Replicant Night

by K. W. Jeter

  "Well..." His partner nudged him. "Except, of course... you yourself..."

  "Pardon me?" Sarah laughed, incredulous. She wouldn't have thought that these two would've been interested in anything that normal and human. "That's okay, though ... I'm flattered." She tossed her hair back from her eyes. It'd been a long time, since practically the moment of their arrival at the emigrant colony, that Deckard had laid a hand on her, one way or another. At some point, the resemblance between herself and the dead Rachael had ceased to be enough. "But not today, thanks."

  "Hm." The more talkative one rubbed his smooth chin. "I think there's been some misunderstanding here. It's not a personal thing-"

  "It's not us," interjected his partner, "who want you."

  "It's the corporation. The shadow corporation." The little mad light went on again behind the square glasses. "That's what needs you. That's why we spent so much time and effort looking for you, and why we came all this way to find you."

  "That's right." His partner nodded vehemently. "Without you . . . we're nothing. The corporation-the shadow corporation-it's nothing."

  A growing spark moved along the edges of her own suspicion. "Why should that be?" Her eyes narrowed as she gazed at the two men. She had a notion already, but wanted to hear it explained aloud.

  "Miss Tyrell ... isn't it obvious?" The talkative one spread his empty hands apart. "How can there be a Tyrell Corporation-or even its shadow-without a Tyrell to head it? You are the heir to everything that your uncle created. Both the corporation that existed in the light and the one of the darkness. There's a right of succession involved here. Surely you know-you must know-that there's more to the Tyrell Corporation than merely a commercial enterprise."

  "Oh, I know," said Sarah. I know too well. "It's a matter of faith."

  "Exactly. You must have faith-just as we have." The light had intensified in both men's eyes. "The faith that all the shadow corporation has. That Eldon Tyrell's great vision-all that he wished and planned for humanity-will be reborn. That the Tyrell Corporation will rise from the ashes. Not as it was, but as something even greater. As its destiny always had been."

  "You see, don't you?" The other one spoke up. "That's why the shadow corporation exists. That's why Eldon Tyrell created it and kept it in the darkness. You were his heir, the only other living Tyrell-and then the only Tyrell at all-and you didn't even know about it."

  "No ... I didn't." Sarah gave a shake of her head. "Not really." She wasn't certain now whether she had known or not - or whether she had just chosen to disbelieve the little hints and rumors, the mysteries that her uncle had alluded to with his sly conspirator's smile. You fool, she told herself. To think you could ever kill it ...

  "He couldn't tell you about the shadow corporation. It had to remain a secret. From everyone-even you. Only those of us sworn to its mysteries; we alone knew, and waited." The man's voice trembled with fervor. "For that day we knew was inevitable, the day of triumph for the Tyrell Corporation's enemies-"

  "Short-lived triumph," grumped the talkative one's partner.

  "Yes, that's right. Of course." He nodded. "The darkness cannot last; the Tyrell Corporation will not be vanquished forever. If its enemies think they have destroyed it, sown salt across its ashes, they're wrong. The Tyrell Corporation-the glory of Eldon Tyrell's vision-will mount to the skies again. Already, we in the shadow corporation, the heirs and defenders of that vision, have set moving the great wheels and gears of justice."

  "We like to say"-the other's voice turned shy and selfconscious-"that the sole of our sandal shall be upon the throat of our foes."

  "I bet." Sarah kept her face masklike, and the gun in her hand. All this talk of enemies and retribution made her wary. When these people said they needed her-that the Tyrell Corporation's shadow entity needed her-they possibly meant they wanted her head on a pike. Her self-destructive moods hadn't included relinquishing that much control to anyone else. "Well, if you have plans already, then maybe you should just . . . go and do them. Don't let me stop you. Drop me a line now and then, let me know how things are coming along." Right now, she mainly wanted the two odd men, with their Eldon Tyrell stylings, to just disappear. So that she would have time to think, to figure out what she herself would do next. There's not much sense, mused Sarah, in blowing away these two guys. That wouldn't stop anything. The thought of these two-and how many others? How big was this shadow outfit?-working away to put back together all that she had so carefully disassembled filled her with both nausea and a tightly concealed rage. "Thanks for stopping by."

  The two men exchanged a glance with each other, then swiveled their conjunct gaze back onto her.

