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  "But it helps."

  Batty shrugged. "Speak for yourself. I didn't need to take this job--"

  "You did, though." Holden's turn to show a thin smile. "So now you gotta go through with it. If these people you're talking about are such heavyweights, they wouldn't like you crapping out on them."

  "Tell me about it." His face appearing suddenly older, expression glum. "I've worked these kinds of gigs before. Perform or die's the general rule. Even so," muttered Batty, "I got half a mind to pull the plug on the whole operation. Dealing with an ungrateful little jerk like you-"

  "What'd I do?"

  "It's what you didn't do." Glum to resentful. "I arrange for a whole new heart and lungs to get slapped inside you, and you don't even say thanks."

  "Christ . . . give me a break." Holden shook his head. "All right, you have my sincerest appreciation. Satisfied?" He looked ahead to the city approaching on the horizon, then around to Batty again. "Not as if it was all selfless altruism on your part, though, is it? You had some reason for busting me out of the hospital and all."

  "True. That's what pisses me off. I need you."

  Holden raised an eyebrow. "For what?"

  "Come on." A big sigh from Batty. "I've been out of the game for a while now. When I took you out of that hospital, that was the first time I'd been in L.A. in years. It's a whole lot bigger and uglier than when I left it. I need somebody who knows his way around. Otherwise, that sixth replicant could be hiding out in there, and I'd have fuck-all chance of finding it."

  "Oh, sure." He gave a snort of disbelief. "So buy a map, already."

  "It's not just the lay of the land, pal. It's the connections. You got'em and I don't. When I took off from L.A., I cut all my ties, all my sources of info, my whole network. I expect that most of the people I used to deal with are dead now, anyway. Places where they were at, things they were into -- longevity's not much of an issue there." A shrug. "Wouldn't be such a problem if I'd done anything to replace them. But I. don't have time to do that. Replicant number six has gotten a real jump on getting himself safely out of sight. I can't screw around any longer finding it-I need somebody who's already got their systems up and running. Blade runner-type systems. That's you, Dave. That's why you're here."

  He didn't say anything in reply. If Batty wanted to believe he was so valuable, he wasn't going to do anything to dissuade him from the notion. A mixed bag regarding the state of his own connections, though. He'd been flat on his back, zoned out on the hospital's IV drip, for the better part of a year; that was a long time to be off the scene, especially in L.A. Batty didn't have a clue about how fast things changed now, compared to his day. Plus he was on the lam himself-his old boss Bryant, and God knew how many other people, had put him on ice for their own reasons, and they weren't likely to be too overjoyed about finding him walking around again. Though maybe that's a positive, mused Holden. If I got taken out by a conspiracy against the blade runners, the rest of them will be on my side. They'd have to be, for reasons of their own survival. At least the smart ones will be, he thought. Which meant that Batty's assessment was correct; he did have resources that he could call upon. The best kind, right inside the LAPD itself, right under the noses of Bryant and the others who'd set him up.

  The residue of doubt evaporated, leaving the hard stratum of a blade runner's self-confidence. He still had the edge that came with being human. The spinner had reached the L.A. suburbs, sections of a maze homogenous with that of the city's tight, imploding center. Somewhere in there was the answer, walking around with someone else's face. Whose?

  I'll find out soon enough. Holden glanced over again at the figure beside him. The same question went through his mind, assessing how much further use he had for Batty. Or whether he'd be better off without him, going out on the hunt alone.

  "All right," said Holden. "I'll help you out. After all . . . it's only fair."

  Batty looked up from the spinner's controls. "We got a little partnership going, then."

  "Oh . . . we sure do." And smiled right back at him.

  Deckard knew where he was going. He just didn't know how to get there.

  It'd been easier when he'd been able to fly straight to the safe-house apartment in an unmarked spinner, at night with the tracking lights switched off, engines throttled back to near silence. That was when I was a blade runner, thought Deckard. A real one. With all the perks and privileges that accrued thereby. Now he had to creep along on the ground like a civilian or, worse yet, a hunted thing. Whatever transformation Sarah Tyrell promised him had been completed some time ago.

