Just because Pris isn’t here . . . that doesn’t mean she isn’t anywhere at all.
Maybe you just haven’t looked for her in the right places.”
“Huh?” Sebastian rubbed his wet face with his free hand. As Deckard let go of him, he scooted back and sat up. “What do you mean?”
“Come on. Figure it out.” Deckard knew he was talking crap, but managed to conceal it. “This is where she was killed, right? I mean, right here in this building. I should know; I’m the one who did it, who blew her away. Out in the real world. You think if you put this place back together here, she’s going to want to hang around it? Get real.”
“Huh.” With his sleeve, Sebastian wiped his reddened nose. “Never thought of that.”
“Only natural.” Deckard wasn’t sure if that word applied in a private universe like this. Raising his knees, he rested his forearms on them. From the corner of his eye, he could see that the room’s accelerating dissolve had been halted, perhaps even reversed; the walls, while still cracked and flaking plaster, appeared less nebulous. He could no longer see the other room, the one where his real body was sitting at a table with a briefcase on it. “Maybe you haven’t put the place back together yet where Pris would be.” He gestured toward one of the broken windows and the night sky beyond. “How far does this go?”
“How far . . . you mean the city? L.A.?”
Deckard nodded. “Everything. All the stuff you put together for yourself here.
Did you just do the street outside this building, or does it go beyond that?”
“Gosh. I don’t really know.” Sebastian gazed up to the cracked ceiling, sorting through his thoughts. “I never really go outside anymore. Not since the rep-symps put me here. It’s netlike I go out walking around or anything. I just made the stuff come back that I could see from the windows—you know, what I saw when I was back in the real world and I looked out and there was the street and everything.” He got up and walked over to the nearest window. With one hand, Sebastian pushed away the rags of the curtain. “Well it’s hard to tell from here. I mean, just how far things go. All the other buildings on this street are so much taller. There’s just kind of one angle over there where you can see some more of the city.” He pointed out to the night.
“Doesn’t look too . . . you know, real or anything. Kinda fakey.” Sebastian shrugged in embarrassment. “Guess I sorta skimped on that part. I wasn’t really paying attention.”
“You ought to get out more,” said Deckard dryly. “Do you good.”
The room looked as if a storm had passed through it, scattering the contents.
Deckard stood up, then reached down to set upright one of the little tables and the candelabra that had been on it.
In the rubble on the floor was a scuffed Second World War-vintage Zippo lighter; he flicked on its thin flame and lit the half-burnt candles. The wavering light drove the shadows back to the corners.
“Maybe . . . maybe you’re right.” Still standing at the window, Sebastian leaned toward the darkness, gaze searching across the close urban vista. “About Pris.
You’re right, she wouldn’t be here!” His voice grew more excited; he turned back toward Deckard. “If she came back—and she must’ve; I wanted her to—she would’ve run away from someplace like this. Where she got hurt so bad and all.
She might’ve gotten away before I even got a chance to see her again.”
Deckard kept his silence. There was nothing more to be said to the little man, to sell the point to him. He’d lied to Sebastian, raised his hopes, just to keep him from totally dissolving his private universe. There’s no Pris out there, thought Deckard. There’s not even an out there.
Beyond the building’s walls, the U.N. blimp drifted slowly overhead. The enormous viewscreen on the blimp’s side was reflected in the rows of intact window glass across the empty street. Deckard saw a fragmented image of the screen’s geisha face, the smile replaced by a somber, knowing pity.
“I’ve got to go looking for her!” Sebastian appeared ready to immediately rush out of the building and onto the street below. “Maybe she’s waiting for me—”
His manner became even more frantic and agitated. “She might be all alone somewhere, and wondering why I haven’t come to be with her—”
“Hold on.” Deckard grabbed hold of the other man’s shoulder as he started for the door. “Wait a minute. We’ve still got things to talk about.”
The room and the surrounding building, the fabric of the pocket universe, had resolidified. Or the illusion of it had—Deckard had to remind himself that the place wasn’t real. He wondered how much time he had left here; at some point the effects of the activated colloidal suspension would wear off, flushed out of his percept system by the constant, slow percolation of his own biochemistry. For all he knew, the spoonful of the Sebastian packet that he’d ingested had already worked its way through his kidneys and was, along with its various breakdown components, ready to be pissed out. At some other time, the notion that one deity or another could reside in his bladder might have wryly amused him; right now, he was in a hurry.
“Let’s go! Let’s go!” The toy soldier, its nose still bent at an angle, tugged at Sebastian’s coveralls. “Right now!” At the other side of the room, the reanimated teddy bear had started rooting through the objects that had been knocked loose and scattered during the quake, as though it were assembling provisions for the journey. “Come on!”
“No, no, Squeaker—Mr. Decker’s right.” Sebastian patted the soldier on the top of its helmet. “He came all this way to talk with me; he’s our guest, so we should treat him right.” He glanced up with an embarrassed smile. “I’m real sorry for what happened just now. I got kinda carried away.”
“That’s all right. I understand.” The twinge of guilt sharpened underneath Deckard’s breastbone, though he was careful not to let any sign show on his face. Maybe—a small trace of hope moved inside his thoughts-maybe he will find Pris out there. Or something like her. “I know what it’s like.”
“Well, yeah . . . I suppose so.” Sebastian tilted his head, his wet gaze narrowing as he studied the figure in front of him. “You know, though . . . maybe it wasn’t Pris I got all wrong. Maybe it’s you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You shouldn’t have been able to just come in here and push me around like that.” Sebastian spoke without rancor—he had obviously gotten used to being pushed around, one way or another. “This is my world, remember; my little private universe. I’m supposed to be the deity here. If I’d wanted to bring the whole thing crashing down, I shoulda been able to do that. And you wouldn’t have been able to stop me. At least, that’s the way it’s supposed to work. No . . . something funny’s going on.” He raised an eyebrow. “When we were wrassling around and all, I was trying to make you disappear-well, I was losing, wasn’t I?—and you just wouldn’t. You’re still here. That’s really strange, don’t you think?”
Deckard shrugged. “I’m not an expert on these places. This is the first time I’ve even been in one.”
“Yeah, well, I live here now. This is the only place I exist. So I should know what the deal is on ’em.” He slowly shook his head. “I don’t get it. What are you, Deckard?”
“I don’t know.” What the hell’s that supposed to mean? The question didn’t even make sense. “Is it important?”
“Maybe not.” Sebastian brushed his hands off on the front of his coveralls.
“Whatever.” All around him, the cracks in the walls’ plaster were slowly disappearing, the edges stitching themselves back together. He leaned down and pulled the ballerina doll clear of the crevice in the floor before it could close up on her leg. “So . . . what is it you came here for? What’d you want to find out?”
“You tell me. I was sent here. To see you.”
Sebastian nodded. “Yeah, like I said . . . I knew you were coming. The rep-symps told me you’d show up eventually. That was all part of the plan. With the Batty box and all.”
“The briefcase,” said Deckard. “If that’s what you mean.”
“That’s the one. You know that’s Batty in there, don’t you? Of course you do—it’s not like he’s ever exactly quiet about it. Not the one I first met—the replicant who came here—but the other one. The original, the human templant.”
“He was the one who told me to come here. He gave me the packet with your name on it; it was inside him, inside the briefcase.” Deckard glanced toward one of the windows as though some change in the night’s darkness might have indicated the passage of time. “And to get the stuff to mix it up. He had all the instructions. They must have briefed him pretty well.”
