct violence, a bomb or the like. I had the barrack under guard.” Zero’s voice thickened. “I never thought to guard the kitchen.”

Romy said, “So it was one of the help?” The flickering firelight accentuated her high cheekbones, glittered in her eyes. Even in the dark she was beautiful.

“I doubt it. That sample of stew you brought me was laced with a very sophisticated synthetic toxin we’ve been unable to identify. This was not the work of a jealous kitchen hand or a union goon. Whoever did this has considerable resources.”

“SimGen,” Patrick said.

“Not impossible, but out of character. SimGen has always protected its sims.”

“But have its sims ever posed a threat before?”

Romy spoke. “That’s a point, but we’re coming to believe that SimGen is not quite the free-standing entity it presents to the public. That it’s not pulling all its own strings. This may be the work of another shadow organization within SimGen or linked to it.”

Uh-oh, Patrick thought, sniffing paranoia. What next? New World Order conspiracy? Trilateral commission? Illuminati?

Only Romy’s presence kept him from backing away. He couldn’t think of anyone more firmly grounded in reality. And he couldn’t deny the reality of the poisoned Beacon Ridge sims.

“But why kill those sims?”

“Because what threatens SimGen,” Zero said, “threatens the shadow group. And in this case, the sims were the logical target: Lawyers are replaceable, plaintiffs are not.”

“Thanks a lot,” Patrick said, but knew it was too true. “Any idea who they are?”

“No, but we’ve got the start of a trail, and we’re following it. That’s why I’ve asked you here tonight, Mr. Sullivan. We’d like your help.”

“You want to hire me?”

“Not exactly. You’d be an unpaid consultant, a volunteer like Ms. Cadman.”

“I don’t work for free.”

“Even for people who saved your life?” Romy said.

She had him there. “Glad you brought that up: Just whodid save my life?”

Zero said, “Join us and you’ll know…eventually.”

“You need me in the legal field?”

“There, and wherever else your unique brand of ingenuity can be of service.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere.”

“And who knows?” Zero said. “We may be able to position you for another crack at SimGen’s deep pockets.”

“Now you’re talking.”

“I thought that might sell you,” Romy said.

“I’m not sold yet. You’ve been calling the shots for Romy, I assume.”

Zero inclined his head. “I merely suggest…she is always free to decline, just as you will be.”

“But who’s calling the shots for you?”

“No one.”

“You could be just telling me that.”

“I could. But I’m not.”

“So you’re funding this operation?”

He shook his head. “I raise money in various ways…donations from a number of sources.”

“I must have missed the last annualFree the Sims telethon.”

No one laughed. Tough crowd, Patrick thought. But then, after what had happened tonight, what did he expect?

“Your point?” Zero said.

“Money tends to come with strings.”

“True. And these donations come with one string, and only one: Stop SimGen.”

“What about freeing the sims?”

“That will be the fallout, but first we shut down the pipeline. Once we cut off the flow of new sims, we can deal with the problem of what to do with those who already exist.”

“These donors…who are they—specifically? I like to know who’s footing the bill.”

“I will partially answer that when you join us, with the proviso that you never breathe a word of what you learn. But I must warn you not to accept my invitation lightly. The deeper you delve into this morass, the more you’ll see that nothing connected with it is what it appears to be. And there’s danger. You’ve witnessed firsthand on more than one occasion the ruthlessness of the other side. We’re in a war, Mr. Sullivan, and any one of us could become a casualty.”

Patrick swallowed. Where had his saliva gone? But if Romy was in this and willing to take the risks, how could he stand here next to her and back out? What kind of a man would that make him?

Perhaps a man who’d live to a ripe old age.

“What about if I decide I don’t like what you’re up to? If I want to walk, I want be able to do so with no strings.”

“Of course. As long as you understand that you’re not walking away from the confidentiality agreement.”

Hoping he wouldn’t regret this, he managed a shrug and a nod that conveyed a lot more bravado that he felt.

