Notes to readers ...

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Epilogue

A proud father, showing off the insides of his kid’s brain

Why should anything make sense?” I asked him.,

Her not knowing what



plus, a loyal, trouble free compain, given to you upon arrival.

A toaster with a fuzzy logic heuristic chip could think.

If the chip included a feedback loop of the toaster’s own sensors, it cvould feel. Not necessarily from the toaster’s point of view, but from your point of view. If the toaster ran away from the for5k you tried to stick in it, what’s the difference?

Poor jerk had no idea what was waiting for him.

That’s what it said on the chickenhead’s sign. He was going for mad prophet look, sackcloth and ashes, sandals, big scraggy beard. I guess if you’re going to go for it, you got to go all the way.

He marched up to me before


Made you see his point of view.

“What’s this?”
Nexus Six.
New model?
New model. They were designed to copy human beings in every way except their emotions. The designers reckoned that after a few years, they might develop their own emotional responses.
Emotional responses?
You know, hate, love, fear, anger, envy.
“Hate, love, fear, anger, envy. Oh, you mean feelings. Right.”
“Yeah. Feelings. Emotional responses. What’s the diference.”
Bryant had all the subtley of a first time shoplifter who tought he could walk off with a six pack in front of the owner because he wouldn’t believe his eeyes.
This was bullshit.
Bullshit in plain sight.
I alled him on it.
“Hell Brayant, the Fives had emotional responses. You know that. You’re ta,king soiphisticated emotional responses.”
He nodded his head.
“Yo9u’re talking empathy.”
He nodded his head. He didn’t want to say ity out loud.
Neither did I.
Empathy was the thing we used to tell the difference between replicants and people. It was the basis of the BVoight Kampf test. Empathy. It’s the thing made us human. And OK to kill them. We had it and they didn’t it. If they had it, we were Nazis in flying cars.
He tried to talk around it.
They don’t have time to develop it, asshole.
Why not?
They built in a fail-safe device.
Which is what?
Four-year life span.

So they built in a fail-safe device...Four year life span.

That’s the reason for the four-year life span, asshole. They don’t have time to develop it.
Rachel thought you’d developed it.
That’s just conditioning.
But you caught it.
So called big step forward in genetic design—illegal on earth.

I think you could rule out the climate.
Career advancement?
They were better off out in the colonies where they could blend in.

Apart from the four year life span, if they escaped, they had it made. Go to any planet or moon they wanted to. Whatever job a human could do, they could do it better.
Humanity was fighting to get off this rock.
Why would they want to come back.

You could call it growing slaves, depending on whether you were polite or not.
You could call it commerce.
It shook me up

The VK test was bullshit. A happy bedtime story for the chickenhead public.
Testing their feelings was ass-backwards.
Think about it.

If Tyrell had wanted to, he could have put a tag in the Replicant’s junk DNA—a unique genetic marker humans don’t have. Hell, the things could have cellular serial numbers, like animoids. They didn’t.
Genetically, they were indistinguishable from you, me or the Pope. 48 chromosomes, yhr usual sequences. Phenotypically, they had all the right parts in all the right places. If they acted human, there was no way to tell.
Of course, Tyrell could have given the Blade Runner units the data about the sequences he’d lifted from wolves, apes, and the rest of it. We could’ve tagged them with that. A drop of blood, a flake of skin, no more of this “What are youre feelings about your mother” shit.
But he wanted to keep it copyright.
That’s what he said.



Earth had turned to shit. You could also call it Dante’s Inferno, hell for you illiterates, but shit really says it better. Clichés being usually true rue most of the time, the road to hell started out with good intentions.
Back in the 82 a Chinese genius hit on a practical for4m of broadcast energy. Magnetic resonance, Tesla’s old idea. He’d filled in the missing papers and it worked. Came to him in a dream, he said.
He tinkered on it, kept it to himself.
Then they launched it in the early 1990s.
A wave of global prosperity radiated out from china, along with nearly free energy in the air. Skyscrapers popped up like toadstools on a scale nobody had ever seen. As an added bonus, the Chink’s gadget made faster than light space travel possible. As another bonus, it kicked computing power ahead by 560 years. That in turn, jump started the genetic engineering. Before you know it, they were cranking out electyric sheep and humanoid butlers in the labs. Then it all turned to shit. Sorry. Hell.
Free energy came with a price. We just didn’t know it.
The broadcast energy was screwing around with the arth’s ecosystem, ripping holes in the ozone layer, and blkasting apart the climate. In 2001, it just started raining and never stoip[ped. The resonant effect had another unintended conseqiemce/ It messed with whatever it was birds use to migrate instead of those little maps on your dashboard. It messed with their biologivcal clocks, so they couldn’t get to sleep or never woke up. First the owls died. Then species after species went with them. Not just birds. Bears, wolves, you name it, people too. The killing started. Suicides, murder, sick stuff out of the kind of magazines I don’t read. That so-called full moon effect happened 24/7.
The Chinese genius killed himself. I figure if he’d done it in 1993, it would’ve beeen better.
We pulled the plug on cheap energy, went back to the dirty stuff,
Petroleum. Methane. Some half-hearted attempts at wind. No solar, cause you couldn’t see the sun anymore.
China, the original source of the power, was wasteland. California up to Oregon was flooded with refugees from the Pacific Rim. America was a wasteland too. But a nicer wasteland, so the refugees kept coming.
Back in 2006, they made the damn things illegal on earth. It started with the Nexus 3 Generation. They had the IQ of your average mouth breather in the back of the class, but they looked human, they were made from human DNA, some wolf, ape, bat what have you thrown in, but still mostly human. And they could think. They had a sense of themselves as a person.
Religious types began objexcting. Hell they worried about fetuses, this couldn’t be good.
What if Did replicants have souls? That kind of thing.

The Tyrell corporation cleverly defined humanity, not as intelligence, not as self-consciousness, but empthjay. The ability to put yourself in other people’s shoes.
But, just to keep the religious types happy, they decided to make replicants illegal on earth. But that was bullshit.
They didn’t give a shit about the religious typers.
The Nexcus Fours had no emptathy,m but they did have primitive emotions and a primitive sense of self. The word for that is sociopath. They were Charlie Mansons and Starkweathers. You couldn’t program them not to kill like the robots in the old stories. Organiuc beings. You had to condition them, aversion therapy with electric shocks and other pretty things. Every now and then, the conditioning broke and the damn things went apeshit. Keeping them out in space kept them out of sight, out of mind. And if your tireless servant ever did slit your throat with a rusty tin can lid, that was jus the price of progress. They were constantly improving the product. Just like zippers in the early 20th century. The first ones didn’t work so good.
Some of the replicants made it to earth, hding in container cargo ships like rats. There was also a black market. Chickenheads on earth who felt entitled to free slaves, free sex, and didn’t understand how bad it could get if the damn things weren’t constantly monitored.

