For a moment longer he watched the spinner, a black speck at the head of a fiery trail, fading from view above the mirror-radiant towers of the city. The Santa Ana winds had died away, leaving the atmosphere still desert-hot, but hushed with an almost subliminal, subcutaneous trembling, as though charged with some urgency beyond verbalization.
Balancing himself with one hand against the ground, Holden got to his feet, then straightened up. And immediately regretted it; a wave of dizziness washed across him, as unsettling as if another earthquake had struck the zone. Artificial heart pounding in his chest, he bent over, palms against his knees; something had lodged in his throat, around which he could barely breathe. It seemed to take the last of his strength to cough it up. When he opened his eyes, he saw a wet red spot on the concrete rubble in front of him.
“Goddamn . . .” Tentatively he poked at his breastbone with the fingertips of one hand, trying to determine if he had broken something loose on the implants inside him. He swallowed the salt taste in his mouth rather than risk spitting it out. Everything seemed to be working; he could breathe, and the heart was still beating. He tried to remember whether a particular loose, rattling noise was something he was imagining, or whether it had always been there and he just hadn’t noticed it before.
One thing was certain. He felt weaker than before, closer to the edge of collapse. Great timing, he thought bitterly. What he needed to do-what his stressed-out body told him he should do—was go lie down in some dark quiet place, until his new heart and lungs had finished knitting themselves into his corporeal fabric. But there was no time for that. Things were happening too fast for him to take a break, no matter how badly he required one. The spinner carrying Deckard and the Tyrell woman had vanished from sight, taking them to another locus of conspiracy. Maybe they’d finished up here, the two of them having cooperated on the shooting of some third party in the safe-house apartment. . . .
He forced a deep breath into the lungs’ machinery, trying to get his brain clear and functioning again. Work it out, he commanded himself. Who had Deckard and the Tyrell woman killed in there? The only other human being had been that little geek with all but one of his limbs sawn off—Holden tried to remember the guy’s name, but couldn’t. Granted, the triple amputee had seemed to be an annoying little bastard, but that by itself wouldn’t have been sufficient motivation for icing him. There must’ve been another, more compelling reason.
What?
The little guy had worked for the Tyrell Corporation; that much he remembered for sure.
Doing . . . bioengineering. Holden nodded, as if he could suddenly see the guy’s entire police file in front of him. Specifically, replicant design. Even more specifically: work on the Tyrell CorPoration’s Nexus-6 models. That was it.
So he must’ve known something. Not just something, but a lot. The little one-limbed guy had been up to his weepy-looking eyeballs in the design and production-every detail-of the Nexus-6 replicants. Knowing too much about something like that-something that other people wanted to remain a secret—was always a good way of getting yourself eliminated.
It came to him then, a sudden illumination, as though the dark clouds he’d seen massing over the Pacific had sent down a sudden bolt of lightning. Of course, thought Holden. That’s what thelittleguyin thereknew. And that’s why they had to kill him. . . .
The problem was, the realization didn’t do him any good if he was in no shape to act upon it. Another realization, not quite as welcome, shoved aside his other thoughts. He needed help; he couldn’t go it alone, as much as he would’ve wanted to.
Holden glanced upward. The sky was empty again, the spinner with Deckard and the Tyrell woman long gone, its red trail evaporated. He turned and walked toward the freight spinner, carefully and slowly, husbanding his strength for the confrontation he’d already set his mind upon.
14 . . . . .
Come on, fellas.” He gazed around at the empty rooms, the spaces that were silent now but had held as much of a real life as he’d ever known. “We should be just about all packed up now.” He and the others, the companions left to him, had done what they could to clean up the blood smeared on the angle of the walls and the remainder of the mess caused by his true love’s death. Her second one, Sebastian reminded himself. That made him even sadder, thinking that poor little Pris had had to go through all that twice. It wasn’t fair; she’d never hurt anyone, or at least not much.
Right now, he didn’t even know where she was. He hadn’t had the heart to pull the batteries from Pris’s braindamaged corpse, shut off the various switches and relays that had kept her moving feebly around. She must’ve crept away, he thought sadly. Out into the zone’s rubble, to lie down with the other broken and unfunctional things, debris among debris.
Whatever blind spark that had remained inside her would die out in the ashes and rags and splintered, scrappy bones of the world.
Colonel Fuzzy and Squeaker Hussar came back over to where they had left him in the sideways apartment. They bent down low, their faces coming close to his; he had to turn his own slightly away, to avoid getting poked in the eye by Squeaker’s elongated nose. He knew what they were doing. With every sense organ he’d built into themmainly optical, though the teddy bear’s round, fleece-lined ears were more finely tuned than a human’s, and Squeaker actually did have some extra olfactory receptors built into that thing-they were trying to assess what condition he was in, physically and mentally. They knew some great tragedy had occurred, devastating every fiber of his being. He felt as though the one appendage he couldn’t sacrifice, his heart, had been scooped out of his frail chest. Squeaker and the Colonel were aware that death had visited them in their home, she’d come swaggering in on spike heels, and with a big noise had removed one of their number, from the world of the living to that other place where all one’s batteries were run down flat and the light behind one’s button eyes went out. They were worried and fearful that that was where he was going, too.
“It’s okay.” Sebastian reached up and scratched behind the teddy bear’s ears. Squeaker was less given to intimate body contact; he knew that for him to come this near, the circuits inside the spiked helmet must be in a considerable state of distress. “You don’t have to worry about me. I’ll be fine.”
He had to wonder where they’d gotten that behavior from; it wasn’t anything he’d programmed into them. From the beginning, they were supposed to have been jolly little fellows, happy creations, rays of sunshine in his gloomy life. He’d wired in logic paths by which the teddy bear and the toy soldier were able to learn new aspects of their environment and modify their behaviors based on that data—a basic feedback loop—but all this tenderhearted fussing and crooning was something different. Or was it? He’d have to think about that, when they got to wherever they were going to next.
Squeaker helped strap him into the papoose carrier on Colonel Fuzzy’s back. Food and batteries and other survival necessities had already been piled into the drag sling they used for scavenging the welfare drops.
“Wait a minute, fellas. I gotta leave a message.”
The teddy bear, impatient to start traveling before dark set in, stamped its feet. “Just hold your horses,” soothed Sebastian. “This’ll only take a minute.”
He had the colonel back up toward the biggest bare wall in the apartment. That would make a nice canvas, he’d decided; those other folks were so busy and rushed, coming and going and killing other people, that he didn’t want to risk having his words overlooked. Using the black spray can from a Chaka Signature Model Li’l Graffitster Kit, part of the art supplies that’d come in a drop several months ago, he carefully spelled out what he had to say.