  The stolen cop uniform was so torn and shredded as to be unrecognizable as such. His bruises and abraded skin, wounds crusted with dried blood, showed through the ragged gaps. As he climbed over the floes of concrete rubble and twisted rebar, the palms of his hands left small red marks.

  At the crest of one long upward pull, Deckard stopped to catch his breath, the dry-heated air scalding the interior of his throat. An exact ninety-degree angle of marble and steel, once vertical and now laid out along the ground, marked where one of the zone's towers had fallen. Some of the buildings had pancaked fiat during the long-ago seismic upheavals, but most had toppled over lengthways, riding out the earth's whip-crack motion. A knife of freeway cleaved the zone, the lane-divider dots writing empty, absurd graffiti along the roadbed turned to wall.

  A glance over his shoulder revealed unmarked sky, no pursuit from the air in sight. Holding on to the tumbled building's ridge, he shielded his eyes with one hand, scanning across the zone for any other indication that his laboring progress had been spotted. No one and nothing-either the cops who'd been on his tail at the central station had assumed he'd fallen under the wheels of the rep train, and were still searching the tunnel for his bits and pieces, or they'd put the chase on hold until he reemerged in a territory more to their liking. Clusters of serious-bad criminal types-Sawney Bean dysfunctional families, Dahmer-ized protein fetishists-were known to make the sideways world their turf; sending a squadron of fresh uniforms through here would be like parading a flock of leather-wrapped turkeys into a wolves' convention. It wasn't worth having a set of sharp-filed teeth ankle-biting through your jackboots, when the chances were good that the bones of the person you were looking for were already being gnawed somewhere else in the zone.

  Using the building's broken windows as handholds, Deckard worked himself down the slope of the other side. Just get there -- a message not just to his fatigued limbs, but from one part of his brain to the other. More than exhaustion; the rep train and the nightmare vision it'd held, memories and faces, with the last one the most disturbing, had rattled him down to his soul. If he had one left.

  He'd have to think about that later. Right now, the rest of Deckard's functioning cerebral sectors were mulling over his plan of attack, once he'd reached the safe-house apartment. There'd be little time to rest, and the job to do still in front of him. Hooking up with his old boss Bryant had turned out not only to be a wash, but worse than that; the task of finding the sixth escaped replicant was now compounded by even darker mysteries. Somebody had iced Bryant-what the hell did that mean? Maybe, thought Deckard, the sixth replicant did it. Killed him. The one whose ID data Bryant had purged from the police department files. As long as Bryant had still been alive, the coverup wasn't complete; there was still at least one person who knew who the sixth replicant was. With Bryant laid out cold, the data was purged from its final location, human memory itself . . .

  All of which meant, Deckard knew, that the job of finding the sixth replicant was going to be that much harder. Bryant had been his only route into the department's records. The synthesized image of Bryant on the video monitor, with its glib real-time responses, might have been lying, stalling him, when it'd said that the sixth replicant's ID could still be drawn up from some locked-tight sector of the databases-no way of determining that now. And no way of getting back into the police station to try accessing the information; the cops wou
ld be on him in two seconds if he were stupid enough to show his face around there again.

  What then? Deckard brooded as he continued his laborious progress over the sideways world. Dig up an old Voigt-Kampff machine from the gear stashed at the safe-house apartment, and start running empathy tests on everyone in L.A.? That should only take a few centuries to complete.

  One possibility had occurred to him. Of trying to establish some kind of direct comm link with the authorities in the off-world colonies, passing himself off as a high-level figure in the LAPD-maybe as Bryant, if the off-worlders didn't know about him being dead-and getting a repeat transmission of the original data about all of the escaped replicants. That'd be one way of getting number six's ID; the only problem was that it'd be nearly as difficult as bringing Bryant himself back from the dead and grilling him for the info. The off-world security agencies weren't exactly on the phone grid; the U.N. sat on every tight-beam transmission between Earth and the colonies. Even if he could engineer some way of tapping in and getting on-line to them, there'd still be the small matter of faking the police department reciprocity codes, convincing the off-worlders of some bullshit reason for sending the data again, the whole elaborate ruse-and doing it without alerting the cops about what he was doing and where he was doing it from.