  "Miss Tyrell-you really don't seem to understand." The more talkative one's voice filled with sorrow. "We need you. We can't resurrect the Tyrell Corporation without you."

  "We're loyalists. Diehards," added the other man. "Everyone in the shadow corporation-we were sworn to loyalty to Eldon Tyrell . . . and now to you. You didn't inherit just the Tyrell Corporation. You inherited us."

  "You're joking. You must be." The notion appalled her. The two men suddenly appeared to her as children to whom she bore some crushing maternal obligation. As if her ancient uncle had been reborn as twins, fresh-faced and naively innocent behind the stigmata of the square glasses. The resurrection of all that she had thought was safely dead-Now what? thought Sarah. A horrible vision came to her of these two camping out in the hovel, taking turns sleeping on the broken-backed sofa.

  "It's no joke, Miss Tyrell. We never joke." The talkative one's expression was somber, as though even the skull beneath the tight flesh had been rendered grinless. "It is our great mission-our destiny-to bring the Tyrell Corporation, from the shadows where it now exists, out to the light once more. Where it belongs. At the center of all, with everything orbiting around it-"

  "But that would make it the light itself." The other man frowned. "Like it was the sun. You're mixing up-"

  "Whatever," snapped the first irritably. "You know what I mean. As does Miss Tyrell." He looked back at her again. "You do know, don't you? Why we've come here?"

  "I know," she said. There was no use denying it any longer. She didn't need the gun-not against these two. Or any of their brethren, the true believers. "You want me to be the head of the Tyrell Corporation. As I was before. After my uncle . . . died."

  "Exactly." The man nodded. "You must do this. If the Tyrell Corporation is to defeat its enemies. Those who were so misguided as to try to diminish Eldon Tyrell's vision."

  He doesn't know, thought Sarah. They don't have a clue. That she had been the one who pushed the little red button, or arranged to have it pushed by those others she had cheated and lied to. The ashes of the Tyrell Corporation headquarters, those once-proud towers and the eternal-seeming pyramid in the center of Los Angeles, were on her hands. These two men, and all the other die-hard loyalists behind them, didn't know that she herself had destroyed the Tyrell Corporation.

  "Without you..." The man's voice came to her as though from the edge of a barely glimpsed dream. "Without you ... we'll die. The shadows will claim us. The vision that still unites us will be lost, our faith gone, and we will drift off into the darkness. Then the Tyrell Corporation truly will be no more."

  I don't have to do a single thing. The realization moved inside Sarah. She could just stand where she was in the hovel and refuse to go with the two men-she knew they were too much in awe of her, of the Tyrell blood in her veins, to try to force her to go anywhere. Or she could go ahead and kill them, simply raise the gun, still in her hand, place it against each man's forehead in turn-they probably wouldn't resist that, either, just accept it from her as what they deserved from a wrathful deity. Or even better, thought Sarah, I could kill myself. Right in front of them. That would accomplish a lot-almost everything, she decided. She'd be dead-something for which she'd been yearning for a long time now- and the Tyrell Corporation's shadow entity, this valiant little band of the faithful, would die out
soon thereafter. No living Tyrell, no corporation, all lost, finally and forever. Perfect...

  Except for one thing. She knew just what it was. Deckard, that sonuvabitch, would still be walking around. Still mourning his dead Rachael, a shrine to a female replicant assembled inside his skull, memory scraps and the taste of her kiss, the way her face had looked-My face, Sarah thought grimly; Rachael's was just a copy-when he'd forced his kiss upon her. And she had given herself to him, wanting him ...

  She couldn't remember anymore whether that had been her or Rachael. There had been a time, a moment, when time had repeated itself; the kiss, the wanting, even his words. She had made Deckard say them again, the way he had said them to Rachael long ago ...

  Say that you want me. He had said that.

  Then her voice. In the past, in memory. Standing in the middle of the hovel, a world away; she closed her eyes and heard her own voice, Rachael's voice, the same-

  I want you.

  "Miss Tyrell ... did you say something?"

  She forced her eyes open and looked at the two men standing in front of her, not recognizing them for a moment. Or mis-recognizing them; she had the uncomfortable feeling that she was looking at her uncle, brought back from the dead and somehow doubled, with neither aspect quite human. Then the feeling passed, and she found herself once again looking at the two loyalists, ambassadors from the shadow corporation. If they weren't real-or at least not yet-they were certainly trying to be.

