F. Paul Wilson - Sims

Also by F. Paul Wilson

REPAIRMAN JACK NOVELS

THE TOMB

LEGACIES

CONSPIRACIES

ALL THE RAGE

HOSTS

THE HAUNTED AIR

GATEWAYS*

HEALER

WHEELS WITHIN WHEELS

AN ENEMY OF THE STATE

BLACK WIND

SOFTAND OTHERS

DYDEETOWN WORLD

THE TERY

SIBS

THE SELECT

IMPLANT

DEEP AS THE MARROW

MIRAGE (WITHMATTHEWJ. COSTELLO)

NIGHTKILL (WITHSTEVENSPRUILL)

MASQUE (WITHMATTHEWJ. COSTELLO)

THE BARRENSAND OTHERS

THE CHRISTMAS THINGY

THE ADVERSARY CYCLE

THE KEEP

THE TOMB

THE TOUCH

REBORN

REPRISAL

NIGHTWORLD

EDITOR

FREAK SHOW

DIAGNOSIS: TERMINAL

*FORTH COMING

www.ebookyes.com

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this novel are either fictitious or are used fictitiously.

SIMS

Copyright 2003 by F. Paul Wilson

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.

A Forge Book

Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC

175 Fifth Avenue

New York, NY 10010

www.tor.com

Forge is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.

ISBN 0-312-71004-6

First Edition: April 2003

I owe a debt of thanks to the following:

Daniel F. Murphy Jr., Esq., for his generous assistance and advice regarding the labor relations issues and legal procedures so vital to the plot in Parts One and Two; Coates Bateman, editor-at-large; J. R.

Peter Wilson, brother and defense attorney; Mitchell Galin for early encouragement; David Auerbach, genetics maven and fellow Jill Sobule fan; Barry Rosenbush for being a believer; David Hartwell, Elizabeth Monteleone, Steven Spruill, and Al Zuckerman for the usual editorial help.

Authors Note

Simstakes place just around the corner, timewise, in your town, your country, your world. It may seem like science fiction, but it isnt. For right now, as you read these words, someone somewhere is altering a chimpanzees genome to make it more human.Right now . So it wont be too long before we all come face-to-face with the same issues challenging the characters inSims

One

La Causa

WESTCHESTER COUNTY, NY

SEPTEMBER 20

A good walk spoiled, Patrick Sullivan thought as he trudged toward the rough where his slicing golf ball had disappeared. Somebody had got that right.

Patrick didnt actually hate golf, but he suffered from a condition hed come to call GADDGolf Attention Deficit Disorder. Nine holes and hed had it. Maybe that was because during his first nine holes he racked up more strokes than most golfers did in eighteen. But today he was playing with Ben Armstrong, CFO of the Jarman department store chain and a valued client, who, although even less skillful than Patrick on the links, seemed immune to GADD.

Maybe it was the clothes. Armstrong, a florid-faced fellow in his sixties, sporting a neat goatee the same steel-gray shade as his hair, had decked himself out in a blue-and-raspberry-striped shirt, raspberry pants, and white golf shoes. Patrick wasnt into sherbet shades; he wore a white shirt, navy slacks, and tan shoes.

Golf or not, he was having a good walk on a bright September day among the luxuriously verdant rolling hills of upper Westchester where the Beacon Ridge club nestled its links. The air was redolent of fresh-mown grass and money.

Christ, he wanted into this place. Not so much for the golf, but because golf was such a great way to do business.

Like today. Armstrong, a club member, had asked Patrick out for a two-some. Wanted to get caught up on the upcoming negotiations with the sales-clerk union. Patricks specialty was labor law, and though he worked both sides, lately hed found himself billing more and more hours to the management end.

Beacon Ridge was packed with heavies like Armstrong. A goldmine of potential clients and billable hours. Patricks firm loved billable hourslittle else mattered at Payes & Hechtand if he could tap into this mother lode

A sudden screech from ahead and to his left drew his attention. His caddie was pointing at the ground.

Here, sir, here! I find! Here!

Good eye, Nabb, Patrick said as he walked over.

Yessir, Nabb said, his head bobbing as he grinned broadly at the praise. Good eye, good eye.

Typical of the Beacon Ridge caddies, Nabb was an average size sim, about five-three, maybe 130

pounds; he sported a little more facial hair than most sims. Armstrongs caddie, Deek, was a bit differentbeefier, and seemed taller, although that might be due to better posture. They looked like hominids yanked from the Stone Age and wrestled into the Beacon Ridge caddie uniform of lime green shirt and white pants, but they moved with a certain grace despite their slightly bowed legs.

Beacon Ridge had introduced sim caddies a couple of years ago, the first golf club in the country to do so. Caused quite a stir at the time, but the club members seemed to enjoy the status of being pioneers in the transgenic revolution. Other clubs soon followed suit, but Beacon Ridge remained famous for being the first. By now sims were practically part of the scenery around the links.

Come on, movie star! Armstrong called from the green. You can do it!

Movie staron their first meeting hed said Patrick reminded him of Axel Sommers, the latest digital heartthrob. Patrick figured Armstrong needed glasses. Sure, they both had blue eyes and slightly wavy blond hair, but Sommers looked just a little too pretty for comfort.

Patrick waved and turned to Nabb. Let me have the five wood.

The sims dark brown eyes shifted between the ball nestled in the rough against a broad-leafed weed, and the green a hundred yards away atop a slope.

Seven better, sir.

That fives especially made for roughChrist knows Im in it enoughand this is as rough as it gets.

Nabb pulled out the seven and handed it to him. Five too far, sir.

What makes you think you know my game? Patrick said, trying to keep his annoyance out of his tone. Hed take golf advice from just about anyone, even a sim, but he knew his own limitations. This is the first time youve caddied for me.

Nabb watch Mist Sulliman before.

Really? He didnt get to play here all that often. How could this creature know his game?

The sim thrust the iron forward. Seven.

Patrick snatched the club. Okay. Well do it your way. But ifI should say,when it falls short and rolls back down that hill, Im gonna have your hide.

Nabb said nothing, simply stepped back to give Patrick room.

Patrick took two practice swings, stepped up to the ball, and whacked it. The ball sailed high, sailed straight, and plopped out of sight somewhere atop the slope.

Armstrong started clapping. Nice shot! Less than a dozen feet from the hole!

Patrick turned to Nabb and had to laugh when he saw the huge grin on the sims apelike face. Dont say you told me so!

Nev say, sir. Just want Mist Sulliman win.

Wants the nonmember to win? Odd. But who could figure what went on in an animals head.

Patrick one-putted and birdied the holean event rare enough to warrant a victory jig, but he resisted.

Armstrongs caddie seemed as pleased as Nabb.