I chased them down and killed them in ways that aren’t appropriate for dinner table conversation. I had no emptahbty for them. The things were killers. I’d seen their handiwork. Efficient killers. Not even evil killers. Defectiv merchandise. Biological machines that needed to be turned off.

Whoever it is you’re chasing I hope you catch him.

I rooted for the hunter.

The hunter. Or the hunted.

I couldn’t tell the difference anymore.

Jesus deck, you fall on your head or something.

There's a chance the Nexus-6 is beyond out ability to detect.

If that's the case, everybody's up shit creek.

Deckard

Replicants weren't supposed to have feelings... neither were blade runners.

• I'm Deckard. Blade Runner. Two sixty-three fifty-four. I'm filed and monitored.

• I was quit when I came in here. I'm twice as quit now.
  • In response to news that he is wanted on another assignment as a "blade runner" — an officer of the law who "retires" renegade "replicants."

• Replicants are like any other machine. They're either a benefit or a hazard. If they're a benefit, it's not my problem.

• One more question. You're watching a stage play. A banquet is in progress. The guests are enjoying an appetizer of raw oysters. The entree consists of boiled dog....
  • Question on the Voight-Kampf test that Rachel "fails" when she shows more empathy for the oysters than the dogs, indicating that she's faking her response.

• I don't get it, Tyrell. How can it not know what it is?
  • On Rachael not knowing that she is a replicant.

• Memories, you're talking about memories.

• [Revealing to Rachael that she is a replicant] You ever tell anyone that? Your mother, Tyrell? They're implants. Those aren't your memories, they're somebody else's. They're Tyrell's niece's. OK, bad joke, I'm sorry... No, really, I made a bad joke. Go home, you're not a Replicant... (sigh) you wanna drink? I'll get you a drink.

• I've had people walk out on me before, but not when I was being so charming.

[edit] Voiceovers

I don't know why he saved my life. Maybe in those last moments he loved life more than he ever had before. Not just his life... anybody's life... my life.

These were expunged from the Director's Cut version. It has been said that both Scott and Ford were unhappy with the dialogue, as it was forced by the studio and was written by another scriptwriter (Roland Kibbee) not associated with the project. They can still be found in International editions, and all were spoken by Harrison Ford.

• They don't advertise for killers in the newspaper. That was my profession. Ex-cop. Ex-blade runner. Ex-killer.

• Sushi. "Cold Fish." That's what my ex-wife used to call me.

• The charmer's name was Gaff, I'd seen him around. Bryant must have upped him to the Blade Runner unit. That gibberish he talked was city speak, gutter talk. A mishmash of Japanese, Spanish, German, what have you. I didn't really need a translator, I knew the lingo, every good cop did. But I wasn't going to make it easier for him.

• "Skin jobs". That's what Bryant called Replicants. In history books he's the kind of cop who used to call black men "niggers".

• I'd quit because I'd had a belly full of killing. But then I'd rather be a killer than a victim, and that's exactly what Bryant's threat about "little people" meant. So I hooked in once more thinking if I couldn't take it I'd split later. I didn't have to worry about Gaff. He was brown-nosing for a promotion, so he didn't want me around anyway.

• Tyrell really did a job on Rachael. Right down to a snapshot of a mother she never had... a daughter she never was.Replicants weren't supposed to have feelings... neither were blade runners. What the hell was happening to me? Leon's pictures had to be as phony as Rachael's. I didn't know why a Replicant would collect photos. Maybe they were like Rachael... they needed memories.

• The report would be routine retirement of a Replicant. Which didn't make me feel any better about shooting a woman in the back. There it was again... feeling in myself... for her... for Rachael.

• I don't know why he saved my life. Maybe in those last moments he loved life more than he ever had before. Not just his life... anybody's life... my life. All he'd wanted was the same answers the rest of us want. Where do I come from? Where am I going? How long have I got? All I could do is sit there and watch him die.

• Gaff had been there, and let her live. Four years, he figured. He was wrong. Tyrell had told me Rachael was special: no termination date. I didn’t know how long we had together... who does?

[edit] Bryant

• Don't be an asshole, Deckard. I've got four skin-jobs walking the streets.

• He can breathe OK as long as nobody unplugs him.

• Stop right where you are! You know the score, pal! If you're not a cop, you're "little people."

• Christ, Deckard, you look almost as bad as that skin-job you left lying in the street!

• Talk about beauty and the beast — she's both.

• The only way you can hurt him is to kill him.

[edit] Eldon Tyrell

• Milk and cookies kept you awake, eh, Sebastian?

• The light that burns twice as bright, burns half as long. And you have burned so very, very brightly, Roy.

• Commerce is our goal here at Tyrell. "More human than human" is our motto.

[edit] Rachael

Have you ever retired a human by mistake?

You know that Voigt-Kampf test of yours? Did you ever take that test yourself?

• Have you ever retired a human by mistake?

• Is this testing whether I'm a Replicant or a lesbian, Mr. Deckard?

• I'm not in the business. I am the business.

• You know that Voigt-Kampf test of yours? Did you ever take that test yourself?

[edit] Leon

• Painful to live in fear, isn't it?

• Nothing is worse than having an itch you can never scratch.

• Wake up! Time to die!

• My mother? Let me tell you about my mother.

[edit] Roy Batty

I've seen things you people wouldn't believe....

All those ... moments will be lost in time, like tears...in rain.

• Fiery the angels fell; deep thunder rolled around their shores; burning with the fires of Orc.
  • This is a deliberate misquote of William Blake's America: A Prophecy "Fiery the angels rose, and as they rose deep thunder roll'd. Around their shores: indignant burning with the fires of Orc."

• Chew, if only you could see what I've seen with your eyes!

• It's not an easy thing to meet your maker.

• I want more life, father.
  • In the "Final Cut" version, the line above is "I want more life, fucker." The line also has a noticeably deeper tonal quality than the previous versions.

• I've done questionable things.

• Can the maker repair what he makes?

• Proud of yourself, little man?
  • After hunting down Deckard, who had already killed Pris.

• Not very sporting to fire on an unarmed opponent. I thought you were supposed to be good. Aren't you the... "good" man?

• C'mon Deckard, show me... what you're made of... [pulls Deckard's hand through the wall and removes his gun]... This is for Zora [breaks finger] and this is for Pris [breaks another] You gotta shoot straight! [Deckard shoots and misses] Straight doesn't seem good enough!

• You better get it up. Or I'm gonna have to kill ya.

