Deckard wasn’t going to argue the point. Tyrell, when alive, had given him the creeps.
Plus, everything he’d scoped out since—all the bleak shimmer he’d picked up from the man’s niece Sarah—hadn’t changed his mind.
“All right,” said Deckard. “Maybe replicants are nothing but saints. Human, however, they’re not.”
“Is thuh-that you talking? Or the blade runner?”
“Take your pick.”
“Buh—but you loved one. A replicant. Or you still do. You suh-suh-sleep with her. In your arms.”
“Doesn’t make her human.” He could hear the coldness in his own voice. Not for Rachael, but for everything else in the world. “If she were human, she wouldn’t be dying now. So you’re right about Tyrell—that four-year life span was one of his bright ideas. The Nexus-6 replicants were his big chance to play God, and all he could think of to do was hard-wire death into their cells.”
Isidore gazed sadly at him for a moment. “If that duh-didn’t make her human—your loving her—then what would?”
“Nothing.” He shook his head. “There’s a difference. Between human and not. That’s what the tests are all about. The Voigt-Kampff tests.” He knew he sounded like a blade runner now. These were the articles of faith, the core beliefs of the job. “She couldn’t pass the test the first time I gave it to her, out at the Tyrell Corporation headquarters.” He wondered how much of this Isidore already knew. There was some kind of link between Isidore and Sarah Tyrell—he just didn’t know yet what it was. “I spotted her then. It took a while, but I knew. That she was a replicant.”
“Buh—but it wasn’t just the vuh-Voigt-Kampff tests; that muh-muh-machine you guys haul around with yourselves. It was something else. Something inside you. That could suh-say, ‘This one’s human and this one’s not.’ That’s the essential thing, isn’t it? About being a buh-blade runner. That ability to muh-make the distinction between what’s human and wuh-what’s not. What just goes around and walks and talks and acts like a human.”
He shifted in the chair, as though trying to avoid the probe of the other’s words. “I suppose so.”
“That’s vuh-very interesting, Mr. Deckard.” With a forefinger Isidore tapped one lens of his glasses. “You know, I see pruh-pretty well—at least, with these I do—but that’s wuh-wuh-one thing I’ve never seen. This difference between human and not. Between the ruh-real and the fuh-fake. I don’t think I could, even if I had one of your fuh-fuh-fancy Voigt-kuh-Kampff machines.” He gave a tilt of his head toward the office’s door. “It comes with the territory, I guh-guess. My territory, that is. Like out there with the animals. You said the fuh-phony ones gave you the creeps . . . the ones you could tell were phony, because they were broken or something. And for a minute there, I couldn’t even tell what the huh-huh-hell you were talking about.” He still looked perplexed. “I mean, I understand—I can tell the difference between one and the other—up here . . .” A finger tapped the side of his head.
“But I can’t tell the difference down here.” The same finger prodded at the chest beneath the white lab coat. “But I guess that’s fairly common, huh? Otherwise we wouldn’t have Voigt-Kampff machines. Or blade runners.”
The guy had started getting on Deckard’s nerves. The soft sarcasm ignited a defensive spark inside his own chest. “You’re forgetting something. The Voigt-Kampff machines, the tests, those blade runner skills . . . they all detect and measure something that actually exists. That’s empathy. You know what that is?”
“I got an idea.”
Deckard leaned forward, drilling his hard level gaze into Isidore’s, “It’s the ability to feel. To feel what another living creature feels. Humans have it. Replicants don’t. Not to the same degree; not enough. That’s what makes them dangerous.”
One of Isidore’s eyebrows lifted. “This empathy . . . Rachael duh-doesn’t have it?”
The spark burned hotter inside him; he could’ve killed the man on the other side of the desk. “Maybe not,” he said finally. “Or she wouldn’t have let me fall in love with her. She’d have known better.”
A sigh, a shake of the head. “See how much you complicate things? With all this buh-business about what’s fake and what’s real. Your big-duh-deal Voigt-Kampff machines . . . what do they measure? Really measure. A millisecond’s difference in pupil dilation times; a blush response that’s one shade less puh-pink than the prescribed norm. You know what you were like, when you were running around being such a buh-bad-ass blade runner? Like a Rassen prefer; something else right out of the Third Reich.” The stammer evaporated as Isidore’s ire rose. “Remember what those were? Racial examiners. Going around Berlin with calipers and measuring people’s noses, right out on the street. A millimeter too big, not quite the correct shape, and boom, you weren’t defined as human anymore. Your ass was off to Auschwitz. At least the Nazis preferred doing their killing somewhere out of sight—guess that makes them a class act compared to you guys.”
Deckard stayed silent, letting the other’s words hit him in the face and drop away like the sharp crystals of an ice storm. He knew all this shit. It was in the books. He’d even thought about it, in those long night hours, shirt bloodied and bottle at hand. Until it couldn’t be thought about anymore, not without falling off the Curve. And landing somewhere at the bottom, with his hand resting on the gun above his heart. thinking over and time for action. The last one possible. . . .
“Look. I told you already.” He felt a thin sheen of sweat on his palms, a nervous response to the other’s threat. “I quit the job. Bryant—my old boss—he put the screws on me to go back and do it again. Maybe I should’ve told him to go fuck himself . . . but I didn’t. I didn’t have the guts. So sue me.” He pushed himself back in the chair, his palms hard against the chair’s arms. “But nobody ever heard me say that being a blade runner was a good job.”
“It wasn’t a good job, Deckard, because it was buh-buh-bullshit.” Isidore wasn’t letting him off the hook. “The empathy tests, the Voigt-Kampff machines . . . they’re all crap. They don’t even wuh-work. Have there ever been any false puh-positives? Subjects who had the tests run on them, who were identified as being replicants, only they weren’t?”
He hesitated a second before answering. The same question, in different words, had been asked of him once before. He shook his head. “No.”
“As I said, buh-buh-bullshit. What about the St. Paul incident?”
Gears meshed inside Deckard’s head, trying to grind out an analysis of what this little man was up to. He knows too much—the St. Paul incident was more than top secret. After that mess had been cleaned up, the details hadn’t even been recorded, so there would be no files to purge. Just the memories that the blade runners themselves carried around, locked behind their foreheads.
“St. Paul . . .” The words came slow out of his mouth. “St. Paul was an accident.”
“I duh-don’t think that’s what they’d call it. If they could call it anything.”
Those dead, or their ashes at any rate, were buried somewhere in Minnesota. Bad luck was as much a death-penalty crime as being an escaped replicant. During the peak of the winter flu season, a pharmacist in central St. Paul had handed out his remaining stock of an upper-respiratory humectant, once popular but pulled off the market by the Food and Drug Administration, to his family and friends. A member of the LAPD blade runner unit goes back to visit his folks for Christmas, gets drunk with an old high school girlfriend, runs the Voigt-Kampff tests on her for a joke. The over-the-counter flu medicine contains a mild CNS depressant, just enough to tweak down her iris fluctuations and blush response. The blade runner on vacation takes out his gun and blows her away. On a rolclass="underline" he runs the Voigt-Kampff tests on everybody around him, including his aging Norman Rockwell—type parents, determines that he’s surrounded by a nest of escaped replicants passing as human. In the next twelve hours, the only thing he stops for is to reload.