  A shake of the head. "No," said Sarah. She wondered if she had spoken aloud, if the words of the past had forced their way into the present once again. How embarrassing, she thought. Though it proved that nothing ever died. As long as there was memory, there were ghosts. Like me-perhaps when Deckard looked at her, that was what he saw. The ghost of Rachael. "No-I didn't say anything."

  Sarah watched as the two men consulted with each other, whispers and nods. They finished and turned back toward her.

  "We don't have much time, Miss Tyrell." The more talkative one, the evident leader of the pair, clasped his hands together. "Our enemies-the enemies of the Tyrell Corporation-they very likely know that we're here. They'd do anything to stop us, to thwart our sacred mission. We have to leave. Now."

  "We've stayed here too long already." The other one cast a nervous glance over his shoulder, toward the hovel's front door, as though he expected a black-clad SWAT team to come bursting through at any moment.

  "You have to come with us, Miss Tyrell." The talkative one's intertwined fingers squeezed themselves white and bloodless. "There's so much more we need to tell you. And that we can show you. But you must come with us. You must."

  "All right-" Sarah held up a hand, palm outward. "There's no need to hector me. I've made my decision." It had been easy, once the image of Deckard had come into her mind. "I'll go with you. Wherever you want." Of all the possibilities, those that had her dead while Deckard would still be alive-those had been ruled right out. As if a terminating memo had been sent down from the corporate headquarters, that columned, high-ceilinged chamber that still existed behind her brow.

  Besides, thought Sarah. It's mine; the Tyrell Corporation, in all its guises, shadowed or in light. She could do whatever she wanted with it. A glance from the corner of her eye showed the two men, in their homage-to-Eldon-Tyrell outfits, in a new light; they belonged to her as well, part of the package. A familiar sensation, one that ran from her groin all the way to the top of her spine and beyond. They looked at her, not just reverently, but would not have dared to touch her. She could use them for whatever purpose she had in mind, and they would be grateful. Just to be in her presence and bear her orders.

  That notion made her smile, one corner of her mouth lifting a millimeter.

  She thought of Deckard, wherever he was at this moment. Perhaps coming home-if this counted as home-after his stint trolling for money at that Outer Hollywood station above Earth. Coming home to whatever surprise he might've figured would be waiting for him-the gun at the door probably wouldn't have been completely unexpected. If I were gone, though-Sarah mulled it over-that might knock him back. For a little while, at least.

  Which would give her time to prepare another surprise for Deckard. The last one he'd ever receive. She wasn't sure yet what it would be. But with all the resources of the shadow corporation at her fingertips . . . a mere gun and a single bullet now struck her as entirely too simple.

  I'll have to do better than that, thought Sarah. It's only what he deserves.

  "Please, Miss Tyrell-" The duo's leader made a show out of checking the complicated watch on his thin wrist. "We really have to get going."

  "I suppose so." She turned and headed toward the hovel's bedroom. "Just let me get a few things."

  She took one of the bullets from the gun's clip, using its weight to hold down on the bedside table a note she'd quickly scribbled out for Deckard. There-Sarah stood up from the mattress edge. Let him figure that one out. The alarm clock walked across the folded piece of paper and looked down at the bullet, the face behind the black hands seemingly mystified.

  In the minuscule bathroom, she splashed water on her face, then straightened up from the sink and pulled her dark hair back with one hand. For a moment longer, Sarah returned the gaze from the figure in the clouded mirror. It didn't look like Rachael standing there. Or only a little; the sad dreaminess that had always marked her replicant double had been leached away, replaced by something harder and colder. That's my face, thought Sarah. The cheekbones were more pronounced, edged sharper, as though the flesh were being cut away by interior knives. She toweled off the water trickling down her throat and turned back toward the hovel's bedroom.

  The calendar on the wall fluttered its page as she approached the doorway. "Mrs. Niemand-I mean Sarah-" The calendar's voice betrayed its anxiety. "What're you doing? This is madness. You don't know who these men are-"

  "How rude." Sarah glared at the snow-covered wilderness scene. "You were listening in."