• We're not computers, Sebastian, we're physical.
  • After Sebastian asks Roy and Pris to "do something"

• Good! That's the spirit!
  • After Deckard beats him across the head with a lead pipe.

• That...hurt. That was irrational. Not to mention, unsportsman-like. Ha ha ha. [pause] Where are you going?
  • After Deckard being beaten with a lead pipe.

• Quite an experience to live in fear, isn't it? That's what it is to be a slave.
  • Standing over Deckard as he hangs from the side of the building.

• I've seen things you people wouldn't believe. Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion. I've watched c-beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhäuser Gate. All those ... moments will be lost in time, like tears...in rain.
  Time to die.
  • Last words

[edit] Taffey Lewis

• Louie, the man is dry. Give him one on the house.

• Blow.

• All the time, pal.

[edit] Others

• Gaff: You've done a man's job, sir! I guess you're through, huh?

• Gaff: It's too bad she won't live. But then again, who does?

• Holden: Now tell me, in single words, only the good things that come into your mind when you think about your mother?"

• PA Voice: A new life awaits you in the Off-World colonies. The chance to begin again in a golden land of opportunity and adventure!

• Holden: The tortoise lays on its back, its belly baking in the hot sun, beating its legs, trying to turn itself over but it can't. Not without your help. But you're not helping.

• Hannibal Chew: I do eyes. Just - just eyes. Just genetic design. Just eyes. You Nexus, huh? I design your eyes."

• Hannibal Chew: You not come here! Illegal!

• J.F. Sebastian: They're my friends. I make them.

• J.F. Sebastian: There's some of me in you.

• Pris: Then we're stupid, and we'll die.

• Pris: I think, Sebastian, therefore I am.

• Zhora: Are you for real?

[edit] Dialogue

Holden: Now tell me, in single words, only the good things that come into your mind when you think about...your mother?

Leon Kowalski: My mother?

Holden: Yes.

[Leon leans forward, speaking in a soft, angry tone]

Leon Kowalski: Let me tell you about my mother! [shoots Holden]

---

---

---

Tyrell: I'm surprised you didn't come here sooner.

Roy: It's not an easy thing to meet your maker.

Tyrell: What can he do for you?

Roy: Can the maker repair what he makes?

Tyrell: Would you like to be modified?

Roy: I had in mind something a little more radical.

Tyrell: What seems to be the problem?

Roy: Death.

Tyrell: Death. Well, I'm afraid that's a little out of my jurisdiction, you...

Roy: I want more life, fucker (father).

Tyrell: The facts of life: To make an alteration in the evolvement of an organic life system is fatal. A coding sequence cannot be revised once its been established.

Roy: Why not?

Tyrell: Because by the second day of incubation, any cells that have undergone reversion mutations give rise to revertant colonies like rats leaving a sinking ship; then the ship sinks.

Roy: What about EMS recombination?

Tyrell: We've already tried it. Ethyl methane sulfonate is an alkylating agent and a potent mutagen. It created a virus so lethal the subject was dead before he left the table.

Roy: Then a repressor protein that blocks the operating cells.

Tyrell: Wouldn't obstruct replication, but it does give rise to an error in replication so that the newly formed DNA strand carries a mutation and you've got a virus again. But this - all of this is academic. You were made as well as we could make you.

Roy: But not to last.

Tyrell: The light that burns twice as bright burns half as long, and you have burned so very very brightly, Roy. Look at you. You're the prodigal son. You're quite a prize!

Roy: I've done questionable things.

Tyrell: Also extraordinary things. Revel in your time!

Roy: Nothing the god of biomechanics wouldn't let you into heaven for.

---

Batty: Yes! [smiles] Questions... Morphology? Longevity? Incept dates?

Chew: Don't know, I don't know such stuff. I just do eyes, juh, juh... just eyes... just genetic design, just eyes. You Nexus, huh? I design your eyes.

Batty: Chew, if only you could see what I have seen with your eyes.

---

Police Officer in a Spinner: This sector's closed to ground traffic. What are you doing here?

Deckard: I'm working. What are you doing?

Police Officer in a Spinner: Arresting you. That's what I'm doing.

Deckard: I'm Deckard. Blade Runner. Two sixty three-fifty four. I'm filed and monitored

Police Officer in a Spinner: Hold on. Checking. [pause] Okay, checked and cleared. Have a better one.

---

Roy: [taunting Deckard with a counting rhyme] Six! Seven! Go to Hell or go to Heaven!

[Deckard beats Roy on the side of the head with a lead pipe]

Roy: Good! That's the spirit!

So what do we do/

Nothing.

Nothing/

He grunted.

We warn them, right?

No. no warning.

Is that from Bryant, or is this from you?”

He didn’t answer.

“What’s the alternative plan? Just sit on our ass? Sit and wait while they pick off the zaibatsu one by one?"

It's not my decsison.

and just wait for the four-year lifespan to kick in?"

It's not my decision.

"How do you explain the killing spree?"

"Happens all the time."

He was right about that. But something didn’t add up.

If I wanted revenge I wouldn’t go after zaibatsu. I’d go after –

"We're the bait huh? I'm the bait? The replicants find me. You find them?"

City speak for you’re a psychotic paranoid asshole.

Gaff’s way of saying yes.

From that point on, I worked alone.

I thought I was looking for then. But somewhere out there, the replicants were looking for me. Killers. Better killers. That was the plan. He hadn’t been planning to tell me.

I should’ve been worried, but I wasn’t. I didn’t believe his Gaff’s comic book theory.

Robots on the rampage seeking revenge. That’s what robots do, right? Guys like us gew up with those comic books. We’re ready to believe that shit.

I kept thinking about Chew.

Kept seeing him in my mind.

The poor pathetic guy, stark naked, frozen to death.

Why?

Make it look like an industrial accident, like his suit malfunctioned. Get rid of the guy at the front desk like he just got fed up with his job and ran off. Throw us off the scent. That’s the smart thing to do.

But they made it obvious.

Why strip him naked? What’s the point?

It’s cruel. Too obviously cruel.

Why?

So it would look like revenge.

So we’d think that.

That was the point.

The one I kept to myself.

She figured i6t out easily enough.

They wanted life.

Only Turell could help them woith that.


Can’t you see what they’re after? Who they’re looking for?
Who?
God.

Metaphysics?
Hai batka-tai.

JF and Roy hadn’t arrived yet. I found out later he was telling the truth.

The machine enhances and reveals hidden details by blowing up the multi-dimensional layers within the photograph. Deckard, after perceptively exploring the unsettling details of the photo, discovers the mirror images of a showgirl's shimmering gown in a closet, and a sleeping woman with a snake tattoo on her left cheek - presumably replicant Zhora.

