EdgeOfHuman (19 page)

"I'm kind of sorry about it, actually." Andersson looked at the black weight of the gun in his own hand. "Not like I ever minded helping you out. But you know how it goes."

"Sure." Isidore felt sorry for him. "I understand." He stood up from the desk, pushing the chair back, still cradling the cat against himself. "Wuh-would you muh-mind if I went out there?" He nodded toward the office's door. "Where the animals are? I'd rather be out thuh-there . . . when you duh-do it."

"Hey. No problem."

A moment later he stood out in the pet hospital's central corridor, looking down the rows of cages and kennels, listening to the barking and smaller noises that greeted his presence. He'd been wondering if he'd be able, at this moment, to tell the difference between the real ones and the fakes. With a sense of relief, he found that he still drew a blank on that issue.

The mechanical cat in his arms meowed plaintively and rubbed its cold muzzle against his chin. Poor thing-it knew something was wrong, something was about to happen. "Here you go, baby." Isidore leaned down to set the cat on the floor. "I don't want you to get hurt." It didn't go away, but went on pressing its steel and plastic body against his ankles.

"I'm ready," he announced. He didn't look behind himself, though he could feel the infinitesimal disturbance in the corridor's enclosed air, as Andersson raised the gun.

Then he flew. That was what it felt like, even as a blow so huge as to be painless struck him between the shoulder blades. Even as he lay between the rows of wire-fronted cages, tossed there by the bullet's impact, he still felt suspended, caught in infinite motion. The concrete against his splayed-out hands felt soft as billowing clouds. But cold.

This must be what it's like
-- he could barely hear his own thoughts. He knew he was already dead, inhabiting the last seconds of consciousness, because other sounds came to him, from far away, from right next to him.

All the cage and kennel doors sprang open, their latches triggered by the signal from the tiny device he'd implanted next to his own heart. He'd known a long time ago that this time was coming.

Any human creatures left inside the Van Nuys Pet Hospital would have to sort their own problems out. The nonhuman ones, the real and the fake, barking or whooping or emitting their shrill cries, fled toward the outer doors and windows that had also popped open. Isidore could just imagine a bright flurry of parrots wheeling above the crowded streets, the steel-legged greyhound and the terriers sprinting past the traffic-stalled vehicles . . .

Blind, he distantly felt a few of the animals nuzzling his face, the mechanical cat climbing onto his chin and shrinking back from the ragged edges of the exit wound.

"It's okay," he whispered. He tried to raise his hand but couldn't. "Don't worry . . . about me . . ."

They started yowling before he was finished dying. And continued afterward.

"This . . . this is great." The sense of happiness permeated Holden's body, as though the bio-mechanical heart in his chest had accelerated to some more euphoric rhythm. His own smile came to his face as he gazed at the monitor screen, at the data he'd had Batty summon up again. The words and numbers formed themselves into a personal message for him. "You know what this means? It means I didn't screw it up with Kowalski. I was set up; I walked into an engineered hit. There was no way i could avoid getting blown out by the replicant. The one person in the world I trusted-the guy whose job it was to look out for me, to keep my ass covered-he betrayed me." Holden placed his palm against the screen, as though to absorb the warmth of its benedictive radiation. "I can't tell you how
good
this makes me feel."

"
Mazel tov
. " Batty shrugged. "Whatever -- I'm happy for you. But you should remember, you're not exactly out of the woods. As long as you were knocked out in a hospital bed, with a dope hose running into your veins, nobody was concerned about finishing the job on you.

Maybe Bryant put out an order to keep you on life support, just because he has a sentimental streak. Or perhaps he would've liked to have pulled the plug on you, but couldn't-or at least not yet. Not with you lying inside a hospital full of doctors and nurses who like to keep their little machines running. But when they hear that you're up and walking, the contract on you becomes effective again. Especially since they can assume that someone like me has filled you in on all the stuff they didn't want you to know."

"'They . . . " He pressed his hand harder against the screen, as though he could shatter the glass, reach in and pull out the information he needed. "Who are they? Who's in on it, besides Bryant?"