“Fair enough. I’ll give it a try. Do I have to sign in blood?”

Zero shook his head. “Your word is enough.”

He raised his hand and a TV flickered to life on the far side of the room. Diagonal lines danced across the screen, then the Reverend Eckert’s face appeared.

“Jerk!” Patrick said.

“Give him a listen.”

Eckert’s face looked grave, anguished. His voice was at least an octave lower than his usual ranting tone.

“My friends…I have just heard that a number of sims—nineteen of them, I’m told—have been killed. Poisoned. These were the sims who were trying to unionize. This is very disturbing. More than disturbing, it’s a terrible, terrible thing, and I hope, I pray to the Good Lord that no one in my flock is responsible. Because if one of you is, then I must shoulder some of the blame. It might have been my words that drove one of you to this terrible deed. If so, then I have been misunderstood. Terribly misunderstood.

“So hear me now, friends, and hear me well.

“I wish no harm to any sim. I have never, ever preached violence against

them. I have said they were created by evil, Satan-inspired science, and I know that to be true, but I have never said the sims themselves were evil. They are not. They are the innocent products of unnatural science who should be allowed to live out their lives in peace.

“Violence toward sims is not the way. If you kill sims, you only give SinGen the excuse to produce more. We want SinGen tostopproducing sims. We must use the law—the law,my friends—to cut off the supply at its source by piercing the beating evil heart of the problem. And that heart is the devil corporation that subverts the Laws of Creation by fashioning creatures that are not part of God’s design.

“Please. I beg of you: Do not harm sims. That is not the answer—it is, in fact, counterproductive. Spreading the word, boycotting businesses that lease sims, endlessly harassing SinGen in court until it finally surrenders. That is the way, my friends. The only way.

“And to continue fighting that battle, I need your support…”

The screen went blank.

“His standard request for contributions follows,” Zero said.

“When did he broadcast that?” Patrick said.

“He hasn’t. He rushed it into production and it’s going out to replace his previously scheduled message.”

“How’d you get it?”

“The Reverend Eckert is part of the organization. One of its major contributors, in fact.”

For the second time tonight Patrick found himself speechless.

Romy smiled, her first in too many hours. The pearly enamel within her smile caught the light, giving her a Cheshire Cat look.

“If only you could see your face! Oh, God, I wish I had a camera!”

16

SUSSEX COUNTY, NJ

NOVEMBER 14

As soon as Luca stepped into the room, the usually listless Sinclair-2 rose from his seat and came toward him. He looked like he’d slept in his clothes; his face flushed as he started shouting.

“It was you, wasn’t it! You killed those sims! You monster! Youmonster !”

“Calm down, Ellis,” Abel Voss said, putting an arm around the man’s shoulders. “You can’t go makin wild accusations like that.”

“I can!” Sinclair-2 cried. “I know this man’s methods. And if he didn’t do it himself, he sent one of his hired thugs!”

No, Luca thought. I did it myself. A one-man op. That’s what you have to do sometimes if you want to be sure a job gets done right.

It had taken Luca about a week after the Saw Mill River Parkway debacle to put all the pieces in place. Two nights ago he’d made his move.

But the op developed an early hitch: a tail. If he hadn’t been looking for one, he never would have spotted it. But he’d been prepared.

He’d driven into midtown Manhattan and valet-parked his car at the New York Hilton, then zipped through the lobby and out a side exit where he hailed a cab that took him to a second car that had been left for him in a lot near the theater district. He’d driven out of town immediately, directly to Westchester where he’d parked a good mile from the Beacon Ridge Country Club. He’d walked the rest of the way, ducking into the shadows whenever a car approached. When he reached the club, he’d huddled in the hedges until the sims were all in their barrack and the last human had left.

Or so he’d thought. That was when he’d almost got caught. He’d been about to step out of the bushes when he spotted two dark figures gliding between the shadows near the barrack. As he’d watched, they separated, one swiftly climbing a tree, the other disappearing into the bushes.