  He didn't like his chances about pulling all that off, but at the moment it was the only plan he had. Other than letting the word get out that he was back in town, and waiting for the sixth replicant to come looking for him, with murder on its mind. That was something else to think about.

  Or too much to think about. Deckard gritted his teeth against the sting of the sun-baked rocks in his palms and the swirl of plans and possibilities inside his head. Enough to make him long for the time when it'd been easier, when he'd hated his job but still knew what to do. When he could stand with legs braced, squinting through the rain slashing at his eyes, bringing the heavy black gun up with both hands locked tight on its grip, arms extended, aiming as the city's crowds had parted before him like an ocean with faces . . .

  Then firing; the gun's recoil traveling hard into his chest, then rolling onward, its palpable echo diminishing at the base of his spine, the gun lowering of its own dead weight. The last had been the female Zhora, one of that last batch of escaped replicants-and the first of their number that he'd retired. He could still see the flight of her body, its energy combined with the bullet's thrust, crashing through one plate-glass window after another. Until it had come to rest, blood mingling with the rain, the bright shards like melting crystals of ice at his feet as he'd looked down at her. At what it'd become, a dead thing, its quick life over . . .

  Deckard pushed the memory loop out of his brain. Thinking about stuff like that only led to grief. To bitter meditations about what he'd become. He'd quit the job, quit being a blade runner, before that time. When he'd realized that he didn't hate his job . . . but liked it too much.

  With thoughts carefully stilled, Deckard went on clambering through the rubble. The small bit of luck he'd had in getting across the sideways world lasted for the rest of his journey: he spotted no one, human or less so, though he heard some scurrying noises at various distances, indicating some of the more timid inhabitants fleeing his approach. He also managed not to get lost himself amid the sector's jumble and clutter, even though he was translating a bird's-eye knowledge of the route into progress on foot. The fallen freeway served as a landmark-he knew that if he kept it to his right and counted off ten up-ended off ramps, he'd arrive more or less at his destination.

  Which was right in front of him, at last; Deckard managed to get a sigh of relief through his panting for breath. He stumbled toward the multi-storied apartment building, an early-period Gehry knockoff.

  The corridors inside the building were unlit tunnels, oriented wider than high. Some rudimentary electrical service still existed in the zone, remnants of some of the pirate utility grids that had flourished around the turn of the century. He hoped that no one had tapped out the conduit that served the safe house's security functions; it'd been a while since he'd had to use the place.

  He found the door, a rectangle on its long side, a number in the low hundreds barely visible beneath layers of spray paint. A placa demon, fuzzy-edged batwings and Day-Glo fangs, still decorated the inverted hallway. Deckard knelt down to the small metal grid a few inches from the plugged keyhole.

  "It's me." He tried to keep his voice as level and free of stress tremors as possible.

  "Come on, open up."

  A red LED flashed on behind the grid. "Do I know you?" A canned voice, the emotionless female that resided on most small-device chips. "Please don't violate me. Go away and leave me alone."

  He didn't have time to deal with a recalcitrant lock; squeezing his eyes shut in frustration, he banged his fist against the grid. "Open up or I'll take you apart, so help me God." He'd use his fingernails for screwdrivers, if he had to.

  "Shame on you."

  His forehead came to rest just above the tiny holes. "You want more samples? Fine." He scrabbled through his near-depleted brain for something more to say, to trigger the lock's recognition mode. "Four score and . . . something years ago . . ." He couldn't remember the rest. "Um. Say you're walking along in the desert, and you see a tortoise. You see a tortoise and . . .

  A sharp click sounded inside the grid. He barely caught himself from falling into the room on the other side of the door as it popped open.

  He closed the door behind himself, leaning a hand for balance against the wall that had once been a floor. Even darker in here, the windows boarded over and sealed tight. Deckard could make out a few familiar furnishings, remnants of lives led when the building had still stood upright: an overstuffed couch beside a row of framed Keane paintings, footsteps imprinted across the big-eyed waifs, an overhead light fixture that now dangled into one of the inverted corners; through the doorway into the apartment's kitchen could be seen a disconnected refrigerator lying on its avocado-green flank, the magnet-studded door flopped open.