"That's a good one. Answer that, and you might have a chance of surviving. The big question is, how far up does this conspiracy go? Bryant didn't come up with all this on his own. How many levels of the police hierarchy above him are involved? Does the conspiracy against the blade runners go further than that, like into the U.N.'s policy-making apparatus?

Maybe the off-world colonies' administrative offices are in on it-they're the ones most likely to have fabricated the escape that brought the replicants down here to Earth. The only thing you can be sure of is that somebody with major clout doesn't like blade runners."

"Weird." Holden shook his head. The little jolt of cheer he'd felt had faded now. The holes were filled with darkness, where the missing pieces of the puzzle should fit. "Why would they be doing something like this, anyway? We're just doing our jobs-why try to kill us off?"

"Pal, it could be any one of a million reasons. Just goes to show what an innocent soul you are, that you'd even worry about why. You haven't dealt with the people up at the top the way I have." Batty's voice and expression clouded with bitterness. "They're just mean bastards. They don't care about little people like you and me. Everything's dollar signs with them. If they want to trim their budget, they do it by cutting it out of your hide."

The last dregs of that happy sense, of knowing at last that what had happened to him wasn't his fault, ebbed out of Holden's soul. Another emotion replaced it, as in silence he studied the man standing next to him. Now it was his turn to feel pity. He could see more clearly now the lines engraved into Batty's face, the deep creases as well as the finer net across the aged skin. Cheeks hollowed, eyes sunken in the dark crepe of their sockets; as if in the blue glow of the monitor, the man was visibly claimed by time, all the decades catching up with him.
He's right
, thought Holden.
He's been doing this a long while
. . .

"You didn't quit, did you?" He wondered just how old this guy was, exactly. "Either the Tyrell Corporation or the places before that. They fired you. Put you out to pasture."

Batty shot him a fierce glance. "Yeah, well, maybe you're just finding out what it's like." An almost childish Bulkiness twisted in his voice. "Maybe the reason Bryant went in on the conspiracy to get rid of you guys is just because he wanted to bring in some new blood. Replace you jerks who've gotten your minds all warped out on the Curve. Useless dildos."

"The Curve was never a problem for me." Holden set his own gaze hard. "Once I've got the territory scoped out, I can take care of myself."

"Man, you don't even know. I tell you one thing, that your ass was set up for a fall. and now you think you're a walking encyclopedia." The mean smile showed again. "There's stuff going on,
levels
of conspiracy, that I haven't even started to bend your head with yet."

The realization had come to him some time ago that Batty got off on the whole conspiracy notion. "Such as?"

"Bryant was lying to you from the beginning. To you, and then to Deckard, when he sent you out hunting that batch of replicants." A smug expression showed on Batty's face. "There was one more escaped replicant that he didn't tell either one of you about. A sixth replicant."

"That doesn't make any sense." Another memory, from when he'd been back there at the hospital. Bryant had told him that all the escapees-all
five
of them-had been taken care of. Holden shook his head. "Why would Bryant cover up for a replicant?"

"Ah. There's the mystery, all right." Batty's face showed once more how much he was enjoying this process. "When you combine that with the supposition he was involved in a conspiracy to get rid of the blade runners . . . makes you wonder, doesn't it? Just whose side Bryant is on."

Holden fell silent, musing over everything Batty had told him, trying to fit the loose bits and pieces together.

"A sixth replicant . . ." He spoke aloud. Something moved deep inside his being, other than his prowling, restless thoughts. "Number six." The old blade runner instinct, the desire, that had stirred into life every time he'd gotten an assignment from Bryant. To hunt, to track down and locate, and then to retire the quarry. He'd never really understood why wimps like Deckard and some of the other blade runners bitched and crabbed about this job. To him, it'd always been his whole reason for existing. Like that old high-wire artist had said, long ago-everything else was just waiting. "One more to get . . ."

"Take it easy," said Batty. "I know the idea gets you all revved up, but you still gotta take it easy for a little while. That artificial heart-and-lung implant's still settling in."

Holden didn't care about that. He knew that bagging the sixth replicant would solve a lot of things.
It'd prove
, he thought with grim satisfaction,
that I'm still on top of the game
. He'd been set up by that fat, lying bastard Bryant; that'd been the only way that they -- the big they of the anti-blade runner conspiracy -- had been able to nail him. It still rankled to think of people hearing about him lying there in the hospital, a limp little bag of fluids hooked up to pumps and aerators, and feeling sorry for him. Now there was the chance to show them all.

