EdgeOfHuman

by Unknown

  That they had been lying to me all along. And I wouldn't be at all happy about that." He looked back around at Deckard. One sly corner of the smile reappeared. "It doesn't matter, anyway. Whether I'm the replicant . . . or you are. I'm still going to kill you. Then I'll turn you in-what's left of you-and get paid." He leaned forward, hand reaching for Deckard's throat. "That's all there is to it."

  Deckard whipped the cement chunk toward the side of Batty's head; the other blocked it with his forearm, the impact dislodging the stone from Deckard's grasp and sending it clattering down the wall of the abandoned freeway. At the same moment the sharp ridge beneath them crumbled; Deckard slid a few inches farther out into empty space, with Batty's fists locked onto his throat.

  "Go ahead, Deckard!" Batty had shot a glance down to where Deckard's hands had shoved themselves against the top of the wall. A push from his braced arms would send them both toppling toward the jagged ground below. "Maybe I'll make it-" A mad spark flared in Batty's eyes. "But you won't!"

  The other's grinning face wavered behind a haze of red as Deckard's throttled breath swelled to the bursting point in his lungs. He could feel his own hands pushing at the crumbling stone, the tiny stones and grit digging into his flesh. His spine scraped raw across the edge, trapped blood rushing into his skull as he dangled backward . . .

  Rain spattered on the roof of his mouth as the night's air suddenly rushed into his lungs. Batty's grip had loosened on his throat. The blinding haze faded; above him, the fierce intent in the other's eyes had been replaced by un comprehending wonder. Red seeped through Batty's eyebrows, spidering out from the concave ruin of his shattered forehead. From a black hole, its diameter that of a high-caliber bullet, a finger of blood reached down and gently touched Deckard between his own eyes. The echo of the gunshot was swallowed by the rumbling thunder of the clouds masking the sky overhead.

  Batty fell, his body collapsing on top of Deckard, then tumbling, arms outstretched, down the freeway's wall. Deckard scrambled to grab hold of the edge of concrete, to keep from being pulled after the dead thing.

  Gasping in exhaustion, Deckard crawled full-length onto the narrow horizontal space. With his chest and the side of his face flat against the concrete, fingertips dug tighter holds. Sheets of rain lashed across his back.

  One of the corpse's heels had caught in an angle of rusted steel, leaving it dangling a few feet above the sideways world's rubble-strewn surface. Batty's arms flopped back in an inverted crucifix, the face gaping upward so the rain could sluice the blood from the head wound, pink rivulets thinning upon the ground beneath.

  Holden lowered the gun, bullet heat seeping from the metal into his hand. The artificial heart staggered in his chest; he drew one cautious breath after another, trying to keep from passing out again. He'd barely been able to make it this far, creeping and stumbling from where he'd fallen in front of the empty apartment building. He knew he'd almost been too late; it had taken nearly all of his strength to wrap both hands around the gun and lift its crushing tonnage above his head. The rain had pounded into his face as he'd sucked in his breath, aimed, and fired.

  He heard other noises now; he looked up again and saw Deckard slowly clambering down the cracked and gouged surface of the freeway.

  With the gun's weight dragging his arm, he hobbled over to where the other man now stood. Looks worse than me, thought Holden. That sonuvabitch Batty had really worked him over.

  "Deckard . . . I heard . . ." Holden gulped air into his wheezing bio-mechanical lungs. "I heard . . . what you said up there." He nodded, his own wet shirt collar rubbing against his neck. "You're right-Batty was the sixth replicant. He had to be . . ." It all seemed so clear to him now. "That's how he was disguising himself . . . trying to get away with it. As somebody else hunting down the sixth replicant . . ."

  A cold gaze came from Deckard's wearied eyes. "Maybe." He shrugged. "But it's like Batty said. It doesn't matter." Deckard turned and started walking away.

  Holden grabbed on to his arm. "But . . . we still don't know!" He held on desperately, both to keep from falling and so that Deckard would have to listen to him. "We don't know . . . who was gunning for us. Who was trying to get rid of all the blade runners . . .

  Deckard shook him off. "You'll have to worry about all that. I've got other business to take care of."

