But she couldn’t let on how she felt. Zero had warned her about that: Never let them know, or your status in OPRR could be compromised.
She let out the breath she’d been holding. “That means every twenty months or so—”
“Yes, that’s the cycle. A hearty breeder can go through ten to twelve cycles before she’s retired.”
“Or just plain tired.”
What an existence, Romy thought as she looked around at the lethargic breeders. Most sims in her experience tended to be full of life and energy. These seemed barely able to move. And suddenly she knew why.
“They’re depressed,” Romy said.
Twerlinger arched her thin eyebrows. “I wasn’t aware you had training in sim psychology.”
No, but I know depression, lady—firsthand and big time.
“Don’t need any to realize it’s an unavoidable emotional fallout from being repeatedly separated from their children.”
“Ridiculous.”
“Chimps, orangutans, gorillas—all mourn the loss of a child. Why should sims be any different? In fact they’d bemore likely to mourn.”
Twerlinger sniffed. “Do animal emotional states fall under OPRR’s aegis?”
They didn’t. They both knew that.
Disappointed, Romy followed Twerlinger back to her office. She hadn’t found a thing. Maybe the full-team inspection would come up with something, but she’d struck out.
She found Portero waiting for her.
“Finished here?” he said.
“For now. Research next.”
His smile tried to look sympathetic as he shook his head. “As I told you, research is scheduled for this afternoon. The dormitories and training centers are next on the list.” He gave a helpless shrug.
Somehow, helpless didn’t fit with Luca Portero.
As she followed the security chief back to the Jeep she wondered if the judge had lowered the boom on the sim union yet.
15
WESTCHESTER COUNTY, NY
Patrick felt no tension, no sense of suspense as Judge Boughton prepared to make his judgment. He’d been in a blue-black mood since he and Maggie Fischer, his secretary, had entered the federal courthouse in White Plains. As far as anyone was concerned, it was a done deal. Tony Hodges, the attorney for Beacon Ridge, had submitted well-researched motions that would have swayed a neutral judge; for a union hater like Boughton, they were like tossing gasoline on a bonfire. Add to that the amicus brief filed by SimGen on the club’s behalf, and the opposition had a slam dunk. The company’s legal howitzer, Abel Voss himself, looking like a cat about to be served a plateful of canaries, was seated two rows behind the defense table.
Maggie gave him a reassuring smile. A matronly forty-five, with curly brown hair and a hawklike nose, she sat straight-spined with her pen poised over her yellow pad. She was agreat legal secretary and he hoped her two boys stayed in college forever so she’d never be able to quit.
“It will all be over soon,” she said, sounding like a dental assistant before an extraction.
That was what the firm wanted, and so that was what Maggie thought he wanted. And as much as Patrick loathed the idea of defeat, a traitorous part of him was looking forward to Judge Boughton’s inevitable ruling. It didn’t know why he’d got himself into this, and now it wanted out.
But losing didn’t sit right. Never would.
The donation hotline already seemed to have called it quits. It had experienced a nice twenty-four-hour spike after his Ackenbury appearance, but then dropped to barely a trickle.
Then he’d had a call from his father after the Ackenbury show—a long message on his answering machine he hadn’t returned yet—that could be summed up as:My son wants to unionize monkeys!?!?!?
And the cherry on the soured whipped cream of this unwieldy concoction was the precarious state of his relationship with Pamela. She hadn’t found his stunt onAckenbury at Large the least bit amusing—“You made an ass out of yourself, Patrick!” She wanted him out of the sim case too. She’d decided to sleep at her own place last night. He hoped to coax her back tonight. After all, the window was fixed, and the cops were keeping an eye on the house.
He tried to imagine how things could get much worse.
He looked up as he heard the judge clear his throat. Boughton’s wrinkled hatchet face reminded Patrick of an aged Edward Everett Horton stripped of any trace of humor.
“I’ll make this short and sweet, gentlemen, since we all have busy schedules.”
Here it comes, Patrick thought.
“I have read the arguments, such as they are, that have been presented to the court, and although my personal beliefs lean the opposite way, I have not been sufficiently persuaded to grant Beacon Ridge a declaratory judgment.”
Patrick was reaching for his briefcase, preparing to gather up his papers and slink away when the key word sunk in.
Not? Did Boughton say,not ?
He saw Maggie’s stunned expression, glanced over at the defense table and saw Hodges on his feet, protesting to the judge, and Abel Voss seated behind him, pale with shock.
He did! Boughton denied the judgment!
Fighting the urge to pump his fist in the air and cheer, Patrick focused on Boughton’s response to Hodges.
“No sense in getting your blood pressure up, Mr. Hodges,” Boughton was saying. “I sympathize with your position, and concur on many of your points, but I believe larger issues are at stake here. At the very heart of this matter lies the question of the legal status of sims. We accord animals certain rights in this society—protection against cruelty and neglect, for instance—and if sims were mere chimpanzees, they would be covered by those laws. But sims are something more than chimps; sims did not exist when the laws protecting animals were framed; sims are not a product of normal evolution or natural selection. So how do we classify them?”
“I believe the United States Congress directly addressed that when it passed legislation—”
“I’m well aware of that legislation, Mr. Hodges. But I believe areas exist within current law that remain open to interpretation. And I believe there might even be questions as to whether congress overstepped its bounds when it passed that law. That sims are something more than animals is, I believe, beyond question; and yet because they are decidedly less than human, they cannot automatically be accorded those inalienable rights guaranteed by the Constitution. So where do they fit? What rightsdo they have?”
“If it please the court,” said Abel Voss, standing now. “Sims are a commercial product, owned by SimGen Corporation. They are private property, your honor.”
“As were slaves in the Old South,” Boughton said, gazing askance at Voss over the top of his reading gasses. “But that changed, didn’t it.”
“Sims are not human, your honor, so how can they form a union?”
“If you did your homework, Mr. Voss, you’d know that the NLRB statutes—written long before the first sim was created—refer to ‘persons.’ The word ‘human’ is never mentioned. Of course sims are not human, but does that automatically mean they are not persons? An interesting question, don’t you think? One that will have to be decided by the NLRB and, eventually I have no doubt, by the Supreme Court. Sit down, Mr. Voss.”
Boughton looked at Hodges, then shifted his gaze to Patrick. He shook his head and smiled.
“Look at those confounded expressions. What a shame. If you’d read my rulings a little more carefully, you’d have seen this coming. You will find I am nothing if not consistent.”
He rapped his gavel and began reeling off a list of dates that Patrick couldn’t follow. Good thing Maggie was here. At the moment he was too stunned to hold a pen. He glanced over and saw Hodges and Voss with their heads together, undoubtedly planning an appeal.