standing.
She turned away and headed for the elevator, to go back down inside the building's heart.
He'd made his decision. Or, at least, the next step in his rapidly evolving plans.
What do I need this loony sonuvabitch around for? Dave Holden glanced over at Batty, sitting beside him in the cockpit of the freight spinner. They were flying west, returning from the Reclamation Center out in the desert, to the sprawl of the city. The same harsh sunlight that darkened the curved glass's photochrome membrane heated the brown stew of pollutants hanging in the air above L.A.; he could see it up ahead, like an old, frayed edge wool blanket spread over the simmering buildings. Batty's hands moved across the controls, manually piloting the craft. When he was busy doing something, he didn't look quite so maniacal. But that didn't change the situation.
The question didn't need an answer — Holden had decided that part a while back. But there were other questions that did.
'So, uh, exactly what is your interest in all this?'
'I told you.' Batty turned his cracked smile on him again. 'The sixth replicant. The one that's still missing.'
'What about it?' The smile still had the capacity for making him nervous. 'You just want to shake its hand or something? Get an autograph?'
'Don't want anything from it. Except to find it and kill it. And take back the evidence to the people who hired me that I've completed this little job for them.'
'And who's that?'
'Can't tell you.' Batty's eyes shifted. 'It's… a secret.'
'Bullshit.' His inner radar, his honed blade runner senses, flashed on the other's momentary unease. 'I can tell you're soamming me.' He peered closer at Batty. 'You don't know who hired you, do you?'
'Well… I got my suspicions about it.' Batty gave a minute adjustment to one of the controls. 'Might be the LAPD, Or it could be a gov agency. Possibly the feds, maybe even the U.N. — bad replicant business can call down some pretty high-level heat. Whoever it is, they're working outside the official channels, so we're talking cover-up. Ultraspook stuff; I got the job details and my up-front money through a double-blind courier service, no trace possible on who sent them my way.'
'How'd they find you? In the yellow pages?' Probably under Cannons, Loose — the thought gave Holden a twist of smug amusement.
'The fact they found me at all just proves these guys're up there. Man, I'd pretty much figured if I was going to be retired against my will, then I was going to be retired all the way-I'd taken every dime I'd saved up, from when those bastards over at the Tyrell Corporation had been still paying me my royalties on their line of Roy Batty replicants, and I'd dug myself in tight into a nice, safe little conapt in one of the Cracow ex-pat zones. I was gonna do nothing but drink gin and listen to Mahler's Second for the rest of my life.' He shook his head. 'You know, I don't have to kill people to have a good time.'
'But it helps.'
Batty shrugged. 'Speak for yourself. I didn't need to take this job-'
'You did, though.' Holden's turn to show a thin smile. 'So now you gotta go through with it. If these people you're talking about are such heavyweights, they wouldn't like you crapping out on them.'
'Tell me about it.' His face appearing suddenly older, expression glum. 'I've worked these kinds of gigs before. Perform or die's the general rule. Even so,' muttered Batty, 'I got half a mind to pull the plug on the whole operation. Dealing with an ungrateful little jerk like you-'
'What'd I do?'
'It's what you didn't do.' Glum to resentful. 'I arrange for a whole new heart and lungs to get slapped inside you, and you don't even say thanks.'
'Christ… give me a break.' Holden shook his head. 'All right, you have my sincerest appreciation. Satisfied?' He looked ahead to the city approaching on the horizon, then around to Batty again. 'Not as if it was all selfless altruism on your part, though, is it? You had some reason for busting me out of the hospital and all.'
'True. That's what pisses me off. I need you.'
Holden raised an eyebrow. 'For what?'
'Come on.' A big sigh from Batty. 'I've been out of the game for a while now. When I took you out of that hospital, that was the first time I'd been in L.A. in years. It's a whole lot bigger and uglier than when I left it. I need somebody who knows his way around. Otherwise, that sixth replicant could be hiding out in there, and I'd have fuck-all chance of finding it.'
'Oh, sure.' He gave a snort of disbelief. 'So buy a map, already.'
'It's not just the lay of the land, pal. It's the connections. You got'em and I don't. When I took off from L.A., I cut all my ties, all my sources of info, my whole network. I expect that most of the people I used to deal with are dead now, anyway. Places where they were at, things they were into — longevity's not much of an issue there.' A shrug. 'Wouldn't be such a problem if I'd done anything to replace them. But I. don't have time to do that. Replicant number six has gotten a real jump on getting himself safely out of sight. I can't screw around any longer finding it-I need somebody who's already got their systems up and running. Blade runner-type systems. That's you, Dave. That's why you're here.'
He didn't say anything in reply. If Batty wanted to believe he was so valuable, he wasn't going to do anything to dissuade him from the notion. A mixed bag regarding the state of his own connections, though. He'd been flat on his back, zoned out on the hospital's IV drip, for the better part of a year; that was a long time to be off the scene, especially in L.A. Batty didn't have a clue about how fast things changed now, compared to his day. Plus he was on the lam himself-his old boss Bryant, and God knew how many other people, had put him on ice for their own reasons, and they weren't likely to be too overjoyed about finding him walking around again. Though maybe that's a positive, mused Holden. If I got taken out by a conspiracy against the blade runners, the rest of them will be on my side. They'd have to be, for reasons of their own survival. At least the smart ones will be, he thought. Which meant that Batty's assessment was correct; he did have resources that he could call upon. The best kind, right inside the LAPD itself, right under the noses of Bryant and the others who'd set him up.
The residue of doubt evaporated, leaving the hard stratum of a blade runner's self-confidence. He still had the edge that came with being human. The spinner had reached the L.A. suburbs, sections of a maze homogenous with that of the city's tight, imploding center. Somewhere in there was the answer, walking around with someone else's face. Whose?
I'll find out soon enough. Holden glanced over again at the figure beside him. The same question went through his mind, assessing how much further use he had for Batty. Or whether he'd be better off without him, going out on the hunt alone.
'All right,' said Holden. 'I'll help you out. After all… it's only fair.'
Batty looked up from the spinner's controls. 'We got a little partnership going, then.'
'Oh… we sure do.' And smiled right back at him.
Deckard knew where he was going. He just didn't know how to get there.
It'd been easier when he'd been able to fly straight to the safe-house apartment in an unmarked spinner, at night with the tracking lights switched off, engines throttled back to near silence. That was when I was a blade runner, thought Deckard. A real one. With all the perks and privileges that accrued thereby. Now he had to creep along on the ground like a civilian or, worse yet, a hunted thing. Whatever transformation Sarah Tyrell promised him had been completed some time ago.
The stolen cop uniform was so torn and shredded as to be unrecognizable as such. His bruises and abraded skin, wounds crusted with dried blood, showed through the ragged gaps. As he climbed over the floes of concrete rubble and twisted rebar, the palms of his hands left small red marks.
At the crest of one long upward pull, Deckard stopped to catch his breath, the dry-heated air scalding the interior of his throat. An exact ninety-degree angle of marble and steel, once vertical and now laid out along the ground, marked where one of the zone's towers had fallen. Some of the buildings had pancaked fiat during the long-ago seismic upheavals, but most had toppled over lengthways, riding out the earth's whip-crack motion. A knife of freeway cleaved the zone, the lane-divider dots writing empty, absurd graffiti along the roadbed turned to wall.
A glance over his shoulder revealed unmarked sky, no pursuit from the air in sight. Holding on to the tumbled building's ridge, he shielded his eyes with one hand, scanning across the zone for any other indication that his