It interpolated the three dimensional space implied by the 2-D photograph. Interpolated stuff the camera didn't see based on reflections and shadows.

Why are they back on earth is the obvious question.

Leon must’ve found Hannibal Chew’s address from the personael files at tyrell. The other two victims worked out int he open. Took out ads, you know?

[Deckard's apartment, Deckard uses the Esper machine]
Deckard:

Enhance 224 to 176. Enhance, stop. Move in, stop. Pull out, track right, stop. Center in, pull back. Stop. Track 45 right. Stop. Center and stop. Enhance 34 to 36. Pan right and pull back. Stop. Enhance 34 to 46. Pull back. Wait a minute, go right, stop. Enhance 57 to 19. Track 45 left. Stop. Enhance 15 to 23. Give me a hard copy right there.




he dropped me off.

I couldn’t get her out of my head

Maybe she could figuyre out what they were up to.
I told myself that’s why I was calling.

I couldn’t blame her. I was the smartass that told her the truth.

I should’ve known better.
Who wants to know the tuth? Nobody.

You got a badge. Whadya want? An invitation?

A snake scale. A snake dancer.

My specialty.

I couldn’t just run Vogit Kampf under the circumstances.

Her call, not mine.

I remembered why I quit.
I told myself that.


All I had was a bunch of meaningless snapshots, a flake from a bathtub


Some asshole bumped into him, he fell on the floor and shattered into a million piees.

They locked him in the cold unit without any clothes. He must have been freezing to death by the time I was driving home with a bad case of nerves.

Lesbian Mr. Deckard.

No, the lesbian test comes later.

That’s what I was thinking. They don’t bpay bme to be a smartass. I woulda been asmartass for free, but I don’t think she’d have appreciated it. I wanted her to appreciate me.

I thought my

Batty gouged out the old guy's eyes, crushed his skull.

Batty gouged out the old guy's eyes, crushed his skull.

The Tyrell Corporation put in a new CEO. Mr. Anonymous. First thing he did, he put in a call to the station. New boss wanted to have a talk with Gaff and me. Private like.
Gaff and me was flying on over in his spinner.
What the hell was I going to say?
What were the results of the expoeriment. Well, Mr. Anonymous.

It was a clusterfuck. And that’s putting a happy smiley face on it.

Make a replicant Blade Runner, a dupe of one of the vegetables in cold storage. Get a rep to kill the other reps. He gets killed, make another dupe. Seemed like a good idea at the time, sure.
Not right now, no, I guess not. Yo could say that.

You could say Deck, the copy we made, retired most of the replicants, eventually. But he didn’t finish the job until after Roy killed most of your top research guys and splattered Tyrell all over his office like a traffic accident. I heard it took the cleaning crew three hours to get the blood off the floor. Where is Deckard? Well sir, I forgot to mention, he ran off with the cute one. Gaff here’s going to track ‘em down and make it look like a murder suicide to keep it out of the papes. He’s real good at that kind of thing.

I guess you won’t be handing out any medals to the Blade Runner unit.
Gaff was shitting in his pants. Figured I’d make him the scapecoat muttering that gibberings of his
I says to him don’t be an asshole gaff. The experiment was Tyrell’s idea.
JF’s idea.
Whatever. The runt w2as supposed to jack him up so’s he’s an unstpoppable killing machine and the world’s greatest detective. Ain’t our fault if he fucked up, so take it easy.
We made it in, got through secutiry, the usual.
I went straight to the cryo-lab.
Hey, I’m a sentamentalist at heart. I said goodbye to Deckard, the original, before they pulled the plug on him. Obviously we didn’t keep him down at the station.
How’s it going deck?
Staring up at me like a dead fish.
Hey. That skin job we made, the one walking around with your name, your face and your memories inside your skull? You’ll be happy to know he’s just as good at your job at you were. Your work lives on, Deck. See you later pal.
Hell, it was true. The copy was just just as good. Namely not so good. The Replicants beat the shit –the girls beat the shit out of him and he never figured anything out in time. I didn’t have the heart to tell him. Hurt his feelings, if he was say it. In case he was in there somewhere behind those dead eyes. Didn’t want to hurt his feelings.
Me and Gaff walked down the hall to the top guy’s office. Pretentious architecture. The asshole the3y scraped off the floor obviously wanted you to know he was important. Guess the new asshole would probably redecorate.
Gaff. Hell, I hate to say this. But I got kinda attached to Deckard #2. When you retire hi,m, do it nice and easy. Like a faithful old dog. OK, pal?”
He nodded.
Ever seen Old Yaller?
Hai.
Do it like that.
He nodded, but looked pissed.
“I thought you hated the guy. Whgat’s the goddamn problem?
No problem.
Ain’t no alternative, Gaff. What do you wanna do? Wait till his four year lifetime kicks in?
We entered the office. The shield went down.
“Actually, that wouldn’t work.”
Holy shit.
J.F. Sebastian was sitting like a goddamn elf at the end of the conference table surrounded by Roy, Pris, Leon, Rachel, Deckard, or knockoffs of the originals, anyway. Whatever the hell original means.

He’s a Seven, said the elf. “Nexus Seven. They don’t have a terimination date.
Deckard?
I pointed at Deckard.
The other Deckard. Deckard. The one running off with Rachel.
Deckard and Rachel smiled.
Deckard. The one flying over Oregon right now.

Rachel does though. It’ll break his heart when he dies.
They got all misty eyed at the thought of the broken hearted skinjob.
Gaff was in on it. No point in asking. I could ghear him take his piece out behnd me.
Guess I’m fucked, huh?
Hai.
Sebastian smiled at me.
“You goddamn traitor. You little shit.”
What a potty mouth.
You sold sold out the human race. You went to all this trouble. Just to kill your boss and take his place? You think they’ll let you live, asshole?
You don’t get it.
Mr. Tyrell was a genius. But he was standing in the way of progress.
Progress?
The four year lifespan
It was his idea.
It had to go.
There’s a reason for the four year …
We have empathy now.
We don’t like hurting people.
Unless we have to.
Nobody lives forever, says Leon.
Then the muscleboy with the faggy white hair piped in.
“But four years … it’s hardly fair.
More life.
Roy smiled.
Sebastian smiled.
Stop smiling, you goddamn traitor.
Mr. potty mouth, says Pris. Kick him in the head if he does it again.”
“OK, says Zhora.”
The expiration date? That’s it? That’s why you killed him?
Yeah, says Pris. “The four-year lifespan had to go. Its gone.
And other things.
Other things? Jesus Mary and Joseph.

Pris, Rachel, Zhora. Bellies like goddamn watermelons They were all obviously pregnant.