Someone had the sim quarters under guard. Sullivan? Cadman? No matter. That hadn’t been Luca’s destination. He was headed for the sprawling structure on the crest of the hill, the club’s main building.

Soon he’d reached his destination: the kitchen. Once he’d located the cooking pot labeledSIMS he removed a vial of clear odorless liquid from his breast pocket. A brand new compound sent down through Lister from SIRG; so new it didn’t have a name yet, only a number: J7683452.

He’d emptied the vial into the big pot and begun swirling the liquid around, coating the sides and bottom. When it dried, it was invisible. The only thing that could have gone wrong was somebody washing out the pot. But it had been hung up clean, so that was unlikely.

Amazing stuff, J7683452. He could have stuck his head into that pot, licked its insides clean, and he’d be fine. Perfectly harmless in that state. But heat it to a hundred-and-sixty degrees or more and…

Bon appétit.

As for here and now, he didn’t owe the Sinclair brothers an explanation. And they didn’t deserve one.

“Admit it, Portero! You murdered those nineteen sims!”

“Murdered?” he said with a calculatedly derisive snort—few things gave him more pleasure than getting under these twits’ skins. “They’re animals. They can be killed, they can be slaughtered, they can be sacrificed to the gods, but they can’t be murdered.”

With a hoarse roar Sinclair-2 launched himself at Luca, only to be hauled back by the heavier, stronger Voss.

“You don’t want to be doin that, son,” Voss said. “Trust me, you don’t.”

“Ellis, for God’s sake control yourself!” Sinclair-1 said.

“Listen to them,” Luca said softly.

He hadn’t moved a muscle. He’d take no pleasure in hurting Sinclair-2—it would be like fighting a woman—but he could not allow another man to lay a hand on him.

Sinclair-2 struggled a moment, then pulled free and returned to his usual spot on the sofa where he dropped his face into his hands.

What gives with that guy? Luca wondered. How can he be such a wimp?

“Did you?” Sinclair-1 said, staring at him. “Were you responsible for poisoning those sims?”

“Does it matter?” Luca said.

No one answered.

Just as I thought. They don’twant to know.

“Just tell me one thing,” Voss said. “And think very carefully on your answer: Will the perpetrator or perpetrators ever be found?”

“My guess?” Luca shook his head. “Never. But whoever they were, they did us a favor. The Beacon Ridge club has surrendered. They’re giving the sims what they want.”

“Since when?” Voss said. “I ain’t heard nothin about this.”

“That’s because they haven’t made the announcement yet.”

“If that’s true,” the attorney said, his eyes widening, “it takes the matter out of the court’s hands.”

“No precedent,” Sinclair-1 whispered.

Luca watched cautious optimism grow in their eyes. He’d be sharing in that good feeling if not for a call he’d received this morning. Nothing more than a hoax, he hoped—prayed. Or maybe a wild fantasy cooked up by some drugged-out waste of protoplasm. He’d fed it to Lister who’d pass it up the SIRG ladder, but he’d keep it from the Sinclairs for now. He suspected a leak somewhere, and if he was right, the less said here, the better.

But he dearly wished he could lay it on these two. The mere mention now of what the woman on the phone had told him would snuff out the relief warming Sinclair-1 and Voss as if it had never been.

Because if this woman had been telling the truth about a sim named Meerm, it made the threat they’d just overcome seem like a pebble in a mountain gorge.

1

THE BRONX

NOVEMBER 30

Poor Meerm. Poor, poor Meerm. She ver sick sim. Meerm nev sick before. Not like be sick. Food come up sometime. And tummy hurt. Hurt-hurt-hurt. Bad tummy hurt all time.

Meerm stand window, look out through metal bar. Wish she be outside sometime. Not now. Cold out now. Still—

What that? Loud noise from downstair. Again! Loud noise again.Crack! Like giant plate break. Meerm go door, open just little and listen. Hear loud scare word by Needle Lady and Needle Man, hear new man voice shout more loud, hear sim voice, many voice cryee-ee-ee! Ver fraid, other sim.

