“Obviously. From what our sources tell us, this child . . . The small eyes glanced at another sheet of paper. “Reportedly named Rachael . . . is ten years old.”
“That sounds about right.”
“Mr. Niemand.” The bureaucrat touched his fingertips together in a cage. “You haven’t been on Mars for ten years.”
“Then it’s a mystery, isn’t it”—Deckard looked straight back into the man’s eyes—“how these things come about.”
“No, it’s not.” Through his steepled hands, the bureaucrat regarded the figure on the other side of him. “Why don’t we just cut the crap? We know who you really are.”
Another shrug. “Good for you.”
“We’ve gotten our orders . . . Mr. Niemand.” The bureaucrat’s lip curled as he spoke the alias. “From the top levels. We’re to put you and the little girl on the next transport heading to the outer colonies. You wanted to emigrate?” He gathered the passport and other documents into a pile. “Then you’re ready to go. Cleared, approved, expedited—you’re out of here.”
Deckard picked up the booklet on top of the rest, opened it, and looked at the rubber-stamped markings on the pages. “What if I don’t want to go now? What if I’ve changed my mind?”
The eyes narrowed down to pinpricks. “It’s not up to you.”
He regarded his own hologram photo at the front of the passport, then laid it down. “You say you know who I am.” Deckard kept his voice level, emotionless.
“But what about you? Who are you?”
The bureaucrat’s gaze shifted uneasily. “That doesn’t matter. Mr. Niemand.”
“It matters to me.” Deckard leaned forward. “I don’t know who the hell you are. You could be anybody.” His voice grated harder. “You could be the U.N.
You could be the cops; maybe you’re really working for the LAPD. You could be the rep-symps; I don’t know how far they’ve infiltrated the authorities. Maybe He studied the other man’s round, insignificant face. “Maybe you’re the Tyrell Corporation . . . that shadow of it. I just don’t know.”
“Let’s face it.” The bureaucrat showed an unpleasant smile. “Your track record on this sort of thing isn’t the greatest. You can’t even tell if I’m human or not.”
“You’re right. I can’t even tell about myself anymore.” Deckard slowly shook his head. “And I don’t know why you want me to go out there. To the stars.”
“You’re not important,” said the bureaucrat. Or whatever he was. “You don’t matter at all. It’s the girl. You know that much, don’t you?”
Deckard kept his silence. The other man was right again. That was about all he knew for certain. He’d known it since he’d come back with the child from the Outer Hollywood station. She’d been born out there. Far away, he mused. And strange. The first replicant child, the beginning of that other species’ inheritance. Of all that had once been considered the exclusive province of human beings.
There had been other things he’d agreed to carry to that place he’d never seen. And he’d lost them. For good or ill, he didn’t know. But he still had the child with him. A child bearing his dead love’s name, and her face with those dark, quietly watching eyes. Rachael . . .
That much he had also known. That whatever else happened-whatever he had to do, however it was made possible; whatever would come about when they reached that destination—he would take her there. That was the job he had, the job that he’d accepted.
“All right,” said Deckard. He gathered up the other documents and held them with the passport in his hands. “I’ll go.” He pushed the chair back and stood up. “How much time do I have?”
The bureaucrat looked up at him. “The transport leaves in twelve hours.” The small eyes were almost kind. “You’re doing the right thing, Mr. Niemand.”
“I don’t know that.” Deckard tucked the documents inside his jacket. He turned and grasped the knob of the office’s thin door, then glanced over his shoulder at the other man. “And neither do you.”
“It’s not up to us, Mr. Niemand.”
“Probably not.” He pulled open the door. “Maybe out there I’ll find out who does decide. And then I’ll know.”
The bureaucrat nodded. “Perhaps.”
Deckard shut the door behind himself and headed down the narrow corridor.
There was no hurry; the few things he had to pack for himself and the little girl wouldn’t take long.
Whatever else they might need, he supposed, would be waiting for them at their journey’s end.