  "You don't understand-" Lungs straining for oxygen, Holden shouted after him, "We have to stick together-"

  He heard something behind him, back by the wall of the tilted freeway. As did Deckard; they both turned and looked.

  A figure almost human had crept out of the shadows behind the vertical stone and exposed lacework of metal reinforcement. A thing with darkened eye sockets and a tangled mat of hair, white as that of the dangling corpse. Sinews and skeletal joints poked through the gaping holes of a ragged leotard; the creature's flesh was pallid leather beneath.

  Arrhythmic heartbeats passed before Holden recognized the thing. It's that other replicant, he thought, appalled. The female one. He couldn't remember what its name had been. Blood had seeped into the colorless hair, the dried-black spikes melting into red as the monsoon rains tangled sticky tendrils along the thing's neck. It was the one, he knew, that the little geek Sebastian had been in love with. that he'd been able to make move around in a bad parody of living things. Something had happened to it, a wound similar to Batty's; white bone fragments and jellied brain tissue showed through the catastrophic damage to the skull.

  Dead, but still moving. Holden watched in distaste and dread as some blind instinct drew the once-living thing toward the other corpse. Its hands reached up and tremulously stroked the hollowed angles of Batty's jaw. It laid its own ravaged cheek against his, as though the gaping mouth were still capable of bestowing a kiss. Blood and rain mingled together, weeping along the faces of the dead.

  Holden shuddered as he raised the gun and aimed. He couldn't stand it any longer. Before he could squeeze the trigger, another's hand stayed his, pushing the weapon aside. "Don't," said Deckard. "Just leave them alone."

  He let the gun dangle at his side as he watched Deckard walk back toward the empty apartment building. The sustaining trickle of adrenaline ebbed from Holden's veins; he sank down upon the ground's wet stones. He breathed and listened to his own erratic heartbeat under the rain's slashing counterpoint.

  16

  The wall underfoot ran at enough of an angle that everything loose collected at one side of the safe-house apartment. A few moments of searching yielded the remote for the spinner's security devices; Deckard scooped it up and went back outside the building to the spinner.

  He looked out the side of the cockpit as the spinner rose and banked over the wall of freeway, and saw the small figure of Holden, and farther away the dead Batty and Pris. Then they were lost to his sight; the spinner gained speed and altitude, its straight-line trajectory already set. The dark shapes of the sideways world fell behind as the city's bright-specked towers loomed ahead.

  As the Tyrell Corporation headquarters approached, the blue-lit rectangle on top of one of the slanting towers flashed on, the landing deck's sensors responding to the spinner's coded signals. The guide beam locked on, bringing him down in the spiral of falling angels.

  I should've taken the gun, he thought. Would've been easy to get it away from Holden.

  Eyes closed, Deckard leaned his head back against the cold wall of the elevator. Another descent, maybe the last one. But he also knew there had been no need. That anything he had to do here, he could accomplish just as well with his bare hands. The metal doors slid open, revealing the private suite of Sarah Tyrell. The vast, columned spaces stretched out before him, shadows chased into the far corners by the ranks of flickering candles. He didn't know whether she had lit them, or if it was part of some corporate flunky's evening duties, to go around with a sacristan's taper, touching each black wick with the small flame. It didn't matter. There was no one else here now; the interlocking rooms held only her presen
ce. He could feel it, like the shift in the night atmosphere's pressure on his skin.

  Deckard stepped out of the elevator, letting the silvery doors close behind him. Stillness so complete that the motion of his breath made the flames of the candles on the nearest wrought-iron stand tremble.

  Another's breath; he heard it, a sigh, as of one dreaming. He turned toward the bed and saw her, face against the silken pillow, dark hair loosened along the curve of her shoulders. For a moment his heart stopped between one beat and the next as he gazed down at the sleeping woman, his hand reaching out and then hesitating, fingertips trembling an inch away from her pale cheek . . .

  There was something else on the bed, smaller and darker. A weight of metal, one part molded to fit the human hand, his hand. He picked the gun up, balancing it in his palm. It was either his old one or another just like it. He could tell, just by the few ounces difference, that a full clip was loaded inside. Ready to go.