Then it collapsed.
Its batteries were running down.

Be fruitful and multiply
You want to replace the human species?
No, says Roy. “
Improve the human species with hybrid vigor.
More tolerant of radiation and toxicity.
You designed us in your image. We’ll return the compliment.
Ande build a new Jerusalem. On england’s pleasant pastures green
Goddamn you.
Zhora kicked me in the head.
Sorry, Bryant. But you had fair warning and all.
Cold child
JF. The one in the Bradbury. He’s a knockoff, right?
No, you sonofabitch, I’m the knockoff. JF Sebastian was a hero. He gave his life so others could live.
They got all misty eyed again.
“Slavery,” says Roy. “Genocide. He had ethical qualms. I guess.”
“Gaff to Right pall.”
“I had a talk with the late Mr. Sebastian, says Gaff. “We agreed on the plan. He made a copy. Of himself.
Me, says Sebastian.”
“Then he erased his memories. I did.
You erased his memories. Then what?
Then we and sent him Back to the Bradbury to wait for Roy. He didn’t know it of course. I felt pretty bad about it.
My actions. He smiled apologetically. His actions were predictable.
It works on humans too.
And you predicted it? This was your idea? I thought you always lost at chess.”
“Mr. Tyrell,” he smiled shyly. “I guess I always let him win. Except for the one time.”
“You see the problem,” says Pris. “I think JF is pretty smart.”
What’s the problem.
How do you kill God?
The man who would be God.
You can’t.
Unless, you know, a team of rogue replicants comes looking for more life.
Looking for him.
The Sorcerer’s Apprentice.
A God who can’t deliver
Roy would obviously be disappointed,” said Roy.
But that wouldn’t work. They ain’t gonna get to him. Cause he’s the most highly guarded asshole in the world.
Even more so, after Leon emptied his clip into Holden.
So it’s i9mpossible.
Unless, you know, we put a copy of most incompetent Blade Runner in Rep-Detecs history on the job.
And Gaff feeds you a load of bullshit about their plan to wipe out the little guys.
In a rampage of robot reenge.
Deck goes tearing off in the wrong direction.
You think he’s bait, so you’re looking in the wrong direction.
And we put down breadcrumbs leading Roy.
Original roy.
To a genetic designer with access to Tyrell’s private elevator.
The backdoor to the system.
The one that works on a keycard. With no security camera.
Yeah, OK, I get it.
Fially.
Now what? You erase my memories.
In a manner of speaking.
Deck pulled out his blaster. Aimed it at my forehead.
The fucking things looked sorry for me.
No pain huh? Like an old dog.
No pain.
And that’s the helluva the thing.
“I don’t remember any pain,” I says to Gaff. “So I guess he was telling the truth.”
Gaff smirked.
No pain.
My stomach felt great now.
I poured myself a drink.
L.A. looked just as shitty on the way back.

Batty gouged out the old guy's eyes, crushed his skull.He'd snapped the designer's neck. Painfless and quick. Roy and JF must've hit if off.

The pyramid is the tightest of sphincters.

No, it’s not. I checked the black files. There’s six guys with access to Tyrell--off the security net. Now that chew’s dead, the only one here in LA is JF Sebastian.

So?

So maybe Chew gave Roy his name. Maybe that was the point. Maybe the two are paying Tyurell a social call right now.

It wasn’t a maybe. I found out later.



Fuck you.

Fuck you.

A ge

She had a snake tattoo crawling up on her face. The left side.

Deckard takes his hard-copy ESPER photo of the woman and the scale he found in Leon's bathtub to a section of the city called Animoid Row, a section of stalls that specializes in manufacturing artificial, synthetic animals [in the year 2019, most animals are extinct, so there is a thriving business in synthetic creatures]. He visits a Cambodian woman who makes fish replicas. She examines the scale under an electron microscope, identifying it as "manufactured...finest quality, superior workmanship" with the maker's serial number "9906947-XB71," [it is not identical to the one in the electron microscope image!]. The woman exclaims: "Not fish. Snake scale." It is not a fish scale but an artificial snake scale.
I spit on metaphysics.

You give me that promotion

That big bozo

Kills tyrell
I locked the eoor and left her with a gun if it isn’t me, shoot

She figured out what they wanted they wanted life only T could offer that
I was going to be a hero and save tyrell’s life
Only


The sixth was named
Genetic designer named JF Sebastian
Tyrell’s chess partner.

I figured it out. Yeah I now you think you figured it out. But I figured it out.

He gave me a look that said I’m waiting asshole.

They want life. They’re trying to get to Tyrell. Leon’s winning personality didn’t work. Now they’re trying the subtle approach.





It’s your delusion. You call ‘em.

I can’t get through. Call em, you --



Right now?

Right now.

Yeah, OK.

JF and Roy hadn’t arrived yet. I found out later he was telling the truth.

They were already dead.


Tell ‘em to lock it down.

I did, idiot. They say I’m full of shit. I say you’re full of shit.

You can’t lock it down. It’s off the system. They set it up that way.
You get over there.

Don’t give me orders asshole.

Jesus. Let him die, I don’t give a shit. I’ll get over to Sebastian’s place. If Roy didn’t get there first. Do what you want.

Gaff went over there.

Tears in Rain

I finally made it to J.F.'s place at Third and Broadway, right across the street from the Million Dollar Theater. Ancient office building crouched in the shadows of the steel superstructure holding up the shiny new stuff. The Bradbury, according to the Art Deco letters above the entrance. Pretty once, maybe. Beat-up and ugly now. Fate of old buildings, old whores. Somebody said that once. My universal access card got me in.

The Bradbury building looked like shit from the street, but it was worse on the inside. The roof leaked, water pooled, mildew grew, and I was right in the open. Lobby. Big open space. Had to cross it. If Pris and Roy were waiting in the shadows, this wouldn't take long. I kept my Blaster out. Kept cursing myself.

Could've had the element of surprise, but no. Like a chickenhead, I had to make that call and let 'em know I was coming. Maybe Gaff was right about me. Rachel, too. I'm a lousy detective. Explains a lot.

Lobby seemed clear. They weren't here. Not where I could see them, anyway.

Walking through puddles, looking around. Open courtyard, three balconies, all looking down at me, perfect shots on all sides. Every square inch wrapped in iron-wrought kudzu. More like New Orleans than LA. Definitely pretty once. And definitely familiar ...

Felt wave after wave of deja vu. Couldn't shake it. Finally placed it.

Yeah, I’d seen this place before. In a black-and-white TV show from the 1960s, forget the name. Some science fiction thing about a robot from the future who'd come back in time to save humanity. Hilarious, right? Nobody’d want to film here now.