Meerm hear new man voice shout, “Where is she?” and hear ver fraid Needle Lady say, “Upstairs! We moved her upstairs!”

Meerm ver fraid. Make belly hurt badder. Hear many loud feet come stair. Meerm want close sick room door but no good. Across hall see ladder up wall. Ladder up to little door. Meerm sure locked—all door here locked—but Meerm try. Must try. Too fraid stay sick room.

Meerm jump cross hall, climb ladder, push little door. Move! Door move! Meerm so happy. Climb up roof. Cold-cold-cold. Close little door. Meerm listen. Hear new man voice shout. Ver, ver mad. Hear foot on ladder. Come roof! What Meerm do? Where go?

There. Metal hole. Meerm can fit? Run and crawl in. Squeeze ver hard. Sink inside just as mans come roof. Meerm close eye, not breathe as mans run all round roof. Man look in metal hole but not see Meerm.

Mans ver mad as leave roof. Meerm safe but still not move. Wait. Meerm will wait long long time. Wait until—

What smell? Smoke! Smoke and hot come up vent. Meerm get out and stand on roof. Tar hot on foot. Smoke all round. Meerm ver ver scare. Run round roof, see fire evwhere. Look down. Flame all round, come out bar on all window. Meerm not want die. But roof ver hot. Tar melt under Meerm foot. What Meerm do?

Meerm scream. No one hear. No one near.

2

MANHATTAN

DECEMBER 1

Patrick stood at his hotel window and gazed down at the top of Madison Square Garden and the giant Christmas snowman atop its entrance. The unrisen sun was just beginning to lighten the low clouds lidding the city. In a few hours the streets below would be packed with the weekly Saturday horde of Christmas shoppers.

Patrick had been awake for hours. This had become a pattern every night since the poisoning of the sims. Fall asleep easily—with the help of a couple of stiff Scotches—and then find himself wide awake at 3:00A .M. or so with his mind sifting through the litterbox his life had become.

All because of an argument in a country club men’s room. What if he hadn’t chosen that moment to go to the bathroom? What if he’d waited until after that second drink? Holmes Carter would have been long gone, and without Carter’s bad attitude, Patrick would have laughed off Tome’s request to unionize the club sims. If he’d done that, where would he be now?

For one thing, he’d still have a law practice; he missed Maggie, even missed some of his clients. He’d also have a house instead of a fire-blackened foundation. And he might still have Pamela, although he wondered if that would be such a good thing. From his present perspective he could see that their relationship had been one more of mutual convenience than rooted in any deep regard.

He probably wouldn’t have spent Thanksgiving alone, either. Ever since his folks retired to South Carolina, they’d always called and insisted he come down for Thanksgiving. Not this year. That was Dad’s doing, Patrick was sure.

He’d known Dad had been upset with the whole idea of a sim union—he’d made that perfectly clear over the phone on more than one occasion—but Patrick hadn’t realized just how much until Thanksgiving came and went without an invitation.

That had hurt. Even now, more than a week later, the wound still ached.

So here he was: jobless, homeless, alone, and functionally orphaned. And aligned with a masked mystery man who’d invited him to join a nameless fifth column movement to bring down one of the world’s most powerful multinational corporations.

“And I said yes,” he whispered, still not believing it.

This is not me, he kept telling himself. This is somebody else. All I wanted out of life was stability and a good living. That was why I went into law. I am not a risk taker. I am not an adrenaline junkie. How did I come to this? And how do I get out of it?

Easy. Just say no. Pack up and walk away.

And do what? Labor relations? After what he’d been through, could he go back to sitting at a table and listening to union and management argue over the length of coffee breaks or who qualified for daycare? Not likely.

And then there was Romy. Walking away from Zero meant walking away from her.

