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.

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