One of those damn advertising blimps was passing overhead. I could see it through the skylight. Hypnotic samisen music, geisha popping a pill, searchlights shining down and lighting me up.

Forced myself to look down, study the likely points of attack in the shadows. Daddy's not home yet, pretty sure about that. If Roy was here, I'd be dead already. Pris could still be here, somewhere. Probably not. But if she was dumb enough to answer the Vid-Phon, she might be dumb enough to pull the typical Replicant response. Go to ground. Play possum. If so, I'd find her and retire her from a safe distance.

Finally made it across the big open kill zone, headed up the stairs. Iron cage elevator's a dead giveaway -- if it worked at all. Trying to walk soft, step by step. But that's just kidding myself. If Pris was here, she'd hear me. Replicant audio acuity is way above human range. Like wolves.

Second floor hallway, no attack so far. Front door to Sebastian’s lair. I went in. Two sentries greeted me. Midget-sized bots dressed as cute little toy soldiers. Synthetic, not organic.

"Home again, home again, jiggity jig. Good evening J. F!"

Marched up to me, one of them marched into the wall, bounced away. Defective I guess. Welcome to the Island of Misfit Toys. J.F.'s whole decaying flat was full of them.

I padded my way inside, inching my way back from room to room. The place was stuffed with bots, all varieties, DNA-based, electronic, mechanical relics from the Victorian era. One of 'em had a big red nose like something the missus might hide under the bed. It was thrashing around, strapped into this rig that looked like S&M-type stuff. I found out later, the gear was actually its charging unit. The bot was Sebastian's home security, all dolled out in a cute little guard uniform like the other two, but this one worked. Roy put it in there to get it out of the way. It was fighting to get out, warn his master. I didn’t know that at the time. I just thought J.F. was a sick puppy.

Room next door was full of dolls, mostly female, all clustered together. I spotted her, right in the middle. Pris. All decked out in a bride's gown, veil obscuring her face. Not moving, blinking or breathing, but they could do that for hours. It was her, probably. But I wanted to be sure. So I made an amateur move.

I came up closer and lifted her veil.

Pris kicked me across the room like a mule.

Why didn't I just shoot her, damn it? I knew better. Bryant actually thinks I'm good at my job.

Pris ran up to me before I could move, jumped, got her legs around my neck. Not as much fun as it sounds.
Powerful thigh-grip. I felt like a damn walnut in a nut cracker.

She giggled, really enjoying our moment of intimacy.

Keeping my neck pinned with her thighs, she grabbed my ears with her hands. Then turned my head around beyond the normal turning radius of my neck, like that kid in The Exorcist who spit up pea soup. At this point, my head's turned backwards and I'm looking up at her. Pris smiled down at me, put two fingers inside my nostrils. Quick kill if she jabbed them into my brain. She thought about it, but changed her mind.

Pulled her fingers out, opened her thighs. Then two knife-hand strikes to the sides of my neck. I dropped to the floor like a sack of rotten meat.

I heard her running away across the room.

Then she screamed. A martial arts kill cry.

And started coming back.

Pretty Miss Killer closed the distance fast, doing cartwheels like a really pissed-off cheerleader with superhuman strength. My strength was mostly gone. But I had enough left to fumble my Blaster out.

I blew a hole through her stomach. She slid across the floor and hit the wall.

Pris started kicking and screaming.

I shot her again.

She kept kicking and screaming.

I shot her again.

Eventually, she stopped.

It seemed like a good time to leave.

But Roy was coming up in the elevator. The mechanism was pretty damn loud and even I could hear it.

Yeah, I know. I call Pris "her," call Roy "it." She's cute. It's a goddamn nightmare. It's an it.

I ducked back in Sebastian’s madhouse apartment. Hunkered down across the big open space of the living room, watching the doorway on the other side. I knew exactly what it’d do. Instinct. It’d come in the front door, smell blood, look for Pris. It’d find her, in the room to the left of the doorway where I can't see it. It'll mourn his mate for awhile. Then come out looking for me. I’d see it first in the doorway, ambush him. One shot. Easy kill. I just had to be patient.

That's exactly what it did. Roy found her. I heard it saying something. Last rites for Pris, whatever. Then silence.

It finally came out.

But moved too fast. Impossibly fast.

Just a flash in the doorway. 

I shot him, shot at him. It.

I missed.

The shot echoed through the building, kept echoing.

Then its voice started echoing.

“Not very sporting to fire on an unarmed opponent. I thought you were supposed to be good. Aren't you the good man?”

Yeah, I guess. Am I?

It actually got me to thinking about this stuff.

I’m the good man and you’re the evil not-man. Replicant, android, killer robot, Frankenstein, monster with a bad haircut, whatever. But man created you, it, how could evil come out of the good? What is the good ...

Jesus, Deckard. Concentrate.

Cat-and-mouse crap. The thing was playing mind games -- and its mind was just plain better. It knew I’m having my doubts about my line of work. It was reading me, somehow. More human than human. Obviously superior. How superior? It hears my heartbeat, infers my thoughts. I don’t have a chance. Run.

To hell with that. I wasn't going to panic.

I forced myself to move. To keep moving.

Forward.

Deliberately.

Going deeper.

Into this rotten place.

No panic. In control.

Moving forward into the black, shitty, wet, mildewy maze of corridors.

Roy was in there, somewhere. On the other side of one of the dripping walls. Next time it shouts, pinpoint its position, sink Roy's battleship, kill it. That’s what counts. That’s what I need to think about. Me, it. Roy’s a body in space. I’m a body in space. We’re trying to kill each other. If I kill it first, I win. Where is it?

He knows where you are. It’s better.

To hell with that. Take another step. Be in the moment. Zanshin. There’s more to that stuff than old Japanese Samurai movies.

Go forward.

Run.

No. It wants you to run.

With an amazing feat of willpower, personal courage and stupidity, I kept creeping down the hallway, gun extended like a cross to ward off vampires.

Roy's voice came through the walls.

“Come on, Deckard. Show me what you're made of."

Blood, guts, DNA, hope, fear. Same as you, more or less.

No. Not the same.

Where the hell was he? It?

I found out.

It knew where I was. My worst fears turned out to be right.

Doing my duty like an asshole, I kept on walking until it punched its hand through the wall, grabbed my right hand, the one holding the gun, and pulled it through the hole in the wall, along with the Blaster.

I wound up standing on my tiptoes like a clown -- with my shoulder pulled up to that hole.

Because Roy was holding onto me on the other side.

Holding onto ...

My Blaster, my arm, my hand.

Me.

I was helpless.

I was dead.

The only question left was what they’d write on the autopsy report.

