by K. W. Jeter
"You know," said Deckard, "I'm not really interested in whatever soap opera you might be addicted to. Maybe you should watch this on your own time. I've got more important business to take care of right now."
"Not any more important than this. Trust me." Marley gave a nod toward the screen. "This is just about the most important thing in the universe for you.
Just sit back and watch, all right?"
The cable logo faded out and was replaced by another one, a stark black-and-white graphic of a stylized skull with wings. Deckard recognized it even before the words SPEED DEATH PRODUCTIONS pulsed into view; the skull image and the video company name had been on the advance check he'd received from that sweating, pudgy director he'd walked out on back at the Outer Hollywood station. It took a moment longer to remember the guy's name. Urbenton-the recall prompted a slow nod from Deckard. That was it.
In the bar's muffled quiet, the sound of a cheaply synthesized sound track, all throbbing bass and disembodied string choirs, oozed out of the video monitors' tiny speakers. Deckard found himself watching intently, leaning forward across the table, despite his earlier scorn. On the screen, a black night vista was suddenly broken by a leaping gout of fire.
"That looks good." Marley nodded admiringly. "Real spooky and dramatic."
The title appeared on the screen, blanking out everything but the darkness behind it. Two words: Blade Runner.
"What the hell..." A surmise weighted with dread started to form inside Deckard.
A crawl of other words, smaller than the video's title, moved upward across the screen. Broken phrases lodged in Deckard's head-based on a true story... from actual LAPD case records-with their meanings slowly adding up to the realization of what he was seeing. The final piece locked in when he saw his own name listed in the opening credits as technical adviser.
Marley pointed to the words. "That was nice of that Urbenton fellow, don't you think? Considering that you voided your contract with him-he didn't have to leave your name on there."
"This ... this is the video he was making." With a sick feeling, Deckard gazed at the screen. "That he hired me to go out there and help him with."
"Come on-he hired you for more than that," chided Marley. "Urbenton bought your life story-or at least that part of it that went down in L.A., when you were tracking that last bunch of escaped replicants. Well, here it is." He made a sweeping gesture toward the nearest monitor and all the other identical screens mounted in the bar. "This is the premiere showing. Right now, on the entire Martian cable network." Another smile. "See? I knew you'd dig it."
"Shit-" Deckard stared at the video monitor in dismay. The fury of his own thoughts drowned out anything coming from the audio track. "Everybody's going to see this. Everybody on this entire planet."
"That's right, pal." Marley's hands made an expansive gesture, as though in congratulation. "There's only one channel, and you're the star. It's your fifteen minutes, Deckard; enjoy it."
Deckard didn't have time to respond to the other man's sarcasm. This was something he hadn't counted on. Now I'm really screwed, he thought. In a few minutes, once the video got past its opening sequence, with all the artsy Los Angeles location shots that Urbenton had faked from the Outer Hollywood street sets-once the story got rolling, Deckard's own story-then it would be his own face up on the video screens. Not just here in this bar, but everywhere. Nice, big close-ups, all zoomed-in and personal; he had watched Urbenton directing the cameras during the video shoot, bringing them in tight on the actor in the distinctive long coat carrying the police-issue gun through the city's dark and rain-soaked streets. There had been some full-on shots that would very likely fill the monitor screens. And it'll be my face, he thought. Not the face of the actor playing me. But my face. That had been the other thing that he'd sold the rights to, that Urbenton and his Speed Death Productions had bought. Spelled out in precise contractual language: . . . the undersigned contracting party, in consideration of the financial remuneration specified above, grants as well the right to use a full and accurate facial depiction of self~ along with any associated physical mannerisms consistent with an identification of the portrayed individual as the former Los Angeles Police Department special agent known as Rick Deckard...
