“Did you get it?” Batty’s voice drilled insistent at his ear. “Did you get everything I told you to get?”
Deckard set the bag on the table next to the briefcase. “I’m not so screwed up I can’t handle a three-item shopping list.” He pulled out the plastic jug and the other objects. “This is what you asked for, this is what I got.”
“Anybody see you?”
He laughed. “Hundreds. Thousands. Not exactly a depopulated zone around here.”
“Come on.” The briefcase sounded annoyed. “You know what I mean. Cops, the police, the authorities. People who shouldn’t have seen you. Not if you want to take care of business without being interrupted.”
“We’re all right—for the time being.” Deckard didn’t know if that was true or not. And didn’t care. In some ways, it would be a relief if the hovel’s front door were suddenly broken down by jackbooted storm troopers from the deepest basements of either the cable monopoly or the U.N.’s diplomatic headquarters.
Then he wouldn’t have to go ahead with what he’d already told the briefcase he would. “Don’t sweat it. You’re not the one who has to worry about what happens.”
“Only because the worst already has.” Batty’s voice prodded at him. “Let’s get going.”
He’d already gotten his instructions, the measuring and pouring and mixing involved in the process, from the briefcase. The colloidal suspension poured out like transparent molasses, heavy and glistening. He thinned it out with a half cup of water from the kitchen tap, stirring the results with the glass rod. A reddish tinge, rust from the emigrant colony’s decaying pipes, mingled with the faint ionic discharge of the colloid’s activation.
All through the back alleys and in the surrounding hovels, as well as in the crowded cities back on Earth, the same preparations were being made, all the differing communicants readying their sacraments, assembling the doorways through which they would pass to meet the God they had chosen. Back in L.A., Deckard had never been attracted to the whole dehydrated deity underground, or repelled by it, either; he’d developed enough cop glaze to favorably regard anything that kept the citizens off the streets, tucked away in their little rooms or dorm cribs, bodily inert while their central nervous systems were off in the ozone, walking with the King. Less trouble generated that way-usually; some of them came back with the light of fanaticism in their eyes, ready for a private jihad on anything that crossed their paths. Those types never got very far; religious obsessives—at least the murderous kind—did everything in public and found a snipered martyrdom preferable to reloading their own weapons. That was the kind of thing that made L.A. police work easy, even enjoyable at times.
Deckard tapped the glass rod on the rim of the calibrated beaker. Already, as the less-viscous fluid settled, the flakes of rust were precipitating out, drifting to the bottom of the container like some obscure precious metal.
From somewhere on the edge of his consciousness, Batty’s voice intruded.
“Nothing happens,” the briefcase said dryly, “if you just sit there looking at it. The rest is in the little packet.”
“Right.” Deckard picked up the thin rectangular shape, the same as yet different from the ones at the marketplace stall. The one word, the name SEBASTIAN, in large block letters— No much of a clue there, he thought again.
Or even instructions. “What, do I just dump the whole thing in?”
“Christ, no.” The briefcase emitted an exasperated sigh. “Not unless you’re mixing for a party or something —and then you’d need a beaker a lot larger than that; maybe a bathtub or something. No—you throw the whole packet in what you got there, you’ll be at a toxic level. It’d strip the = catecholamines out of your brain so fast-burn out all the neural receptor sites along the way as well—you’d wind up a vegetable. At least in this world; no way of telling where you’d be on the other side.”
“You sound like you believe in this kind of thing. Like it’s true.”
“I don’t believe,” replied Batty. “I know. At least enough not to screw around. The rep-symps back down on Earth, the same ones who scraped me off that freeway where you left me and put me in this box . . . those people know what they’re doing. They may be visionaries, but they still know what’s going on. They wouldn’t have put that packet inside me, and told me to lay it on you, if there weren’t some serious force majeure to it.”