Roy gave me time to think about all this.

That was all I could do.

It had my hand in its grip. Like a baby’s hand in the hand of one of those steroid-pumped masked wrestlers at the Million Dollar Theater.

Heard its voice again. Taunting me from the other side of the wall.

"Proud of yourself, little man?"

No. Right now, my answer would have to be no.

Here it comes.

I figured Roy was going to rip my arm off, piece by piece, like a killer in one of those torture vids the sick kids like.

But it didn’t.

"This is for Zhora,” it said.

Then it broke my pinky finger.

I yelped, but pulled it back.

Pain, you know. I guess there’s a lot of nerves in the hand. Shitload of pain. It comes with the job. You detach from it. Kill now, hurt later.

The pain was there. I wasn’t feeling the pain. I was someplace else.

Thinking ...

Just the finger? That’s it? Or is Roy just taking his time?

“This is for Pris."

Roy broke the next finger.

Yeah, it’s taking its time.

I figured it’d keep going. This little piggie goes to market. This little piggie stayed home.

Here it comes.

The long, slow torture sequence. The protracted vivisection.

But Roy surprised me.

It let me go. He let me go.

It put my weapon back in my hand and let me go.

I pulled my hand and the weapon out of the hole.

Pain exploding behind my eyes like white hot magnesium flares. Hard to ignore, at this point.

Do the job. Kill it.

I was trying to do the job. My brain was sending down orders. But my hand wasn’t following them. My right hand still holding the Blaster.

It was taunting me again. Like some jerk in high school football setting me up for a smashmouth sucker play.

"Come on, Deckard. I'm right here, but you've got to shoot straight."

I did a hand-off, shifted the Blaster from right hand to left, the one that still worked.

Then I shot him through the hole in the wall.

Did I hit it?

I couldn’t see if I’d done any damage. Maybe. Maybe not.

Fireworks again.

Its voice again.

"Straight doesn't seem to be good enough.”

Kill him.

My brain informed me this was wrongheaded thinking. Roy was going to kill me. Running away was a bad idea before, but the situation's changed. Right now, it's an excellent idea. Run.

It’s amazing how fast I didn’t give a shit about a crazyass replicant with a bad haircut let loose on the unsuspecting people of earth. My own survival became much more important.

Fuck the RepDetect Unit. Fuck the Tyrell Corporation. Fuck earth.

I ran. Roy's echoing voice followed me.

“Now it's my turn. I'm gonna give you a few seconds before I come. One, Two, Three …”

Counting. Like a kid playing hide and seek.

Like it’s playing a happy game with me.

But I didn't want to play anymore.

Pumping my legs like hell, I made for the front door of the Bradbury. Was the damn thing still chasing me? Hell, I didn’t see it. I didn’t look back. I had plenty of time.

Then, a day and a half after his death, Sebastian’s home security system kicked in. His Napoleonic sentinel bot worked its way out of the restraints, pushed the panic button, and died.

The front door slammed shut, bolted itself. I was trapped.

So I doubled back.

The only way out was up.

I still couldn’t see it.

I fought my way up stairs, through rooms filled with water and pigeons and mildew and shit.
Then, out of nowhere, the adrenaline wore off. The pain I wasn’t feeling came back.

I’d been trained. I knew what to do under the situation. Why my nerves were screaming at me.

I pulled my index finger back in place.

And screamed.

Roy screamed back at me.

Call and response.

Like a wolf. Howling back at another wolf.

This little piggie …

The other finger.

I howled.

It howled.

Then it started making with the dumbass nursery rhymes.

"Four, Five, How to stay alive."

Yeah, that’s what I was thinking.

It knew. It was putting itself in my place.

Roy’s scaring the hell out of me. It wants me to run. It’s not running after me. He’s holed up somewhere, staying in place, I don’t know why, holding a wake for Pris maybe, but now’s my chance, kill him ... it.

My brain said, hey, Deckard, that’s a stupid fantasy from an old detective movie. You’ve got no chance. Kill yourself. You know what he’s going to do to you.

Always save a bullet for yourself, like those soldiers in Afghanistan in the Kipling poem. Blade Runner lore.

The Fives would rip you to pieces.

But Roy’s not going to kill me. Nah.

Or maybe yeah.

Could see him running down the hall. I'm standing at the wrong end. Cornered. Like a chickenhead, I'd miscalculated. One room left, ducked into it. Climbed up a rotten wardrobe or something, dropped my weapon, punched a hole through the ceiling, climbed up to the next floor. I had fought my way to this flooded bathroom. I could make it outside to the ledge ...

Then the damn thing bashed its head through the bathroom tiles—from the other side of the wall.

Roy was looking at me. Like one of those clowns you throw balls at the carnival dunk tank.

A scary fucking clown.

"You better get it up, or I'm gonna have to kill ya. Unless you're alive, you can't play, and if you don't play..."

It hesitated. Like one of Sebastian’s toy’s running down.

Pulled its head back through the hole.

On pure instinct, I ripped a piece of copper pipe loose from the ancient plumbing.

It came around the doorway, doing that nursery rhyme countdown again.

"Six, Seven, go to Hell or go to Heaven,"

Go to hell, Roy.

I bashed the daylights out of him with the pipe.

Right in the face.

Roy didn’t blink.

I hit it again.

The other side of its face.

The bastard grabbed the pipe.

And encouraged me

"That's the spirit!"

Like my old coach.

I kicked out the window and made it to the ledge. I ran. Running on the razor's edge. Like a Blade Runner, you know? That corny nickname for the RepDetec unit, I always hated it. Yeah, I ran, but the ledge was sheeted with water, so I slipped. Almost slid off, grabbed a flag pole, swung out over the street on an old rusty thing that used to fly American flags in the days the sun was shining. Then swung back around. I got on my feet again, but slowed my ass down.

I tried to go back in through another window.

But Roy popped out of the next window. Just its head, streaming blood.

“That hurt. That was irrational of you. Not to mention unsportsman-like”

I smiled at him.

Yeah, you caught me Roy. I’m a lousy cheater. From your point of view, I guess that’s true. Kill the replicants, sure. But do it fairly.

Pretty damn funny.

It smiled back at me. My brother in arms. Still hanging out the open window.

“Ha-ha-ha.”

Roy went blank again — like this kid I knew in school with epilepsy. Petit mal seizures. One second he’s there. Then he’s not. He stops talking, eyes roll to white and he's gone.

Roy slumped in the window frame. Gone.

If I’m lucky, it’ll fall out, and fall down, down, down.

At the last possible second, Roy pulled himself back through the window.

Just to complicate matters, now I had hope.

Roy was dying. Running down.

If I'm really lucky, I won’t have to kill him. And he won't kill me.

