Sarah looked over her shoulder at the two men, giving them the coldest edge of her half smile. “So what agency are you from?” She raised an eyebrow. “The local authorities?” There were police in the emigrant colonies, but they worked almost entirely for the cable monopoly, terrorizing deadbeat subscribers and rooting out illegal taps on the wire. “Or perhaps you’re from Earth. U.N.?” That was a possibility—the colonies were laced with informants ratting on each other to the intelligence clearinghouse back in Geneva.
“Perhaps LAPD—it wouldn’t surprise me.” The point of her smile sharpened.
“Though I should remind you—there’s no extradition allowed between Earth and Mars. Per the U.N.’s emigration authority. So if you were planning on taking me back with you, to face whatever charges you might have against me, you’re somewhat out of luck.”
The more talkative man gave what was meant to be a smile both reciprocal and pleasant, but that came off eerily forced, a mannerism whose performance he had studied. “We didn’t come to extradite you, Miss Tyrell.”
For a moment, she doubted if they were any kind of police at all. They must be some kind of amateurs, thought Sarah. After lighting the cigarette, she had picked up the gun again from where she had set it down; it even had the right number of bullets to take care of both of the men. Unless they had some kind of major backup standing around near the hovel, these two might just as well have marched into their own coffins.
“All right,” she said. The gun made a convenient pointer to direct toward each of the men in turn. “If you’re not police, then what the hell are you?”
“Don’t you know?” The same man peered at her, the expression on his face one of both puzzlement and a disappointment bordering on sheer heartbreak. “Can’t you tell just by looking at us?”
She frowned. “I never saw either one of you before.”
“You might have. But you probably wouldn’t remember, or even have noticed. You wouldn’t have had to.”
The disquieting feeling she had gotten before, when she had studied the men’s appearance out on the hovel’s doorstep, arose in her again. She felt the pressure of the two pairs of eyes, slightly magnified and distorted behind the square glasses .
That’s it. Sarah nodded slowly to herself. The glasses. She knew as well that it hadn’t been a lapse of memory—a failure to remember—but her own silent, unspoken will shutting out that image of another face, older than either of these two men, wrinkled like parchment or thin, ancient leather. With a gaze that had been grossly enlarged by lenses of exactly the same shape, clear squares bordered in heavy black; so that the eyes had appeared like high-resolution, full-color video screens, that watched and judged and cruelly absorbed all who fell within their scan. That was the memory that the two men’s appearance had triggered but some defensive portion of her brain had shut out, lest it wound her again. The memory of her uncle’s gaze, the glass-shrouded eyes of Eldon Tyrell.
As much as was possible for the two men standing in front of Sarah in the hovel, they had managed to turn themselves into grotesque clones of the replicant-murdered head of the Tyrell Corporation. Or tributes to that fallen leader, the to-tern aspects—the square-framed glasses precise as geometrizing instruments, the equally meticulous and fussy clothes-incorporated like the fetishes of the dead into their own gestalt. Ineffectually, futilely; the two figures lacked the old man’s withered potency, the timeless and time-fed negative aura of great wealth and greater desire, moving through dark-shaded spaces, silent rooms, bank vaults, and sweat-glistening silk bedsheets.
The two men looked like overgrown, lank-limbed children dressed up in their father’s discarded clothing. Sarah felt a shiver of instinctive fear as she gazed upon them, catching sight of the mad worm at the pupils’ centers behind the square glasses.
Held for a moment longer by the fear-of the two living men and the dead one—she could not speak.
“We’re not from the police,” said the one who’d spoken before. “We’re from the Tyrell Corporation.”
Her flash of anger banished any other emotion. “There is no Tyrell Corporation.” Her voice lashed out, the cutting tip of her own sharpened tongue. “Not anymore.”
They exchanged another glance, then turned their magnified and now sorrowful gazes upon her again. The other one spoke: “We were afraid that was what you believed. That you didn’t know.”
Strips of sealant tape drifted like slow seaweed in the hovel’s hissing drafts. Sarah batted away the nearest tendril with the muzzle of the gun.
“Know what?”
