The idea of birthing sims thrust Alice Fredericks’s crazy, tortured face into Patrick’s mind. “Let me pop you a question out of far left field: Do you know if SimGen ever used human women to bear sims?”
“What?” Romy said. “That’s not out of left field, that’s from the bleachers!”
“Not while I was there, I assure you,” Betsy said. “Why do you ask?”
Patrick told them about Alice Fredericks and her story.
“She certainly sounds delusional,” Betsy said.
“I’m ready to believe that SimGen’s connected to almost anything bad,” Zero said, “but I draw the line at space aliens. Let’s get back to reality, shall we?” He turned to Betsy Cannon. “Any idea yet as to what’s wrong with the patient we sent you last night?”
“The more we learn about his condition,” she said, shaking her head, “the more mysterious it becomes. He has a form of aphasia that’s both expressive and receptive.”
“Sorry?” Patrick said.
“He can’t understand what’s said to him, or even written out for him, and can only jabber word salad when he wants to speak.”
Patrick shivered inside. “Sounds like an inner circle of lawyer hell.”
“Syndromes like it can occur with strokes or sometimes with tumors that affect the Broca speech area of the brain, but an MR scan showed a perfectly normal brain. We shipped him out to NYU Medical Center this morning where they did a PET scan—that’s positron emission tomography. It gives us a functional as opposed to structural view of the brain, and Mr. Palmer’s Broca area has been damaged.”
“Damaged how?” Romy said.
Betsy shrugged. “Neurology is not my field but I’ve been asking a lot of questions under the guise of being interested because I found him in the parking lot. The experts’ best guess is a toxin.”
“Totuus?” Romy said. “You mean I did that to him?”
“No. Totuus was found in his system, but the NYU neurologists believe he had another compound in his bloodstream that combined with the Totuus to form a neurotoxin specific to the Broca area.”
“Pretty damn sophisticated,” Zero said.
Betsy nodded. “Amazingly sophisticated, according to the experts. All just theory, of course, one they have no way of testing at the moment, but it goes a long way toward explaining his syndrome.”
“And it fits with his behavior last night,” Romy said. “Remember how he broke down and cried when he found out we’d injected him with the Totuus? He must have known he had the other compound floating through his bloodstream, and knew what was coming.”
Zero said, “A failsafe to prevent anyone from using Palmer’s own Totuus against him.”
“Is it permanent?” Romy asked.
Betsy shrugged. “Who can say? No one I’ve spoken to has ever dealt with anything like this.”
“My guess is it’s temporary,” Zero said. “I can’t see anyone willingly taking something that could cause irreversible brain damage. But temporary can be a long time.”
“Talk about covering your tracks,” Romy said, shaking her head. “How are we ever going to nail these monsters?”
Betsy smiled and tightened her scarf around her neck. “That I will leave to you. As for me, as long as I’m in the city I believe I’ll do some Christmas shopping. Good luck. And you know I’m available anytime day or night if you find that pregnant sim.”
Patrick showed her out, then returned to where Zero and Romy were standing.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said. “What if it wasn’t just the mixture of the two drugs in his bloodstream? What if saying a vital word was what triggered the—what was it?”
“Aphasia,” Zero said, then shook his head. “That sounds even more farfetched.”
“Maybe. But what was he saying at the very instant something tripped the circuit breaker in his brain?”
“I don’t remember,” Romy said, “but it’s easy enough to find out.”
She went to a shelf on the wall and retrieved the recorder. She reversed it for a second, then hitPLAY . Romy’s voice burst from the tiny speaker.
“—op stalling! Tell me now: Who do you work for?”was followed by Parker’s hoarse rasp:“SIRG—” and then strangled noises and cries of alarm.
Romy switched off the player. She looked pale. “Want to hear it again?”
“That’s okay. You heard the word: ‘Surge,’ right?”
Zero shrugged. “I doubt he was talking about a fabric or an electric current. I believe he got out the first syllable of the answer—‘s-u-r’ or ‘s-e-r’ or ‘c-e-r’ or maybe even ‘c-i-r’ for circle—and then the seizure hit and the rest of the word or words were crushed into a guttural mess.”
“But this was in direct response to ‘Who do you work for?’ so it’s got to have some relevance, don’t you think? I mean, at least it’s a start. Question is, how to find out if it means anything?”
“Why don’t we simply ask?” Romy said.
“Oh, sure. I’ll just call up Mercer Sinclair and say, ‘What does the word “surge” mean to you?’ That’ll work.”
A smile played about Romy’s lips, the first since last night. “Why call when you can ask in person?”
8
NEWARK, NJ
Meerm feel ver bad today. So fat belly. Legs swoll. Hard move. Many move inside, like thing kicking. Kick-kick-kick. And dizz. Ver dizz.
Oop. Meerm trip, fall against bunk. Make noise. Loud. Must hide. Benny come.
Climb top closet. So hard climb. More hard squeeze into hole. But Meerm push hard. Push back board and wait in dark. Soon Benny come. Talk self. Always talk self.
“Who’s up here? Goddamn it, I heard you. I been hearing you all week! Now come out!”
Benny come closet. Pull door. Meerm not breathe. Hear Benny voice through wall. Shout-shout-shout.
“Where are you, dammit! You gotta be somewhere! Or maybe I just gone loco! No! I know what I heard, dammit!”
Benny leave closet. Many loud noise in room—dresser move, bunk move, door slam-slam-slam. Then noise stop.
“All right so maybe I am hearing things. Next I’ll be seeing things. That’s it. I’m losing it. I been babysitting these monkeys so long I’m going bugfuck nuts! But I coulda sworn…”
Benny go way but Meerm stay. Too tired. Too scare to move. And hurt. Kick and hurt all time. Poor Meerm. When hurt stop?
9
MANHATTAN
DECEMBER 19
Romy was late for the meeting. On purpose.
For the past few years she’d made a point of keeping a few shares of SimGen stock in her 401(k) for the sole purpose of being invited to shareholders’ meetings. She’d been to a number of these and knew how they went—blather and hype from beginning to end. The only interesting part was the finale when Mercer Sinclair took questions from the audience.
By the time she reached the upper floors of the Waldorf Astoria she already knew from the ecstatic talk in the lobby that SimGen—or “simgee,” as the stockholders liked to call it, phoneticizing its SIMG stock symbol—had come in with earnings of $1.37 per share, beating not only the analysts’ predictions of $1.26, but the whisper number of $1.31 as well.
She walked into the magnificent four-story Art Deco grand ballroom just in time to fill out an index card with her question for the CEO. Instead of passing her card down to the center aisle, she walked it to the rear of the ballroom and personally handed it to the elderly gent who would be reading them.
“I’d really like to know the answer to this,” she whispered, laying a hand on his arm and flashing her warmest smile.
He looked at her over the top of his reading glasses and smiled. “I’ll see what I can do, miss.”