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."

Then she found an empty seat along the side and waited. Mercer Sinclair, dark-haired, dark-eyed, and impeccable in a charcoal gray silk Armani suit, stood behind a podium on the dais and breezed through the usual run of inane questions from the audience about future earnings projections and new product outlooks - all of which were explained in detail in the annual report - and deftly fielded inquiries about the Reverend Eckert's assertions that the lost sim was pregnant, laughing them off as a crude and transparent ratings ploy.

And then the reader-man got to Romy's question.

"Mr. Sinclair, a stockholder wants to know, 'How big a part does surge play in your day-to-day operations?'"

Romy leaned forward, studying Mercer Sinclair's face as it floated in the glow from the podium. She saw him stiffen as if touched by a cattle prod, watched his eyes widen, then narrow. Even if she were blind she'd have detected his shock from his stammering reply.

"Wh-what? I-I don't understand the question. What does it mean? Could the person who asked it please identify himself and clarify the question?"

Romy didn't move.

"Please," Sinclair said. "I...I'm quite willing to answer any question, but I have to understand it first. Who asked it? If you'll be kind enough to clarify..."

Romy sat and watched him stumble and fumble, peering into the great dark lake of faces before him.

Finally he fluttered a hand at the reader and said, "Very well...I guess he left...next question."

He went on responding but Romy could tell his heart was no longer in it. His answers were terse, his manner distracted, as if he couldn't wait to be done with this.

Before the lights came up, Romy wandered back to where the elderly question reader was winding up the Q and A session, and grabbed the discard pile of cards he'd already read. No sense in leaving any unnecessary traces behind.

She had a bad moment when two men in suits followed her into the elevator down to the lobby, but they spent the ride talking about hockey and got off on the twenty-second floor. She used a side exit and stepped out onto East Forty-ninth. She waited to see if anyone followed, then hurried downhill to sunny Lexington Avenue where Patrick waited. His face was too well known to SimGen stockholders to risk his presence at the meeting, but he hadn't been able to stay completely away.

"Well?" he said as he took her arm and began walking her uptown. The cold snap had broken and the day was clear and mild. "Did he react?"

"Did he ever," Romy said. "He just about lost it. Looked as if he'd just been stripped naked and hosed with ice water."

Patrick grinned and jabbed the air with a fist. "Knew it!"

She had to hand it to Patrick. He had an acute ear for nuances and he'd heard something in that one syllable from David Palmer. He'd been sure it was significant, and he'd been right.

He threw an arm around her shoulders. "Damn, I wish I could have been there." He waved his free hand in the air. "But forget about that. The question now is, how do we capitalize on this?"

"For one thing," Romy said, "we know the word itself has meaning. It's not just part of another word or a phrase."

"If I'd known that last night I could have saved myself a lot of trouble. I went through an online dictionary and plugged in every spelling of 'surge' I could think of to see if it might be the first syllable of another word. Got nowhere. Didn't do any better when I tried every possible homonym. 'Surge' is not a common syllable."

"For which we should be thankful, I guess. Imagine if he'd said 'con'?"

"Then we'd be cooked. But 'surge' itself doesn't appear to mean anything."

"It might if it's an acronym."

He stopped walking as if he'd hit an invisible wall. His arm dropped from her shoulder and she missed it.

"An acronym! Of course! And acronyms usually mean government." He pressed the heel of his palm against his forehead. "Do you know how many Washington agencies, departments, sub departments, and bureaus are designated by acronyms? It's staggering."

She looked away, glancing around to see if anyone was watching them. "What makes you so sure you'll find it in Washington? You've already traced the chain of subsidiaries leading to Manassas Ventures offshore. Who knows how far offshore the chain goes? Maybe it ends in Moscow. Or Beijing."

"You wouldn't be trying to discourage me, would you?"

"Not at all, but we're still a long way from home."

"At least we've got the Internet."

"Right." He glanced around. "I think I'll head downtown for a little point-and-click session on my office computer. Want to come along?"

"I've got to get back to OPRR, but we can share a cab."

He looked into her eyes. "What almost happened the other night at your place?"

"We almost got dosed with Totuus."

"No. I mean, what was in the cards before we opened the door and found the two uninvited guests?"

Romy held his gaze. She'd grown to like Patrick, even admire him in some ways, but she didn't love him. She enjoyed his company and, even though she knew injecting sex into their relationship might complicate matters, she'd wanted him that night. But that wasn't the same as wanting him every night.

"We'll never know, will we," she said, giving him a warm smile. "It was a moment, one that might come again."

"Or might not." His expression soured, leaving him looking needy.

Well, I have needs too, she thought. Sometimes sex is front and center, but lots of times something else pushes it down the line.

She knew all too well how she'd let the war on SimGen take over her life, but the time to press the fight was now. Every day of delay meant another day of slavery for the sims. Plenty of time later to play catch up.

"It's the Masked Marvel, isn't it," he said.

"Who?"

"Zero. You've got a thing for him."

"Don't be silly. I've never even seen his face."

"That doesn't mean you haven't imagined it, or that you can't be infatuated with him."

She tensed. Patrick had hit a bit too close to home. Yes, she had times when she fantasized about Zero. His inner strength and resolve spoke to her, reaching out through his layers of protective insulation to touch her like no one else she had ever known. And his air of remove that proclaimed him beyond her reach only heightened the attraction.

Fearing her expression might give something away, she stepped off the curb and waved at an approaching taxi.

"You're talking crazy."

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