Behind the square-framed glasses, the men’s eyes lit up with simultaneous enthusiasm. “That the Tyrell Corporation wasn’t destroyed. It survives. It still exists. As it always has and always will.”
The fervor in the man’s voice amused Sarah. “And this is what you came here to tell me.” She could feel her own smile turning gentle, tolerant. “That there’s a few faithful employees such as yourself-true believers—and you’re somehow keeping the flame alive. Really She shook her head. “That’s very touching.
How many show up at the staff meetings? A couple dozen?”
The more talkative one glowered sulkily at her. “It’s not just a few of us, Miss Tyrell. We’re not fools.”
“That’s right,” said his partner. “This is bigger than that. Much bigger. We represent the other Tyrell Corporation—the shadow company that already existed before the one that you knew was destroyed.”
She made no reply. Because she knew that the men, the mysterious callers who had appeared on her doorstep, were speaking the truth. There had been intimations, things whispered and things left unspoken, referred to by only a nod and a partial, omniscient smile on the face of her uncle, all referring to that other Tyrell Corporation, the shadow of the one whose light-studded Aztec pyramid had loomed over the dense sprawl of Los Angeles. Shadow being the operative word; an entity made of darkness that moved in darkness and did dark things. Darker than what Eldon Tyrell and the corporation that acted out in the open did—which would take some effort, Sarah knew. She was familiar enough with all the conspiracies and clandestine operations, the pulling of strings fine as the strands of a spider’s web, a silken net that covered all of Earth and the worlds beyond. That was what she had inherited, what the death of the only other living Tyrell had left to her. And what she had destroyed, had turned to ashes as cold as those in the alabaster urn with Eldon Tyrell’s name engraved on the side. She had annihilated the works of his hands, the vision that had been held in the cold fish eyes behind the square-rimmed spectacles; the hole left in the heart, the center, of L.A. had probably already been filled in by now, the charred ruins of the Tyrell Corporation headquarters carted off or incorporated into a new squatter ghetto.
So if these two, thought Sarah Tyrell, are from the shadow corporation . . .
There was no need to put words to the remainder of what had awoken and moved inside her skull. The two men standing in the center of the hovel looked like geeks, pathetic imitations of their dead boss. That was what made them dangerous, convinced her of what they claimed to be. Just as the late Eldon Tyrell, they had no need of pumped-up appearances, the visible aspects of power and threat. They lived in the dark spaces between the world’s daylight manifestations, operated there, and went about their secret errands, continuing to pull the delicate spider strands that had drifted loose from a dead man’s grasp.
I should’ve known . . . that I could never get away from them. The realization moved like a thread of ice down her spine. Not just the two men, these representatives of the shadow corporation that had survived after the other, the visible one, was no more . . . but her uncle as well. It’s just like the bastard, Sarah brooded. Leave it to Eldon Tyrell to achieve immortality, to find a way to go on screwing with other people’s lives from beyond the grave.
The image of her uncle’s face, with its wrinkled skin close to the bone, winter-cold optics, and mocking smile, faded from her sight, revea
ling the only slightly unsettling visages of the two men before her. She sighed, feeling the last elements of resistance draining from her body. “All right—”
She nodded slowly. “What is it you want? Why’d you come here? What do you want from me?”
“Want from you?” The eyes behind the square-rimmed glasses looked puzzled. The more talkative man tilted his head as though trying to shake something loose.
“We don’t want anything from you.”
“Well His partner nudged him. “Except, of course you yourself .
“Pardon me?” Sarah laughed, incredulous. She wouldn’t have thought that these two would’ve been interested in anything that normal and human. “That’s okay, though .
I’m flattered.” She tossed her hair back from her eyes. It’d been a long time, since practically the moment of their arrival at the emigrant colony, that Deckard had laid a hand on her, one way or another. At some point, the resemblance between herself and the dead Rachael had ceased to be enough. “But not today, thanks.”
“Hm.” The more talkative one rubbed his smooth chin. “I think there’s been some misunderstanding here. It’s not a personal thing—”
“It’s not us,” interjected his partner, “who want you.”