That was what he'd agreed to, the contract he'd signed, back when he'd still been under the impression that the money from Urbenton would be enough to get him and Sarah Tyrell off Mars and heading out to the U.N. 's colonies in the stars. Deckard hadn't anticipated being on the run, with Christ only knew what kind of police agencies breathing down his neck. It was a wonder he hadn't been nabbed already; the suspicion had started to grow in him that the cops were giving him a long rope, seeing if there was anybody else he'd entangle before they picked him up. Eventually, they'd tire of that game, get tired of waiting for him to contact his nonexistent accomplices, and then Deckard would find the rope around his neck, where it'd always been.
It was going to be a lot easier to tighten that noose now, or as soon as this video had finished airing over every cable-linked monitor in the emigrant colony. When Deckard had been there, at the Outer Hollywood station, orbiting above Earth, Urbenton had even shown him how the special-effects people were going to digitize his face, from the bones up through the web of muscles, to the skin and every whisker stubble and freckle on it, every little detail that made up the world-weary, tired-of-killing but still deadly gestalt that Deckard saw when he looked in a mirror. Standard practice in the modern video business: in postproduction, once the principal photography was done, the techs would lay the digital face over that of the actor who had gone through the paces on the set, who'd hit the marks and had the prop guns fired at him, taken the hits from the other actors, done all the hard stuff . . . and what the audience would see, when the video was broadcast, would be a reconstituted Rick Deckard walking those garish, milling, neon-streaked L.A. streets again, just as the real one had, gun in hand, eyes scanning for his prey.
That's what they're going to see, thought Deckard, right now. The only chance he'd had was based on anonymity, on being able to move through the emigrant colony's crowds without being spotted, on hiding out in the open, his face hidden in the torrent of other faces. And now that was going to be taken away from him. They're going to see me. My face.
On the monitor screens, the video's opening credits had ended; the camera angle had dropped from the fire-laced night skies above L.A., crossed by the screaming flares of the police spinners, to street level; the reflection of a neon dragon, red tongue darting through a crudely animated sequence, shimmered on the wet asphalt. A figure in a long coat, shoulders hunched with fatigue, was seen from the back. As the real Deckard watched from the booth, the video's all-seeing eye moved in on his taped double.
Then a quick cut, the shot going to a front angle, tight on the Deckard figure's shirt beneath the open coat's lapels, buttoned to the top with a costume department duplicate of the rough-woven tie he'd always affected back then. The shot moved up to the image's face, a close-up in good lighting, a noodle bar's bright fluorescents driving away any concealing shadows; the real Deckard winced, anticipating what he was about to see-
He didn't. In the booth, in a cheap dive somewhere in the Martian emigrant colony, Deckard stared in amazement- and with an uncomprehending sense of relief-at what he saw on the monitor, echoed simultaneously on the screens throughout the bar.
"That's not you," said a small voice behind him. The Rachael child looked past Deckard and Marley, on either side of her, toward the nearest screen. "I thought this was going to be about you and everything, about stuff that happened to you before. But that doesn't look anything like you."
"No..." Deckard continued to watch the video image. The Deckard there, the figure reenacting the story of those nights in L.A., had moved away from the camera and into a medium shot; the face was still visible, though. "It's not my face."
"Now that is interesting." No surprise registered in Marley's voice. "You weren't expectin
g that, were you, Deckard? I was getting kind of a kick out of watching you. Really thought your cover was about to be blown, huh?"
Deckard said nothing, but just nodded slowly, still watching the image on the screen, the Deckard that didn't look like him.
"Something must have happened," continued Marley. "For that Urbenton fellow to change his plans like that. I know that wasn't the original deal. They were going to ceegee your face on top of that actor's; all he had to do was go through the motions and it would wind up looking like you were doing all that stuff all over again. Hunting down those replicants like the bad ol' blade runner you used to be."
"I know." Deckard felt a measure of tension easing out of his spine. The dismaying prospect that every other face in the bar would turn toward him, connecting him with the image on the video monitors, had vanished. If the police agencies were going to put out the net for him, they would have to do it without the advantage of having every person with eyes doing their spotting for them. "That's a break."
