Dazed more by the identity of his attacker than by the blows themselves, Quaid did not retaliate. How could his lovely, loving wife be doing this? Just this morning, she had been so soft and sexy, her hands so gentle and evocative! Had it been a strange man, he would have countered almost before the first blow landed. But against Lori—
But she had only been warming up. Now she had proper working room. She wound up for the coup de grace. This one would not be avoided or resisted.
He punched her in the stomach. The blow was powerful rather than fast, and she was light. He had pulled his punch somewhat, still loath to really hurt her. Also, he had been shaken by her violent attack on him, and for the moment weakened. The effect of the drug had not yet worn off entirely, which made it worse. Even so, the punch launched her all the way to the kitchen.
She kept her feet, by no means downed. She was in better condition as a combatant than he had ever suspected. In fact, it seemed that there was a whole lot about her that he hadn’t known. But how could she be in on this conspiracy to kill him? She wasn’t even interested in Mars!
He staggered toward her, knowing that he had to put her down and question her. It had never occurred to him that she would know anything about this astonishing situation, but now that he knew she did, he had to learn whatever she knew.
Lori grabbed a carving knife from the holder on the wall. Now she stalked him, moving with more confidence than he did. He retreated, realizing that he was up against no amateur.
He looked around for her gun and spied it on the floor across the room. He started toward it, but she intercepted him, deftly slicing his reaching arm. He tried to dodge aside and make for the gun again, but she whipped the knife across his chest, opening a thin gash. She kept him at bay, tagging him whenever he focused on the gun instead of on her, but wasn’t able to make a lethal score on him. He was becoming a mass of shallow wounds and dripping blood.
He feinted toward the gun once more, with his left hand. She stabbed at the arm, inflicting another injury—but was caught by his right fist. It was a solid blow to her jaw.
Lori fell back, stunned. Quaid quickly picked up the gun and aimed it at her. “Talk!”
She remained stubbornly silent. He shoved the gun barrel in her ear. He meant business, and it showed. The hard alternate personality had taken over again. “Why is my own wife trying to kill me?”
“I’m not your wife,” she said.
He cocked the pistol. Lori panicked.
“I swear to God! I never saw you before six weeks ago! Our marriage is. just a memory implant—aggghh!” Quaid grabbed a handful of hair and yanked her head back. How could she claim that eight years of marriage hadn’t existed? He remembered!
He remembered the way she had sauntered across the street that first day. He remembered their wedding, the startling contrast between his father’s humble finery and her father’s stylish Martian frog pelt tux. He remembered their wedding trip as vividly as though it had happened yesterday; the ride on the transcon zaptrain, the suite in the expensive hotel where they had been catered to by a veritable fleet of service droids. It had been the first time he’d slept on a gelbed, the first time he’d tasted Venusian champagne. They’d sipped it from crystal flutes grown in zero-g on one of the space stations. He could still see the strange shape of the crystal, feel it in his hand, taste the sparkling blue wine.
He thought back to the first few years they had spent together in his old neighborhood. Lori had looked as out of place as a lunar diamond in a trash recycler, and he recalled how happy she had been when he finally agreed to move to the new conapt. He could never forget that night of celebration… How could Lori say that none of that had happened? He remembered.
Yet she had tried to kill him, and it had been no accident of misidentification. She knew who he was and wanted him dead. That suggested there was something in what she said.
“You think I’m an idiot?” Quaid said bitterly.
Lori’s gaze and posture indicated that she thought exactly that. She seemed to have become a cold bitch, as different from the loving woman as Quaid was from the killing machine that seemed to be taking over his body. Her tennis outfit was in ruins and there would be a bruise on her face, yet she seemed haughty rather than humiliated.
“I remember our wedding!” he said.
“It was implanted by the Agency,” she said flatly.
“And falling in love?” Though now he realized that he did not truly love her. He remembered loving her, but somehow he had a truer feeling for the woman of Mars. Oh, Lori was a lot of fun in bed, but that wasn’t the same. This preposterous notion was beginning to make sense!
“Implanted.”
“Our friends, my job, eight years together. I suppose the Agency implanted that too?
“The job’s real,” she said evenly. “But the Agency set it up.”
“Bullshit.” Quaid pushed Lori away, but kept the gun trained on her. He tried to remain skeptical, but his certainty was beginning to erode. This explanation resolved too many little—and big—mysteries. Her disparagement of his dream of Mars—because he was supposed to be kept away from Mars? Harry’s effort to steer him clear of Rekall—because he wasn’t even supposed to remember Mars? There was a whole lot here that he still didn’t understand, but at least this gave him some ideas to work with. He had been distracted by the life he thought he had—a wife like Lori, a friend like Harry—so that he wouldn’t recall the life he might really have. It was as if the old structures had to be torn down before new and more solid ones could be built. Lori spoke, confirming some of his suspicions.
“They erased your identity and implanted a new one. I was written in as your wife so I could watch you, make sure the erasure took. Sorry, Quaid,” she said, her tone belying any regret. “Your whole life is just a dream.”
He slumped against the wall. The fact that it was starting to make sense didn’t make it any easier to take. Before it had been only a dream that bothered him; now his whole life had become a dream. “If I’m not Doug Quaid, who am I?”
She shrugged. “Beats me. I just work here.”
How callous could she be? Yet her attitude supported her statement. Her love for him had been the pretense; this was the reality.
Quaid pulled himself up from the floor to sit in a chair. He rubbed his forehead, trying to decide how to react. The realization that his memory-life was only a pretense did not restore his real life; that remained blank. He had no idea where to go or what to do. His foundations had been knocked out from under, and he was still falling. What kind of a landing would it be?
Lori suddenly became much friendlier. Her face softened, and her figure lost its indifference. She became more like the woman he had known.
“I’m gonna miss you, Quaid,” she said. “You were the best assignment I ever had. Really.”
“I’m honored,” he said, distrusting this. She had shown him convincingly enough how little she truly cared for him; what was she up to now?
He took her by the elbow and pulled her with him, the gun still at her head, as he looked out the window. He was alert for any false move on her part; she would not knock aside the gun the way he had knocked Harry’s gun. He didn’t even need to watch her directly; he could sense her motion. Where were the others? He was sure they were out there, somewhere. Though he could not remember any details, he knew the nature of these things: operatives did not work alone. They always had interlocking networks, the one covering the back of the other. He might have set them back momentarily by killing four, and by nullifying Lori, but that was no victory, only a foiling of two of their ploys.