  That was thoughtful of her. Deckard brought his index finger around the thin crescent inside the gun's trigger guard. He straightened his arm, bringing the muzzle's cold circle of metal to the brow of the sleeping Sarah Tyrell . . .

  "Would you really do that?" A voice, her voice, spoke from behind him.

  He turned, looking over his shoulder. A different light from the massed candles shone toward him. He saw now that the ornate antique desk from the office suite had been pulled closer, between the columns that marked the bedchamber. Thick cables snaked back from a large-screen video monitor to the wall cabinet that had previously held it. A remote-controlled camera, red dot blinking above the lens, focused on him. On the monitor's screen was Sarah's image, her hair smoothed and bound, a thin smile at her lips as she regarded the scene before her.

  He said nothing. But slowly, carefully, drew the gun away from the sleeping woman on the bed. The other one . . .

  "I wasn't sure if you would or not." Sarah's voice came again from the monitor's speaker. "So I thought it best to be careful. You've been through some rough experiences just recently. That could make anybody . . . unpredictable."

  "You brought her here." A simple statement of fact, that which he now saw to be true. "You sent somebody up north, to get her." He looked down again at the sleeping woman. At Rachael, sleeping . . . and dying. "You shouldn't have taken her out of the transport module." The last time he had seen her, she'd been beneath the black coffin's transparent lid. There, the interval between each breath had been measurable in hours; here, he could see the pulse in her soft throat ticking away the seconds, the minutes. He turned a fierce glare at the mirror image on the monitor screen. "She doesn't have that much time left."

  "A relative concept." Sarah's image smiled. "I expect she has more time than I would have, if I'd been so foolish as to make myself physically present during this little conversation. So I hope you'll excuse this contrivance, this . . . electronic separation between us. As I said, I don't know what you're capable of doing now." She regarded him almost with pity. "We've grown apart, haven't we?"

  He knew she was mocking him. The urge to raise the gun, aim, and put a bullet through the monitor was almost irresistible. Anything to silence her. "Why did you do it? Have her brought here?"

  "Why are you so angry?" The camera on top of the monitor shifted, the lens focusing on the bed's sleeping figure, then returning to him. "Isn't that what you wanted? To see her again-perhaps I thought that would make you happy. Isn't that the most a woman can do? Really, Deckard . . . there's no abasement greater than that. Even if she is the exact duplicate of me. It's still not quite the same thing, is it?"

  He regarded her image for a moment. "And the gun? What was that for?"

  "I didn't know what you'd do . . . but I wanted to find out. It's important to know these things." One of the image's eyebrows raised. "You've found out quite a few things as well. Haven't you?"

  "Everything you wanted me to."

  "Oh? Such as?"

  He stood in a room lit by candles, with a sleeping woman on the bed behind him, and the same woman's image, phosphor dots and radiant glass, inside a metal box. As though the living and the dying had somehow exchanged places. He had to close his eyes, shut out everything, reassembling the component elements of his thoughts, before he could go on.

  "There's no sixth replicant." Deckard opened his eyes and looked straight into the monitor.

  "Perhaps." Sarah's image gave a noncommittal shrug.

  "There never was. That was just Bryant screwing up, a misfired brain cell. A slip of the tongue, too much alcohol. He couldn't keep track of the nose on his face when he was sloshed."

  A shake of the image's head. "What about the information he purged from the police files? The off-world authorities' report about the escape?"

  "I never saw those things. You told me about them." He let the gun dangle at his side. "And you were lying. Simple as that."

  "Ah." Sarah's image slowly nodded. "If that were the case . . . it would explain a lot. Wouldn't it? I suppose it's too late, after all I've put you through, to say that I've been completely honest with you."

  "You're right. It's too late."

  The image gazed sadly, pityingly, at him. "Then it doesn't matter whether I tell you there actually is a sixth missing replicant or not. You won't believe me. About that or anything else."

  "Maybe not. But you could start by telling me some other things. Like why you set Dave Holden out looking for your sixth replicant, too."

  "That . . . was someone else's idea. The person I hired before was Roy Batty. The original, the human one, not a replicant-or at least as far as I know. I believe he brought Holden in on the project. But that's unimportant."