As with most things this version of Batty said, that one made sense as well. A lot of effort had been expended, with corpses attached, to get the briefcase and its contents here, in Deckard’s hands. Even if his old partner, Dave Holden, hadn’t gone through some big crisis of conscience, hadn’t had the change of heart that would’ve put him working with the rep-symps—there wasn’t any way that someone like that would have signed up on a pure chump mission.
No matter what side he’d been on.
“You know Deckard reached over to the packet on the table and picked it up between thumb and forefinger. “I’m taking an awful lot here on trust.”
“What choice do you have? It’s like that old Chinese proverb: Safety is on the shore, but the pearl is in the ocean.” A silent shrug. “You want answers, you have to go somewhere to find them. You’re just lucky—you’re holding that somewhere in your hand.”
Deckard didn’t feel lucky. He wasn’t sure he’d recognize the sensation, if it ever happened to him. You want answers? That was what the briefcase had promised him; that had been the whole reason for his little shopping expedition out to the colony’s illicit marketplace. So he could come back here to the hovel he called home—as much as he’d ever called any place home, even back in L.A—and mix up a small batch of the dehydrated deity in the packet.
The one with Sebastian’s name on it.
He asked what he had asked Batty before. “Why would Sebastian—if it’s really him inside here-why would he know the answers?” Deckard remembered the little wizened genetic engineer as a decrepit childlike creature with no more control over his destiny than he had over his own rapidly aging body. The last time he had seen Sebastian in the flesh, major parts of it had already been lost, limbs amputated in the attempt to keep the core functions going. Too bad, mused Deckard, that he couldn’t take the knife and cut the stupid bits out of his heart as well. The poor little truncated bastard had been in love with Pris, or the remains of her, and hadn’t even been aware that she wasn’t a replicant, but a human the same as him, only crazier. Sebastian had set up housekeeping, out in the sideways zone at the edge of L.A., with the animated corpse he’d adored—and then he’d had even that much happiness taken away from him. A loser like that—a loser by fate, written right down into his own genetic code— didn’t sound like a very promising candidate for deity status.
“What the hell,” asked Deckard aloud, “could somebody like that have figured out?”
“I don’t know.” Batty’s reply was a flat, simple statement. “I’ve never been in there . . . where you’re going. Those pocket universes, that whole dehydrated deity trip—I never did any of that, and now I can’t. Not possible in my present condition. The activated colloidal suspensions only interface with organic human nervous systems. Leaves me out.” The briefcase laughed. “Hey, I’d love to go in there myself, rather than counting on you. But as it is, you’ve got the only ticket.”
“All right,” said Deckard. “Whatever.” Thinking about fate, whatever Sebastian’s had been, left him resigned to his own. He might as well get this stage—even if it was the final one-over with. “Let’s do it.”
The Sebastian packet was still in Deckard’s hand. He rapped the edge a couple of times against the table, to make sure the contents were all at the bottom, then tore the upper edge open.
Batty must have heard the sound of ripping paper. “About a teaspoonful should suffice.”
Spoons he’d had already; Deckard rinsed one off in the kitchen sink and brought it back to the table. He measured out what the briefcase had instructed him to, then folded down the top of the packet.
The powder in the spoon smelled like yeast, though he knew it wasn’t. When it hit the watered-down fluid in the beaker, the minute grains sparked off more luminous ions; the faint blue light tinged his hand as he picked up the glass rod and stirred.
“Bottoms up,” said the briefcase.
The blue ionic discharge had died out, leaving clear liquid again; Deckard supposed that meant the colloidal activation was complete. A deity of some kind-hard to imagine it actually being that pathetic double amputee- existed in the beaker. Or so it was to be believed. Deckard picked up the container and took a sip.
Bitter on his tongue; he managed to swallow. In his throat, he felt nothing, as though the liquid had already seeped into his tissues, heading for the first connections with his spine and brain.
He drained the rest at one go, placing the empty beaker on the table. Then he leaned back in the chair and