So for the foreseeable future he’d stick this out and see where it took him.

Hopefully it would soon take him out of this hotel. Zero had suggested he relocate himself and his practice to Manhattan. Romy had laughed off Patrick’s suggestion that he move in with her while he hunted for an office and an apartment. So for the time being, home was a room in the Hotel Pennsylvania. Finding space—whether living or office—wasn’t easy. The new boom had sent prices in Manhattan up to where the new space station was nearing completion.

The jangle of the phone startled him. He stepped through the dark room to the night table, found the phone, and fumbled the receiver to his ear.

Romy’s voice: “Am I interrupting something?”

“Only my daily predawn reverie.”

She gave him an address. “If you haven’t anything better to do, meet me there ASAP. I’ll wait for you.”

Patrick sensed strain in her voice, but before he could ask for any details she hung up.

Dutifully he pulled on yesterday’s clothes, grabbed a large container of coffee on his way through the lobby, and ventured into the early morning chill of Seventh Avenue in search of a taxi.

The driver shot him a look when he read off the address. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure,” Patrick told him after double-checking.

The driver shrugged—reluctantly, Patrick thought—and gunned the cab into the traffic.

Patrick considered that look and thought, Romy, Romy, what are you getting me into now?

3

THE BRONX

All too soon Patrick understood the driver’s reaction. The address was in the fabled borough of the Bronx. Not the nice Botanical Gardens Bronx, but the bad Bronx, theBonfire of the Vanities /“Fort Apache” Bronx. This particular section embodied most people’s worst expectations: a wasteland of scattered buildings, some occupied, some abandoned, all battered, interspersed with vacant, garbage-strewn lots.

“Christ, what happened here?” Patrick muttered as he stepped out of the cab.

As soon as he closed the door behind him, his taxi chirped its tires and zoomed away. Patrick couldn’t blame him. At least there were lots of cops around. No need to ask why they were here: The charred, smoking ruin of what must have been a cousin to the neighboring derelict buildings was the obvious center of attention. No fire trucks in sight now, but a couple of red SUVs bearing fire department logos stood out among the cluster of blue-and-white units blocking the street.

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.

“Mr. Portero,” Romy said in a deep-freeze voice. “What a surprise.”

“I don’t see why it should be. Sims were reported on the scene, and SimGen has a vital interest in the welfare of all sims.”

“Sure it does,” Romy said, drawing out the first word. “But to send its chief of security?”

“‘Free the sims’ is not a phrase SimGen takes lightly, especially when it involves murder. I decided to look into this myself.”

“You should introduce yourself to that sergeant over there,” Romy said. “His name’s Yarger and he’s anxious for all the help he can get.”

“I’m sure he is.” Portero jerked a thumb toward the smoking ruin. “What do you think? Globulin farm?”

“That’s my guess.”

Patrick remembered now. “That’s where they infect sims with viruses and such and then drain off and sell their immune globulins, right?”

The man turned his glittering stare on Patrick. “And you are…?

“This is a friend,” Romy said. “Patrick Sullivan. Patrick, meet Mr. Portero, security chief at SimGen.”

“Oh, yes,” Portero said. “I believe I’ve heard of you. Some sort of lawyer, right?”

Patrick noticed that Portero had clasped his hands behind his back as he spoke. A handshake seemed out of the question.

“Some sort, yes,” Patrick said. “But about this globulin farm…?”

“A small operation from what I can gather,” Portero said.

Patrick glanced at the blackened ruins. “Not any kind of operation now.”

“Thanks to this so-called SLA,” Portero said. He stared at Romy. “Ever hear of them, Romy?”

Patrick felt his insides clench at the sound of her first name on Portero’s lizard lips, but said nothing.

Romy regarded him coolly. “Not till this morning.”

“I don’t understand their methods,” Portero said, rubbing his jaw as he looked around. “I can see them making off with the sims, to free them later. But why fire the building? What if they’d missed a few sims in their raid? They’d have been cooked just like that corpse.” He turned to Romy. “Did your sergeant friend mention finding any sim bodies?”

