Tome raised his fist and screeched, “La Causa!”
The rest of the sims took up the cry, turning it into a chant.
Patrick raised his hands to calm them.
“Where did you pick up ‘La Causa’?” he said when he could hear himself.
“From Jorge,” Tome said.
“Who’s Jorge?”
“He cook kitchen. Ask him union. He give smile and do fist and say, ‘La Causa.’”
Again exuberant jumping and running and chanting.
When finally they calmed down, Patrick said, “The best way to approach this may be to demand a union and then settle for all of you staying together as a group.”
“Settle?” Tome said, frowning. “That mean no union?”
Don’t start going Cesar Chavez on me, Tome.
“A union could be a long shot, I’m afraid,” Patrick said. Like to the moon and beyond. “I’m telling you this up front so you won’t be disappointed if we lose on that one.” Never raise a client’s expectations. Always low-ball the outcome. “But I think we could possibly walk away from this deal with a family and some cash.”
“Cash?”
“Money. It’s called a settlement. I figure we ought to be able to get the club to concede on the family issue plus squeeze them for a nice piece of change in return for our shutting up and leaving them alone. And then we’ll split the money fifty-fifty.”
“Mist Sulliman get half?” Tome said.
Aw, we’re not going to haggle are we?
“Sure. When you consider how much time I’ll be devoting to this, and strictly on a contingency basis, you—”
“No,” Tome said.
“No?”
“No half for Mist Sulliman. Take all.”
Patrick blinked, too shocked to speak. Never in his life had he expected to hear those words pass a client’s lips.
“All? But what about you guys?”
“Money not want.”
“Of course you do. You could use it to fix up this place, buy one of those big picture-frame TVs, better furniture…”
…start tipping the golfers…
Tome was shaking his head. “All money for you.”
“And all you want is this family thing?”
Tome nodded. “Family…any one thing other.”
Patrick poised his pen over the pad. “Shoot.”
Tome’s big brown eyes bored into him. “Respect, Mist Sulliman. Just little respect.”
Patrick felt his mouth go dry. Talk about a tall order. But he recovered and wrote it down.
“Okay. Respect. Maybe we can get into the specifics of that at a later date. Right now, the first thing we do is formally petition the club to allow you to form a union. They’ll refuse, of course. When that happens, we go before the NLRB.”
“Enell…?”
“National Labor Relations Board.”
That was when the shit would really hit the fan. Patrick rubbed his hands together in a dizzying mix of anticipation, dread, and glee.
5
MANHATTAN
SEPTEMBER 28
Romy Cadman sat at her desk in the New York branch of the Office for the Protection of Research Risks, skimming through the animal welfare report on the rat-testing protocols in Rast Corporation’s psychopharmaceutical lab. The lab was testing the amphetamine potentiation effect of a number of compounds with antidepressant properties. Everything seemed to be in order.
Her phone double-rang. The British-style ring-ring meant the call was incoming on her direct line; an outside call, bypassing the switchboard. She picked up immediately.
“D-A-W,” she said. If callers didn’t know that meant Division of Animal Welfare, they could ask.
“Good morning, Ms. Cadman.”
Romy immediately recognized Zero’s deep voice on the other end. No surprise. She’d figured he’d be calling soon.
“Good morning yourself.”
“You’ve heard, I assume.”
“About the sim union thing?” What else would he be calling about. “Seems it’s all people here are talking about.”
“We should talk about it as well. Soon. When is good for you?”
“I was about to break for lunch anyway. I can be there in twenty minutes.”
“Fine.”
Where was not discussed. Romy knew.
She closed the report on her computer screen and straightened her desk, repositioning a brass paperweight inscribed withR. Cadman in large black letters; a gift from her mother years ago. Mom had wanted the engraver to use her full name but Romy had protested. She’d always hated “Romilda” and didn’t want to see it every time she stepped into her office.
She ran a brush through her close-cropped dark brown hair, slipped into the jacket of her gray pants suit—cut to show off her long slim legs and tight, firm butt—and grabbed her shoulder bag. On her way through the cubicle farm of clerks and secretaries she stopped at her boss’s office and stuck her head inside.
“I’m heading out.”
Milton Ware, a spry little man with bright blue eyes and a shock of white hair, looked up from his desk, then glanced at his watch.
“A little early for lunch.”
“I’ve got some errands to do.”
“When will you be back? I want to go over that Rast report with you.”
“Later.”
“When is ‘later’?”
“After sooner. Bye.”
She offered her sweetest smile and left him with the perplexed, frustrated expression that was becoming his trademark when dealing with her. Milt was one of the world’s most uptight men, always worried about his performance rating. He needed to lighten up.
Really, what did either of them have to worry about? OPRR was a division of NIH. All federal money. Didn’t Milt know how hard it was to lose a federal job, especially one that no sane person would want?
Romy had been ready to quit not too long ago. Sims had always offended her. Not the creatures themselves, but the very concept of a recombinant species of primates created to be slaves. She’d waited year after year for legislation to address the situation—if not outlaw them, then place sims under the aegis of OPRR’s Division of Animal Welfare. The original classification of sims as somewhere between animal and human had blocked her division from having any say in how they were treated. Bills to change that had been introduced in committees in both houses of Congress over the years but not a single damn one had ever reached the floor for a vote.
She’d been typing up a scathing letter of resignation when she received a call, just like today, and first heard that deep voice on the other end of the line. It suggested that she might feel better about her job if she accepted an opportunity to moonlight in a related field. Intrigued, she’d agreed to a meeting. Turned out to be the best move she’d ever made.
Down at street level, Romy crossed Federal Plaza at a relaxed pace, enjoying the admiring stares from the other government drones. She worked hard on her body, and not simply for looks. She needed top fitness for her ballet classes. Not that she’d ever perform in public. The dancing itself was what pleased her. The resultant grace, coordination, and body tone were happy bonuses.
She glanced briefly at the graceful spire of the new World Trade Center, finally completed after so many years of squabbling over its design, and turned uptown, stretching her long legs as she strolled Broadway for a couple of blocks, then turned left onto Worth Street. She stopped before the soaped-up windows of an empty storefront; ideograms identifying the previous owner, a Taiwanese toy distributor, still graced the windows. Romy pulled out a key, unlocked the door, and entered.
The dust on the floor was tracked with footprints—her own and an indeterminate number of others.
Which ones are Zero’s? she wondered. Or does he have a private entrance?
She strode to the rear and unlocked the door to the basement. This was the part she didn’t like. Had to be rats down there. She’d never seen one, but that meant nothing. She’d seen plenty of their clean, docile, many-times-removed albino cousins, the lab rat. Those she didn’t mind, felt sorry for most of them, actually. But she was not at all anxious to meet a Norwegian brown in its natural habitat. She’d handle the situation if it arose, but she’d rather not have to.