"You figure it's just luck? The director Urbenton just happened to change his mind?"
He looked over at the other man. "No-" Deckard shook his head. "I don't have that kind of luck. If I ever did. Nothing happens without a reason."
"For anybody not in the kind of position you are, that would be considered paranoia. For you, Deckard, it's the beginning of wisdom."
Whatever relief he had felt over the broadcast of the video, and the absence of his face from it, was replaced by the suspicions he had for this character. "I don't have to be real wise, buddy, to wonder what it is you want from me."
"What do I want?" Marley looked back at him with wideeyed, feigned innocence.
"Like I said, I want to help you. And the way I do that is by stopping you."
"Stopping me from what?"
"Come on, Deckard. I'm way ahead of you." The naive mask had dropped from Marley's face. "I know what you're up to. You've accepted a little job, haven't you? The fact that you're carrying around that talking briefcase only goes to prove it. If you had any sense-if all you were interested in was saving your own skin-you would've ditched it by now." Marley tilted his head toward the other occupant of the booth. "Same with the little girl. Nice kid, but she's only going to slow you down."
"That's my problem," said Deckard.
"Oh, exactly." Marley's thin smile returned. "It's your problem because it's your job. The job you've taken on for the rep-symps of getting that briefcase and its data contents out to the insurgent replicants."
Deckard stiffened. "If you know all that ... and you want to stop me ... then you must be some kind of cop. You'd have to be working for the authorities."
"Not at all." The smile grew wider. "I'm with the repsymps."
For a few seconds, Deckard thought that one over, then slowly nodded. "Sure you are. You blow away that Kowalski replicant right in front of me, and then you come and tell me that you're working on behalf of the replicants. You really think I'm going to believe that one?"
"Shooting the Kowalski replicant Marley shrugged. "Regrettable, but it had to be done. And not even all that much to be sorry about-he was pretty much at the end of the four-year life span that the Tyrell Corporation had built into that model. So he didn't really lose that much. And besides, there are other Kowalski replicants."
"That's a pretty cold attitude." Deckard studied the other man. "At least I had the grace to develop a guilty conscience over what I'd done."
"Good for you." Deckard's words had left Marley unfazed. "That must be why you got picked for this job you're doing. Guilty consciences screw up people's heads, make 'em easy to manipulate. Like you. Otherwise, if you were thinking straight, you would've been able to figure out a few things about the situation you're in."
"Yeah? Like what?"
"Work on it, Deckard." The other man leaned closer across the table. "You think because I've said I want to stop you-to make sure you don't get that briefcase and its data out to the insurgents-you think that must mean I'm with the authorities. Have you ever thought that it's exactly the authorities- the police, the U.N., whatever-who want you to get that briefcase out to where you've been told it's supposed to be delivered?"
"Hey!" The voice of Roy Batty piped up from beneath the table. "Don't listen to this guy! He's trouble!"
Deckard glanced over to the monitor screen, where the Deckard of the video, still wearing the actor's face, was talking to somebody in a set that was supposed to be the LAPD's high-ceilinged main headquarters. He didn't hear the characters' words, concentrating instead on what the figure across from him had just said.
"Look at it this way," continued Marley. "The cable monopoly here does whatever the authorities tell it to do-that's why it gets to remain a monopoly. If U.N. security tells the monopoly to run this video or that one, or that one"-he pointed to the screen-"then it gets broadcast all over the colony. Same way with Urbenton and his little Speed Death Productions company; if he wasn't in tight with the police before, it wouldn't take much pressure, if any, before he'd do whatever they tell him to. Especially since he doesn't owe you any favors. If they told him to cut the computer graphic effects, the dubbing in of your face over the actor who was playing you-he'd do it in a second. Urbenton wouldn't care if it helped you or hurt you; just the kind of guy he is."
Deckard had to admit that Marley was right, at least as far as that part of the analysis went. "I think I'm starting to see what you mean..."