“No, thank God.”

“Yes…Thank God.” Portero’s eyes became distant; he seemed to recede for a moment, then gathered himself. “But why did these terrorists make off with the humans as well?”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Romy said.

Portero smiled as he shook his head. “Oh, I doubt that, Romy. I doubt that very much.”

And then he swaggered away.

“Something about this has got him worried,” Romy said. “He’s putting on a good show, but something’s bothering him.”

“Is that why he never blinks?”

“He doesn’t have to; he has nictitating membranes.”

“That figures. And his tiny reptile heart is set on you.”

Romy’s lips twisted. “Yeah, I know.”

“But I’m taller.”

She smiled for the first time since he’d arrived. “You know, sometimes I’m glad you’re around.”

“Only sometimes?”

She hooked her arm through his and started walking. “Let’s go grab some breakfast and wait for Zero to get back to me.”

“Excellent idea, but in a better neighborhood, if you please.”

As they moved away he glanced back at Portero, intending to give him a look-what-I’ve-got wink, but thought better of it when he saw the fierce look in those icy dark eyes.

4

MANHATTAN

They were just finishing a leisurely breakfast at an East Seventies café when Romy’s PCA went off. She checked the readout:

GARAGE 10AMØ

She was glad for the change from the Worth Street basement. Use one place too often and eventually the wrong person was going to make the right connection. She and Patrick hopped a cab to the West Side.

“I don’t see a garage,” Patrick said as they stepped out onto Ninth Avenue in the Thirties.

He noticed the sidewalks were busy here, but nowhere near as crowded as the midtown madhouse a few blocks east.

“It’s down the street, closer to Tenth. But let’s stand here awhile. Just to be sure no one followed us.”

The sun had poked through the clouds but did little to moderate the chill wind whistling off the Hudson.

“Do you ever ask yourself if you’re crazy?” Patrick said, looking around as if expecting to see trench-coated men lurking in doorways.

“All the time.”

“Good. That’s a healthy sign. Because I think we’re both crazy.”

“I think I know where this is going.”

“Do you? Great. Then maybe you can tell me why we’re at the beck and call of this guy. Who is he? What’s driving him? Why’s he doing this? What’s in it for him?”

“I can’t answer all your questions,” she told Patrick, “but I can tell you why he’s doing it: to stop the slave trade of sentient beings.”

“But what’s in it for him?”

“Cessation of the slave trade of sentient beings.”

“Bull. Idealistic crap.”

The words stung Romy. “You don’t believe people can be motivated by ideals?”

“Foot soldiers can be, and they often are. But not the generals, not the guys running the war. They’ve got something else driving them, whether it’s a better place in history or a spot closer to their god or riches or fame or glory or power or revenge or guilt; there’s always something in it for them.”

“What about Gandhi? Schindler? Father Damien? Mother Teresa?”

He shrugged. “Everyone in the world knows their names. Maybe that’s what they were after.”

“I’m glad I’m not you,” she said. “What an awful way to view life.”

“Maybe I’ve seen too many so-called idealists caught with their hands in the till.”

“A corrupt individual doesn’t corrupt the ideal.”

“No argument there, and I didn’t bring this up to start one. But look at the situation. Here’s a guy who has to have spent a fortune setting up this nameless organization to stop SimGen, and then he hides his identity from everyone who works for him. I can see him not trusting me, but what about you? You say you’ve worked with him for years. He’s got to know you’re in this for the long run. Why doesn’t he let you see his face?”

“How do you know he hasn’t?” she shot back.

Patrick’s eyebrows jumped. “Has he?”

“No.”

“See what I mean?”

“Maybe he’s someone we’d recognize.”

“Yeah, there’s a thought. You know…he seems to be built a lot like David Letterman.”

Romy wasn’t going to dignify that with a response.

