Sims by F. Paul Wilson

minds.”
    â€œBreeders are provided excellent nutrition and get adequate exercise,” the assistant director said as if she hadn’t heard.
    â€œAnd what of labor and delivery?”
    â€œWould you like to see a delivery? I can guarantee that a number are in progress as we speak.”
    â€œI’ll leave that to the team. But how does labor go?”
    Twerlinger shrugged. “The breeders rarely need sedation, but if they do, they get it. Our breeder sims receive better obstetrical care than a lot of humans, Ms. Cadman.”
    â€œAnd after delivery?”
    â€œIt’s usually single offspring, but we’re beginning to have some success with increasing the incidence of twins. Once we perfect that we can double output.”
    â€œI’m surprised you don’t simply clone them and incubate them ex-utero.”
    â€œWe tried that. Believe me, we tried that every which way imaginable, but the resultant offspring were much less tractable and far less emotionally stable than the ones gestated in utero. That’s the one thing we guarantee our lessees: stable and dependable workers. So . . .” She smiled here, a fleeting flash of yellowed teeth. “. . . we do it the old-fashioned way.”
    â€œAnd you still allow a mother to stay with her child?”
    Twerlinger nodded. “For a year; we find the offspring adapt faster in that year when the breeders are around to help train them. And we encourage all breeders to nurse because that seems to make for healthier and more emotionally stable offspring.”
    â€œAnd then what?”
    â€œWe immunize them against the usual diseases. Chimps get polio and hepatitis and HIV, though they don’t develop AIDS. Sims are even more susceptible. Then the offspring are PRC’d and moved on into the dormitories to start their training.”
    â€œPee-are . . . ?”
    Twerlinger touched the nape of Romy’s neck. Her fingers were ice cold. “Tattooed with their serial number bar code. You’ve seen them, of course.”
    â€œOf course.” She’d just never thought of babies being tattooed.
    â€œIt’s the only way we can accurately monitor inventory.”
    â€œAnd the mothers?”
    â€œBreeders, please. It’s tempting to anthropomorphize them, but we discourage it. Counterproductive, you know. Certain segments of the public get all caught up in their superficial human characteristics—”
    â€œWell, they aren’t exactly white rats.”
    â€œTrue, but when you come down to it, sims are
livestock
, nothing more.”
    Romy looked around at the bored, hopeless expressions on the . . . breeders. “Nothing more.”
    â€œAs for the breeders, after a year with their offspring, they’re rotated back to be impregnated again.”
    Romy ground her teeth, biting back a tirade. She wanted to shout that they were too close to human to be treated as walking, talking incubators, to have their children—not offspring,
children!
—torn from them and then be impregnated again . . . and again . . . and again . . .
    But she couldn’t let on how she felt. Zero had warned her about that: Never let them know, or your status in OPRR could be compromised.
    She let out the breath she’d been holding. “That means every twenty months or so—”
    â€œYes, that’s the cycle. A hearty breeder can go through ten to twelve cycles before she’s retired.”
    â€œOr just plain tired.”
    What an existence, Romy thought as she looked around at the lethargic breeders. Most sims in her experience tended to be full of life and energy. These seemed barely able to move. And suddenly she knew why.
    â€œThey’re depressed,” Romy said.
    Twerlinger arched her thin eyebrows. “I wasn’t aware you had training in sim psychology.”
    No, but I know depression, lady—firsthand and big