  "I agree." Deckard glanced over his shoulder; Rachael had stirred in her sleep, but not woken. "Especially now that Batty's dead. Again."

  "Of course he is." Sarah's image smiled. "I knew as soon as it happened. I had ways of monitoring the state of his health."

  "I bet you did."

  The image regarded him. "And is that when you knew?"

  Deckard nodded. "I saw him die. It wasn't the same as the other one. I saw right in Batty's eyes. I could tell that he wasn't a replicant . . . that he was human. And that it didn't matter either way."

  "Ah." A smile formed on the image's face. "How very mystical of you. Then what does? Matter, that is."

  "Just the question," said Deckard. "Why you've done any of this. With me, or anybody else. And why you killed Bryant.,'

  "Yes . . ." The image nodded, apparently pleased. "I knew you'd figure that out. Let's face it; you've accurately described him just now. An alcoholic, losing track of the details . . . not very reliable. Not for my purposes, at least. I prefer having my secrets well kept. Bryant was necessary, at one time, to set things up. And then he became . . . less than necessary. A liability. And he had to be eliminated." Another small shrug. "And I had to do it. Not because it's the sort of thing I enjoy doing. But just because he knew me. His defenses were down, so to speak."

  "All right . . ." Deckard nodded. "I'm not exactly crying for him. Now answer the other question. Why would you put together a conspiracy to eliminate the blade runners? Just to make sure nobody could track down your precious replicants when they get loose?"

  The pitying gaze returned to the image's face. "You're not thinking clearly, are you? I've told you before-you just don't know how things work in this world. If the blade runners were eliminated-and it appeared that a mysterious, unidentifiable Nexus-6 replicant had not only eluded them, but had killed them rather than letting itself be killed-then the UN, authorities would shut down the Tyrell Corporation. They'd push that little red button, the one that ensures the destruction of our dangerous technology."

  He gave another single nod. "You told me that."

  "You were right, Deckard, when you said I'd lied to you. I have to admit that now. I told you I wanted you to track down the sixth replicant, and save the Tyrell Corporation . . ." The image leaned forward on the monitor screen, its
gaze sharpening and fastening tighter upon him. "That was the lie, Deckard. I wanted you to fail. I wanted all of you-Batty and Holden as well-to not only fail, but to kill each other off. What else could you do? With no missing replicant to find, you'd turn on each other. Not just the blade runners, but anyone else capable of tracking down escaped replieants, such as Roy Batty, would be eliminated. And the U.N. authorities would know about it. Not how it happened, but that it did. And that would be enough. For my purposes."

  He understood now. "You want them to destroy the Tyrell Corporation."

  "I've wanted that for a long time. And before that . . . I wanted to kill Eldon Tyrell. My uncle. The way he'd killed me; slowly, from the inside out. A little bit at a time. I knew there was still something like a soul inside him. Not much of one, but something that could love and grieve and mourn just a little bit. All that was left inside him . . . but that would have been enough. He'd loved Ruth-my another-but he'd lost her. To his own brother." A smile that was like a razored wound appeared on the image's face. "Rather biblical, don't you think? At this level of money and power, this world that I've lived in, there are no real complications. Everything is reduced to its simplest elements. The oldest stories. Complications are for little people . . . like you, Deckard. That's what you were, for Eldon Tyrell. And for me. Nothing more."

  "And what were you . . . you and your uncle . . . to each other?"

  "If I said lovers, that wouldn't be correct. Not really." The voice from the monitor softened. "Perhaps as some euphemism for the mechanics of incest. But I didn't love him . . . and he didn't love me. He loved the dead . . . the way you do. Because the dead are memories. Where moth and rust doth not corrupt-isn't that the way it is, Deckard? Look behind you."

  He did as the image ordered. He saw the sleeping, dying woman on the bed. The same face as on the monitor screen, but with eyes closed, a flush of pink to the skin across her cheekbones, a line creased in her brow, as though she were fighting off some nightmare evoked by the words tangling in the still air above her head. One of Rachael's hands was closed into a trembling fist upon the pillow.