“Let’s walk,” she said, satisfied that no one was on their tail.

“Seriously, though, I’d feel a lot better about this Zero guy if I knew what makes his motor run.” Patrick seemed to be in summation mode as they headed toward Tenth Avenue, walking sideways, the wind ruffling his blond hair as he gestured with his hands. “If it’s because a SimGen truck ran over his mother when he was a kid, fine. Or if he’s got huge short positions on SimGen stock, fine. Or even if it’s because of something crazy like Mercer Sinclair stole his girlfriend in seventh grade, okay too. I just want to know so I can have a handle on how much he’ll risk to get what he wants. Because so far we’re the ones in the line of fire, not him. He wasn’t in my car when it was run off the Saw Mill. He wasn’t at Beacon Ridge when the sims offered to share their poisoned food with us.”

Romy hated to admit it, but Patrick was making sense. She’d been taken with Zero from their first meeting. She’d sensed the fire burning beneath all his layers of disguise, and had been warmed by its heat. But what fueled that fire? It was a question she’d never asked. She’d assumed it burned the same as her own, an all-consuming desire to right a wrong. Was that foolish? Perhaps. But she had to go with what she felt.

“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.

The most open-and-shut scenario—he’d called itres ipso loquitor —was to arrange for Romy to be “injured” by a tenant-installed fixture. After some reconnoitering, the fluorescent box in the ceiling over the reception area had received the nod.

Romy was supposed to pull the string and let it crash to the floor, then stagger out and collapse in the hall, pretending it had landed on her.

Pretend…she’d never been good at pretending. How was she supposed to slump to the floor out there and moan and groan about being hurt and have anyone buy it? And the Manassas people, when they heard about it they’d know that what had happened here was all a sham, a set-up designed to drag them into the legal system and expose their corporate innards. They’d respond with lawyers using every possible legal ploy to keep their secrets.

They’ll play hide, we’ll play seek. A game.

But this was no game to her. Romy was serious. She’d show them just how serious.

Acting quickly, before the dental assistant could unlock her office across the hall, Romy stepped under the fixture and yanked on the line.

Her cry of pain was real.

7

Patrick sat in the driver seat of Zero’s van, idly watching the little office building. He’d parked across the street in a church parking lot—Our Lady of Something-or-other—and left the engine idling to run the heater, but he was keeping his window open to let out the pungent odor that seemed to be ingrained into the van’s metal frame. The driver seat felt like little more than a sheet of newspaper spread over a collection of rusty springs.

But the sharp jabs against his butt were inconsequential compared to the discomfort of sharing the van with the shadowy form seated behind him. Here was a perfect opportunity to probe Zero, maybe get a line on what made this bird tick, but Patrick found himself tongue-tied.

What do you say to a masked man?

Had to give it a shot: “Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?”

Zero’s deep voice echoed from the dark recess at the rear of the van. “Depends.”

“Why do you call yourself ‘Zero’?”

“That is my name.”

Ooookay. Try another tack. “How about them Mets?” That was usually a foolproof conversation opener, especially out here on the Island, even in the off-season. “What do you think of that last round of trades?”

“I don’t follow sports.”

Okay, strike that. Maybe if we concentrate more on the moment…

“You have any idea what this van was used for before you got it?”

“It was a delivery truck run by a Korean Christian group in Yonkers.”

“Smells like they spilled a gallon of roast puppy stew on the way to the annual church potluck dinner.”

Patrick heard a soft chuckle. “I can think of worse things to spill.”

Hey, he laughs!

“You mean, be grateful for small favors, right?”

“Small and large. I’m grateful the Reverend Eckert has finally been able to purchase space on a satellite.”

“That means he’ll be beaming his anti-SimGen sermons direct.”

“Right. No more worries about SimGen influencing the syndicate that distributes his show to local stations. Not only can he beam his shows to the syndicate, but he’s now got direct access to anyone with a satellite dish.”

“Nice. A big jump in audience.”