"I bet you are. You're not totally stupid, Deckard. If the police and the U.N.
security forces and everybody else who should be after you, if all those people wanted to find you and stop you from carrying that briefcase out to the insurgents, they wouldn't have let that actor's face stay in the video that's being broadcast. They would've told Urbenton to go ahead with his original production plans and dub your face in there. So that everybody in the emigrant colony would know what you look like; so they could put out a bulletin, offer a little reward, and there would've been no place you could hide. We wouldn't be sitting in this cozy little hole having this conversation; the police would've hauled your ass away by now."
It made sense; or put another way, the video broadcast didn't. This was their chance, thought Deckard, to make sure everybody knows what I look like. And it hadn't happened. The corollary of the principle that, for him, everything happened for a reason-not paranoia but wisdom, a survivor's assessment of how the universe worked-was that when things didn't happen, that was also because somebody wanted it that way.
"Then that would mean..." Deckard slowly picked through his own words. "It would mean the authorities don't want to stop me. They don't want to catch me..."
"They want you to get away." On the other side of the table, Marley regarded him with evident satisfaction, pleased with the impact his arguments had made. "So the question you have to ask yourself now is . . . why?"
"Why do they want me to get away..." Deckard rubbed his mouth with a knuckle. "They must have a reason..."
"It's not you, pal." Marley seemed to be taking pity on him. "If it's any comfort to you-nobody's ever considered you to be that important. So you needn't bother building up your ego now. It's what you're carrying. The job you've undertaken. Got it?" He smiled. "It's the briefcase. They want you to deliver it. Not the rep-symps, but the authorities. The police, the U.N... all of them. The bad guys."
"I told you!" Batty's voice shouted louder from beneath the table. The briefcase vibrated against Deckard's shin. "I told you this guy was trouble. He's messing with your mind. Don't listen to him!"
The Rachael child leaned to one side in order to talk to the briefcase. "It's okay," she said in a soothing tone. "Nothing bad's going to happen to you-"
"Christ," spoke Batty disgustedly. "I don't need this. You people are all screwing up big-time. Man, I wish I still had legs. I'd walk out of here right now and take my chances on my own. I'd let you all just sit here until you rotted away."
"Shut up." Deckard resisted the
impulse to give the briefcase another kick. "Problem is, the guy's making sense."
"That's not a problem." A smile and a shake of Marley's head. "It's your salvation, Deckard."
"Goddamn it, don't listen-"
Batty's voice had gone up enough in volume to require action. Angrily, Deckard reached down and grabbed the handle, pulling the briefcase up and slamming it down hard on the table. He looked around to see if anyone in the place had noticed; as far as he could discern, the bartender and the patrons scattered among the tables were still watching the dimly lit adventures of the re-created Deckard in the video.
"Listen up," said Deckard, laying his hand on top of the briefcase's lid. "You're getting on my nerves. You keep yelling and carrying on, somebody's bound to think that's a little unusual. And I don't really feel like attracting attention right now. Understand?"
"You're the one who doesn't understand." Batty's voice had turned sulky. "You got a job to do, and this asshole is getting in the way."
"I don't care what I agreed to do." He pulled his hand back. "Just shut up and let me work this out, or so help me, I'll leave you at the nearest pawnshop and I'll take the two bucks I'll get for you and spend it on aspirin. I'm not joking."
The briefcase said nothing. It radiated a silent, sullen fury.
"Good call." Marley nodded approvingly. "You're the one in charge. Remember that-"
"Fine." The anger boiling up in Deckard hadn't abated. "I'm in charge? Then I want answers. I want to know what's going on. Right now, without any more cute shit from you."
"All right." Marley laid both his large-boned hands on the table. "I'll give you the short-and-sweet version, if you think your little mind can handle it. The briefcase here" - he tapped on it with one fingernail - "It's not what you think it Is. It's not what you've been told."
"Yeah? So what Is it, then?"
Marley smiled coldly at him. "You're carrying a bomb."