“It’s the corporation. The shadow corporation.” The little mad light went on again behind the square glasses. “That’s what needs you. That’s why we spent so much time and effort looking for you, and why we came all this way to find you.”
“That’s right.” His partner nodded vehemently. “Without you . . . we’re nothing. The corporation—the shadow corporation—it’s nothing.”
A growing spark moved along the edges of her own suspicion. “Why should that be?” Her eyes narrowed as she gazed at the two men. She had a notion already, but wanted to hear it explained aloud.
“Miss Tyrell . . . isn’t it obvious?” The talkative one spread his empty hands apart. “How can there be a Tyrell Corporation—or even its shadow-without a Tyrell to head it? You are the heir to everything that your uncle created.
Both the corporation that existed in the light and the one of the darkness.
There’s a right of succession involved here. Surely you know—you must know—that there’s more to the Tyrell Corporation than merely a commercial enterprise.”
“Oh, I know,” said Sarah. I know too well. “It’s a matter of faith.”
“Exactly. You must have faith—just as we have.” The light had intensified in both men’s eyes. “The faith that all the shadow corporation has. That Eldon Tyrell’s great vision-all that he wished and planned for humanity-will be reborn. That the Tyrell Corporation will rise from the ashes. Not as it was, but as something even greater. As its destiny always had been.”
“You see, don’t you?” The other one spoke up. “That’s why the shadow corporation exists. That’s why Eldon Tyrell created it and kept it in the darkness. You were his heir, the only other living Tyrell—and then the only Tyrell at all—and you didn’t even know about it.”
“No . . . I didn’t.” Sarah gave a shake of her head. “Not really.” She wasn’t certain now whether she had known or not, whether she had just chosen to disbelieve the little hints and rumors, the mysteries that her uncle had alluded to with his sly conspirator’s smile.
You fool, she told herself. To think you could ever kill it .
“He couldn’t tell you about the shadow corporation. It had to remain a secret. From everyone—even you. Only those of us sworn to its mysteries; we alone knew, and waited.” The man’s voice trembled with fervor. “For that day we knew was inevitable, the day of triumph for the Tyrell Corporation’s enemies—”
“Short-lived triumph,” grumped the talkative one’s partner.
“Yes, that’s right. Of course.” He nodded. “The darkness cannot last; the Tyrell Corporation will not be vanquished forever. If its enemies think they have destroyed it, sown salt across its ashes, they’re wrong. The Tyrell Corporation—the glory of Eldon Tyrell’s vision—will mount to the skies again.
Already, we in the shadow corporation, the heirs and defenders of that vision, have set moving the great wheels and gears of justice.”
“We like to say”—the other’s voice turned shy and selfconscious—“that the sole of our sandal shall be upon the throat of our foes.”
“I bet.” Sarah kept her face masklike, and the gun in her hand. All this talk of enemies and retribution made her wary. When these people said they needed her—that the Tyrell Corporation’s shadow entity needed her—they possibly meant they wanted her head on a pike. Her self-destructive moods hadn’t included relinquishing that much control to anyone else. “Well, if you have plans already, then maybe you should just . . . go and do them. Don’t let me stop you. Drop me a line now and then, let me know how things are coming along.”
Right now, she mainly wanted the two odd men, with their Eldon Tyrell stylings, to just disappear. So that she would have time to think, to figure out what she herself would do next. There’s not much sense, mused Sarah, in blowing away these two guys. That wouldn’t stop anything. The thought of these two—and how many others? how big was this shadow outfit?—working away to put back together all that she had so carefully disassembled filled her with both nausea and a tightly concealed rage. “Thanks for stopping by.”
The two men exchanged a glance with each other, then swiveled their conjunct gaze back onto her.
“Miss Tyrell—you really don’t seem to understand.” The more talkative one’s voice filled with sorrow. “We need you. We can’t resurrect the Tyrell Corporation without you.”
“We’re loyalists. Diehards,” added the other man. “Everyone in the shadow corporation—we were sworn to loyalty to Eldon Tyrell . . . and now to you. You didn’t inherit just the Tyrell Corporation. You inherited us.”
