been when she had turned and ran, snatching up the Rachael child by the hand and pulling her along after herself, not caring that the child was even less real than her dead father.
“And then your father killed himself.”
She didn’t know which of the men had spoken. “That’s right.” She supposed that was something else of which they had been aware all along, another little fragment left in the company records, transcribed from one of the employees who had gone aboard the returned Salander 3. What else they found: the two corpses with slashed throats, the knife still in Anson Tyrell’s hand. “When he was sane again, and he could see what he had done. He used the same knife on himself.” That kind of grief, she knew, being another sort of insanity. Or else it was being really, truly sane at last. It all had the same results. “He didn’t worry about the infant lying in the pooi of blood, wailing away and kicking its little feet. He knew that the Salander 3’s computer and all its built-in autonomic machinery would take care of me. Better than he would be able to; that’s what it was designed for. Especially since he had no way of knowing how long he would stay sane. The craziness had come over him like a storm, and it had passed, but it might come again. Better to let the ship bathe and feed and comfort his child.”
“And bring it back to Earth,” said Wycliffe. “Bring you back. The Salander 3’s return program wouldn’t have kicked in while your father was still alive.
The computer only went into autopilot when it could no longer detect any adult human presences aboard.”
There was some small comfort to be had from that. Sarah felt cold and empty, the hard bravado she had been displaying now worn thin, as though the warmth of the yacht’s lounge had failed to reach the bones chilled by the ocean’s storm. Still, she thought as she gazed at the elaborate marquetry of the cigarette box’s lid and did not see it. Still . . . he was trying to protect me the only way he could. From all the bad, crazy things. From himself.
“But . . . we don’t know why he did it. What could have caused Anson Tyrell to go mad.”
Sarah looked up and saw the two men in conference, heads leaning toward each other, voices lowered but not to whispers, as though they had simply put her presence out of their minds for a moment. Between them, seated in the wing chair, her hallucination of the Rachael child looked up at them, following their conversation like a tennis spectator.
“That’s true,” replied Zwingli. He nodded thoughtfully. “We have more details . . . but not really any more information. Not that we can use.”
“That’s a problem.” Behind the square-rimmed glasses, Wycliffe’s eyes seemed to focus on his own deep considerations. “To have come all this way .
“Yes As though in a slightly distorted mirror, Zwingli’s gaze looked the same, complete to the spectacles exactly like those of the late Eldon Tyrell. “It seems a shame .
Wycliffe remained silent, lips pursed in thought.
“Do you really suppose we could? I mean, ask her to do that.”
“Ask me to do what?” Sarah heard her own voice cut across the yacht’s lounge.
“What are you two talking about?”
“We wouldn’t ask it of you, Miss Tyrell Wycliffe raised and spread his hands. “If it weren’t so absolutely critical to our mission.”
“That’s right.” Zwingli nodded vigorously. “We’re really only thinking about the ultimate fate of the Tyrell Corporation.”
“I bet.” A bitter taste formed on Sarah’s tongue. “You want me to go back down there. Back down to the Salander 3. I didn’t bring back enough information with me on that last trip. Not enough to suit you, at any rate.”
“As I said.” Wycliffe made an attempt at looking apologetic. “Only because it’s so crucial. That’s the only reason. You understand that, don’t you?”
“Oh, I understand all right.” Sarah stood up from the chair. She pulled the robe tighter around herself, grabbing the dangling ends of the belt and cinching it hard at her waist. “And as you also said—” She could feel the stiffer embroidery of the company logo against her skin, just above her heartbeat. “Without the Tyrell Corporation, I’m nothing. So I really don’t have much choice in the matter.”
“That’s rather a . . . harsh way of looking at it—”
“Stuff it. You’re supposed to be working for me. And I don’t need your lectures.” Sarah held out her hand, palm upward. “You promised me something.
Back on Mars. And I haven’t gotten it yet.”
Wycliffe looked puzzled. “Promised you what?”
“A gun. Another one, to replace the one I had.”
The two men exchanged nervous glances.
“Don’t worry about it, for Christ’s sake.” Sarah shook her head in disgust.
“It’ll be all right—”
“Miss Tyrell . . . that might not be such a good idea. Not right now.”
She glared at Wycliffe. “You mean, not after I’ve been talking about killing myself.”
“Well . . .”
“Look, you want me to go back down there? Then give me the gun. Because I’m not going to go down there without it.”
A faint smile showed on Zwingli’s face. “A gun wouldn’t help you. Not there.
Not with those kinds of things.”
“I don’t care about that.” Sarah kept her hand extended in the same position.
“Give me the gun. Or you can kiss off getting anything more from the Salander 3.”
Wycliffe’s owlish gaze regarded her for a few moments longer. Then he turned and walked over to the cabinets at the far end of the lounge, extracting a ring of keys from his pocket as he went. He came back with a large black object in one hand. “Here you are,” he said stiffly. “As you requested.”
She examined the gun, turning it from side to side. It was bigger and heavier than the one she’d had back on Mars. That should do. “How do I know that it’s loaded?” Sarah held it at arm’s length, sighting along her wrist and down the weapon’s massive barrel. “Or that it works at all? Maybe it’s a dummy, just some prop you got ready for me.”
A sigh from Wycliffe. “It’s loaded. We keep them that way.”
“I need to test it. Before I go back down there.”
He glanced toward one of the lounge’s dark-filled viewports. “Perhaps when the storm is over. In the morning; then you could go outside with it—”
“No.” Sarah shook her head. “I don’t have to go outside.” Arm still extended, she swiveled the gun around. “Not at all.”
The bullet caught Wycliffe in his chest, sending him aloft, arms spread wide, as though he were falling back onto some invisible bed just behind him. He landed in a crumpled mass at Zwingli’s feet. The other man looked down at his partner’s corpse, then back up at Sarah, eyes wider behind the square glasses than they had ever been before.
This is too easy. The echo from the first shot was still rolling around the space as she pulled the trigger once more. They must have wanted it this way.
She didn’t care whether they had or not.
“Gosh.” The Rachael child had gotten out of the wing chair and had gone over to look at the two bodies, one lying on top of the other. The Eldon Tyrell memorial glasses gazed blankly at the lounge’s ceiling. “What’s going to happen now?” Unfazed, the child looked over at Sarah.
She set the gun down on the small table, then extracted a cigarette from the ornate box. “I’ve got other business to take care of.” Sarah slipped the lighter into the robe’s pocket. “Far from here.” Tilting her head back, she exhaled smoke. “Unfinished business.”
“Can I come with you?”
A shrug. It didn’t matter to her. The little girl didn’t really exist, and, for all practical purposes, the two die- hard loyalists had stopped existing as well. She was alone.
“Sure.” She turned and started back to the master suite, to finish dressing before going up and setting the yacht’s course. Back to Mars. And Deckard. She wondered idly how he’d react when he saw her again. I’ll know