Plus, it seemed logical there must be something special about this one remaining replicant; why else would Bryant have let the others be hunted down and retired, while covering the tracks for number six?
When I find this one --
Holden already knew he would --
I'll have to be careful not to retire it too soon.
Not until he'd pumped it for every scrap of information about the conspiracy. The key to why Bryant and those mysterious, unknown others had tried to kill him -- he didn't care about all the rest of the blade runners; this was
personal -
- was walking around Los Angeles right now, passing for human, wearing some face that could be just about anybody's.

"This isn't going to be a piece of cake." Holden nodded slowly, laying out everything neatly and efficiently inside his head. He knew he'd have to be careful, operate while keeping his own head low-the conspirators had to know that he'd been busted out of the hospital, and Batty had made such a circus out of the break, there'd be no doubt that he was hooked up with him as well.
Loose cannon
, he thought. That loony smile and crazy eyes made him wonder how far he could trust Batty. Or whether he'd have to find some way to cut free of him --

He suddenly felt tired, a wave of fatigue deep and powerful enough to buckle his knees. He had to steady himself against the bank of monitors and other electronic equipment, to keep from falling.

"See? I told you." Batty's voice came from somewhere nearby. "You gotta take it slow for right now. It's going to be a while before you're back up to your old operating speed. If ever."

"Screw that." He summoned enough willpower to stand upright. "Don't worry about me. I'm not going to let having a bio-mech heart-and-lung set cramp my action." He gave a quick, harsh laugh. "Hey, it just struck me--" Turning his own smile toward Batty. "With what your doctor pals out here stuck inside me,
I'm
not all human anymore. What a thought."

"'Not all human . . . " Batty peered at him. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Don't you get it?" Maybe this guy was so old, he was turning senile; maybe that was why Tyrell had fired him. "You know, because of the new heart and lungs being machines and stuff-"

"You poor sonuvabitch. You're the one who doesn't get it." Batty slowly shook his head. "I thought you knew. That's why it was such a good joke a while back when you thought
I
was a replicant."

Holden felt a chill lock on to his vertebrae, climbing upward one by one. "What're you talking about?"

"You were never human, Holden." The smile, the pitying gaze. "
You're
the one who's a replicant. You've always been one."

"All right, all right; now I know you're bullshitting me." Holden felt both weary and disgusted. "You told me part of your brain was wired in backward, and now I believe it. You got a sense of humor that could only come from a couple of fritzed lobes."

"Bullshit, it's not." Batty folded his arms across his chest. In the space bound by the equipment shack's corrugated-steel walls, the monitor's glow laced an icy blue through his colorless hair. "I'm not joking with you. Why should I? About something like this? Trust me. You're a replicant."

"Trust you . . . yeah, right." The guy was either yanking his chain, figured Holden, or really was as crazy as the frequent smile and weird cast to his gaze indicated. "Give it up, Batty. I don't know what the hell you think you're accomplishing with all this fun-and-games line, but I'm not falling for any more of it."

"Aw, man, the games haven't even
started
. Let's go back over to the medical unit." He reached over and switched off the monitor. In darkness, he headed for the dim rectangle of the door and the starlit night outside. "You want proof I'm not jerking you around, then come on. Got something else to show you."

Outside the larger building, the disheveled doctor looked the same as he had when he'd wheeled Holden's gurney into the operating room. He couldn't tell if any of the blood spots on the white coat were his own. The hot night air had pulled darker crescents of sweat under the man's arms.

"Hey, can I bum one of those off you?" The doctor didn't wait for permission, but plucked the cigarette pack from Holden's breast pocket. "Thanks." He flicked the match away, a miniature comet, inhaled, and coughed. "You shouldn't be walking around, you know." With the same hand, he rubbed his watering eyes and used the cigarette to point toward Holden. "I didn't put all that gear inside you that long ago." He looked over at Batty. "You wear this guy out and he pops a seam, it's not going to be that easy to fix, man."