“You’re joking. You must be.” The notion appalled her. The two men suddenly appeared to her as children to whom she bore some crushing maternal obligation. As if her ancient uncle had been reborn as twins, fresh-faced and naively innocent behind the stigmata of the square glasses. The resurrection of all that she had thought was safely dead— Now what? thought Sarah. A horrible vision came to her of these two camping out in the hovel, taking turns sleeping on the broken-backed sofa.
“It’s no joke, Miss Tyrell. We never joke.” The talkative one’s expression was somber, as though even the skull beneath the tight flesh had been rendered grinless. “It is our great mission—our destiny—to bring the Tyrell Corporation, from the shadows where it now exists, out to the light once more.
Where it belongs. At the center of all, with everything orbiting around it—”
“But that would make it the light itself.” The other man frowned. “Like it was the sun. You’re mixing up—”
“Whatever,” snapped the first irritably. “You know what I mean. As does Miss Tyrell.” He looked back at her again. “You do know, don’t you? Why we’ve come here?”
“I know,” she said. There was no use denying it any longer. She didn’t need the gun—not against these two. Or any of their brethren, the true believers.
“You want me to be the head of the Tyrell Corporation. As I was before. After my uncle . . . died.”
“Exactly.” The man nodded. “You must do this. If the Tyrell Corporation is to defeat its enemies. Those who were so misguided as to try to diminish Eldon Tyrell’s vision.”
He doesn’t know, thought Sarah. They don’t have a clue. That she had been the one who pushed the little red button, or arranged to have it pushed by those others she had cheated and lied to. The ashes of the Tyrell Corporation headquarters, those once-proud towers and the eternal-seeming pyramid in the center of Los Angeles, were on her hands. These two men, and all the other die-hard loyalists behind them, didn’t know that she herself had destroyed the Tyrell Corporation.
“Without you The man’s voice came to her as though from the edge of a barely glimpsed dream. “Without you . . . we
’ll die. The shadows will claim us. The vision that still unites us will be lost, our faith gone, and we will drift off into the darkness. Then the Tyrell Corporation truly will be no more.”
I don’t have to do a single thing. The realization moved inside Sarah. She could just stand where she was in the hovel and refuse to go with the two men—she knew they were too much in awe of her, of the Tyrell blood in her veins, to try to force her to go anywhere. Or she could go ahead and kill them, simply raise the gun, still in her hand, place it against each man’s forehead in turn—they probably wouldn’t resist that, either, just accept it from her as what they deserved from a wrathful deity. Or even better, thought Sarah, I could kill myself. Right in front of them. That would accomplish a lot—almost everything, she decided. She’d be dead—something for which she’d been yearning for a long time now—and the Tyrell Corporation’s shadow entity, this valiant little band of the faithful, would die out soon thereafter. No living Tyrell, no corporation, all lost, finally and forever. Perfect . . .
Except for one thing. She knew just what it was. Deckard, that sonuvabitch, would still be walking around. Still mourning his dead Rachael, a shrine to a female replicant assembled inside his skull, memory scraps and the taste of her kiss, the way her face had looked— My face, Sarah thought grimly; Rachael’s was just a copy—when he’d forced his kiss upon her. And she had given herself to him, wanting him .
She couldn’t remember anymore whether that had been her or Rachael. There had been a time, a moment, when time had repeated itself; the kiss, the wanting, even his words. She had made Deckard say them again, the way he had said them to Rachael long ago . . .
Say that you want me. He had said that.
Then her voice. In the past, in memory. Standing in the middle of the hovel, a world away; she closed her eyes and heard her own voice, Rachael’s voice, the same—I want you.
“Miss Tyrell . . . did you say something?”
She forced her eyes open and looked at the two men standing in front of her, not recognizing them for a moment. Or mis-recognizing them; she had the uncomfortable feeling that she was looking at her uncle, brought back from the dead and somehow doubled, with neither aspect quite human. Then the feeling passed, and she found herself once again looking at the two loyalists, ambassadors from the shadow corporation. If they weren’t real—or at least not yet—they were certainly trying to be.
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