  "Of course. I'm a calendar; I'm supposed to keep track of things." The number-dense pages fluttered. "Listen to me. These characters are trouble. They could be anybody. Lunatics . . . or maybe they really are the police; they're just lying to you. To get you to go quietly." Its voice rose in pitch. "I beg of you. Don't go with these people-"

  "I have to." Sarah repositioned the strap of the little shoulder bag she had hurriedly packed. "It's my destiny. Or as close to it as I'm going to get."

  "Sarah..." The calendar wailed as she exited the bedroom.

  "Let's go, gentlemen." Pulling the bag up higher, she nodded toward the hovel's front door. The two men stepped aside and let her go ahead of them.

  In the corridor outside, she heard tiny feet running through the decaying trash. The minute noise came from behind; she turned and looked, and saw the alarm clock racing to catch up.

  "Take me with you!" The clock's shrill, tinny voice sliced through the oxygen-thin air. "I wanna go, too!"

  She stopped and pulled the shoulder bag around so she could root through its contents. The gun's weight had sunk it to the bottom; by the time Sarah pulled it out, the alarm clock was right in front of her, hopping excitedly from one of its stubby little legs to the other.

  The shot echoed down the corridor, smudged leaves of rubble trembling in the invisible, hard-edged wave. The stimulus-hungry derelicts raised their blind heads, limbs trembling in the rush of ecstatic input, bloodied fingertips clawing convulsively at the floor grates. A smaller noise followed after the first, tinkling bits of metal and fractured microcircuits raining softly across the spot where the alarm clock, until the last moment, had been dancing.

  "Damn." Sarah looked at the warmed gun in her palm. "Now it's empty."

  One of the men, the leader of the pair who had called upon her, reached over and took the gun out of her hand. "Don't worry." He threw it away, metal clanging against metal as it struck the corridor wall. "We'll get you another one."

  5

  At the landing f
ield, in the bare red flats on the emigrant colony's edge, he got screwed.

  They wouldn't give Deckard his deposit back on the skiff. "What're you going to do?" said the man behind the desk- really just a buckling sheet of plywood supported by two empty fuel drums. The man took no pleasure in the burn, but just looked at Deckard with the flat, unblinking eyes of someone who knows he's being a bastard. "We're an illegal business already. You're going to report us or something? Get real."

  Deckard turned his own gaze away from the man's heavy, black-stubbled face, and out toward the small interplanetary craft scattered over the rust-colored sands. From one hand dangled the briefcase with his initials on the tiny metal plate below his knuckles. "There's other ways," he said quietly, then looked back at the man. "Of getting my money back."

  "Sure there is. You can beat the crap out of me, for one." The man shrugged, crescents of sweat-darkened shirt riding up under his fleshy arms. "Whatever sings your song, buddy. I don't care." A slow, wobbling shake of the head. "But you're still not getting your money back. And don't ever bother bringing your business around here again. You ever want off-planet, you'll have to flap your wings and jump."

  The briefcase whispered to Deckard. "Come on, don't waste your time with this lowlife. We've got things to do."

  "You say something, pal?"

  "No-" Deckard shook his head. "Just grumbling to myself. Tell you what. I'll settle for half of what you owe me."

  He settled for nothing. He was too tired to argue any further.

  "Count your blessings," the skiff guy called after him from the doorway of the shack. "You got back here still breathing. Most of our customers don't. Our merchandise has got over a fifty percent failure rate."

  "Nice advertising pitch." Batty's voice spoke up, louder this time, as Deckard toted the briefcase across the field. "'Lot of possibilities-' Rent from us and you'll never have to again."

  Deckard made no reply. If half of these things made it home, he thought gloomily, it'd be a miracle. With his free hand, he rubbed blood-tinged grit from his eyes. I must've been crazy. All around him, as he trudged in sinking footsteps, the skiffs dug lower in the sand, like the black eggs of some extinct, exhausted species. The vehicles' dented, corrosion-flecked carapaces transmitted a minimal-wattage signal of neglect and abortive transport. Some of them, including the one he'd taken to the Outer Hollywood station and back, looked as fragile as ancient Christmas decorations, hand-blown glass that a sneeze could shatter. An indication of how desperate he must've been-And still am, thought Deckard. Even worse now. Getting stiffed on the deposit had chewed another major hole in his cash float.