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