  In this small pocket of security-when it'd originally been set up as a safe house, the exterior walls had been injected with both thermal and acoustic sensor-tracker foils-he felt a measure of tension drain out of his cramped shoulders. But only for a moment. He looked down, his eyes having adjusted to the darkness, and saw a miniature Prussian soldier, with a clown's rouged cheeks and an elongated nose, tip broken off, gazing back up at him. The little soldier's eyes went wide in frightened realization.

  "I know you!" Its voice was pitched comically high. "I saw you before!" It spun on the heel of its cavalry boot and ran toward the apartment's bedroom door. "Sebastian! Sebastian! There's a man here-a bad man! A killer! Sebastian!"

  Before Deckard could react, the door sprang open, its knob whacking the surface on which he stood. Something flew out, knocking the little soldier aside. Something that spun and twisted, and struck him full in the chest before he could get out of its screaming trajectory.

  He landed on his back, with a pair of what felt like hands gripping tight around his throat. A white-haired wraith knelt on his chest, its teeth clenched and eyes radiating a murderous fury. He recognized it, even though when he'd seen it before it'd had the face of a young woman, and now wore the skeletal mask of deracinated leather. Its wrists felt like corded bones in his hands as he struggled against its throttling hold.

  "Pris!" Another voice, from somewhere else in the tilted room. "Don't do that! You'll hurt him!"

  At the edge of his sight, drowning in a red haze, Deckard saw a man with the face of a wrinkled baby, strapped to the back of an animated teddy bear. The man tugged with a single hand at the crazed figure's arm, its tattered leotard tearing open farther. Deckard felt himself falling away from the visions of combined nightmare and memory, the cutoff of his own breath turning red to black.

  12

  "I'm real sorry about that." Fussy and nervous, a voice that suited the man, or what was left of him. "Sometimes Pris jus
t goes off that way-even with me. She's got like you know? -- a hair-trigger temperament. That probably indicates some sort of deep-seated anger inside her."

  "You could say." Lying on a bare mattress inside the safe-house apartment, Deckard watched as Sebastian-a bio-engineer who'd formerly freelanced for the Tyrell Corporation; he remembered the police file on the guy-busied himself making coffee. A complicated process: the teddy bear, eyes tarnished as the buttons on its nineteenth-century waistcoat, had to back up to the sideways-mounted sink, while the triple amputee in the papoose carrier used the end of the counter as a flat surface for the grinder and French press. "Maybe she remembers me." Deckard rubbed his bruised throat. "Maybe she remembers me blowing her away. That might do it."

  "Gee . . . I don't know." Sebastian struggled to press the plunger down. "I can't exactly be sure what Pris does remember." Black coffee grounds were scattered all over, from the spilled bag of expensive welfare-drop rations. "Sometimes I wonder if she remembers me. And I'm the best friend she ever had-even when she was alive." He finished pouring, then held out the cup on a cracked Meissen dessert plate. "Squeaker, would you take this over to our guest?"

  The miniature soldier, the spike-helmeted figure that Deckard had first encountered in the safe-house apartment, grudgingly brought the coffee to him. It gazed balefully past its stretched nose, still regarding him with suspicion; the soldier's memory seemed unimpaired, at least. Deckard pushed himself into a sitting position and took the cup. "How much of her cerebral functioning were you able to save?"

  "Oh, most of it, actually." Sebastian sipped from a demitasse. He appeared ancient as a baby bird, almost incapable of feeding itself, the skin of his hand and face translucent, crumpled parchment. "But those Nexus-6 circuits are real fiddly. It's basically an unstable design, with a lot of kludges and work-arounds. I warned Mr. Tyrell about putting 'em out on the market; I told him there'd be trouble. You start havin' to do recalls and boom, your profit margin's all shot to heck. Just the return shipping costs alone, from the off-world colonies . . ." A shudder ran through the abbreviated torso in the papoose carrier. "You can't just stick a postage stamp on 'em and send 'em home, you know."