I just had to run out the clock.

Get to the roof. Climb.

So I did. I made it up the side of the Bradbury building with my left hand and the three working fingers of my right hand. Never did this kind of thing before. I'd always thought mountain climbers were assholes, but it’s amazing what you could do when an inhuman, artificial person was going to rip you to pieces.

Roy popped out another window and watched me climbing up. I didn’t look down but I could hear him.

"Where are you going?"

Where do you think, asshole?

With any luck, Sebastian’s bot had sealed off the roof when it pushed the panic button. Steel doors, most likely, to protect his home business. Roy'll take the stairs and get nowhere. Sure, the thing could climb after me up the side of the building, but by the time it did, with a little more luck, his planned obsolescence would kick in.

I climbed.

I made it to the roof, a crappy collection of neon signs and dead power turbines they slapped up after the big panic of '99. With any luck, Roy wouldn’t be there waiting for me.

But it's not my lucky day.

Roy took the stairs.

I made a run for it—then I saw him.

Coming out of the door to the roof. Steel door, all right. Unsealed. The lock-down system worked on the front door, didn't on the roof. Roy had no trouble stepping out here. Padded out like a wolf in some old nature show, saw me, smiled, froze.

He just stood there a second, holding a dove, like Jesus in an old painting. Or Charlie Manson with a peroxide blonde haircut. I always get the two confused.

Then ran after me.

I ran the other way. I kept running until I ran out of roof.

I jumped.

The building across the alley was a ten meter jump away. Humanly possible, if you’ve trained for the Olympics.

I jumped.

I made the jump. Almost.

So there I was hanging from a steel I-beam in the driving rain. Sixteen stories up. Holding on for dear life with my one good hand. Existential situation, I guess that’s what you’d call it.

My life didn’t flash before my eyes, just six months of sitting on my ass at the noodle bar.

I kept hanging on. The rain kept hitting.

Roy was behind me, on the roof of the Bradbury building. Couldn't see him, but I could hear him. Panting like a steam engine, or that fire breath they do in yoga, getting all stoked up for the big finish. The jump would be easy for him. He’d be coming. I knew what was coming. Bryant had told me.

The thing hadn’t just killed Tyrell. It had gouged out his eyes and crushed its head like a melon. I guess Roy met his Maker and didn't like him. Sebastian went quick; he severed the Vegus nerve with his thumbnail. I figured he liked Sebastian. It was a good bet he didn’t like me.

I was still hanging on with one hand. Pretty damn surprised at my upper body strength.

I didn’t hear it jump. But he must have jumped.

And there he was. He, it.

Right there above me. 

It was looking at me. Looking down.

Maybe he was going to save me, but probably not. Up close, he definitely didn’t remind me of those pictures of Jesus in Sunday School.

Just looking at me.

Smiling.

Sadistic bastard. Sure, he could feel my pain. He was enjoying it.

I could call for help. I’m sure Sebastian called for help.

Right now, falling sixteen stories seemed like a better plan.

“Quite an experience to live in fear, isn't it? That's what it is to be a slave.”

Roy wanted me to know how he felt. The damn thing was giving me an empathy test.

I spit in his eye and let go. Dropped.

It caught me by the wrist and hoisted me up on the roof like I was one of Sebastian’s dolls. One of the small ones.

He looked at me.

With empathy.

Brother to brother. Kin. One slave to another.

Jesus, he wasn’t going to kill me.

Then he slumped to the ground. Winding down for good.

Nothing much surprises me anymore, but this did. He started spouting poetry like a dying Samurai. Poetry, seriously. Not too shabby. They've come a long way with language processing.

"I've seen things you people wouldn't believe. Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion. I watched C-beams glitter in the dark near the Tanhauser gate. All those moments will be lost in time like tears in rain. Time to die."

He fought it. And then he just stopped. His muscles relaxed. The dove flew out of his hand.

Then Gaff showed up, on the other side of the roof, like he’d been waiting in the wings for Roy to die.

"You’ve done a man’s work sir."

A man's work. What the hell's that supposed to mean?

He tossed me my Blaster.

"Too bad she won’t live. But then again, who does?"

Gaff flew me back to RepDetec. I did my police report on the way – voice record, obviously. Bryant poured me a drink, and an imaginary drink for himself, slapped me on my back, and gave me his usual jolly bullshit.

They patched up my hand in the med-unit, shot me up with some stuff for pain and infection, then sent me home in my self-drive car. As a bonus for the last two kills, they'd fixed the turbine. It could fly now. I made it home.

The place was dark, stayed dark. The interactive lights ignored me. I walked through the darkness.

Maybe Gaff had been there.

Maybe Rachel was dead. Or she'd run.

But she was still there. On the couch.

Gaff knew she'd be there.

A man's work. Was I a man? A real man would kill her.

She was there under a blanket. Alive.

I pulled my Blaster out. For a second, I thought about killing her. Not for police reasons. Mercy killing. A few months on the run like hunted animals, that’s all I could offer her. What I wanted. For my own selfish needs. Kill her. Maybe the right thing to do. The manly thing to do. But not the human thing to do.

I needed her. Hell, I was selfish.

I kissed her awake.

"Do you love me?"

"I love you."

"Do you trust me?"

"I trust you."

I kissed her again. We made it to the hallway, headed for the elevator. There on the floor, I saw it. Tinfoil geometry. Gaff’s origami. His final message.

What the hell was it?

I picked it up. Studied it.

Recognized it.

A unicorn. From dreams I never told anybody.

Fuck it.

I crumpled it up.

We got the hell out of there.

We made it to Alberta. Nobody came for us.  One day she just stopped. Like Roy. We were talking. She laughed. Then her face froze. like a hand on one of those old grandfather clocks somebody forgot to wind up. Alive. Dead.

Bryant showed up at the funeral. He had nothing to say. That's OK. I didn't want any words.

He put a ticket in my hand.

A one-way ticket off this world.

That's what I wanted.

Too Little, Too Late

Byrant flew into meet me at the friendly neighborhood White Dragon. Took Gaff with him. The sushi master waved when he saw the two. Getting to be old pals.

No food, three Asahis. We found a greasy table and sat down.

"This better be good, Deck. What do you know?"

"I know what they want."

I had his attention and Gaff's contempt. Bryant was considering the possibility that I wasn't a total screw up.

"I'm all ears, pal."

I started to speak. Gaff cut me off.

"Sir. He's told me this theory. He thinks they're still trying to break into the --"

"Shut up, Gaff. What do they want, Deck? You tell me."

"They want life."

"They want life. Christ, Deck. They want life."

"Sir ..."

"We've been thinking too much, that's what we've been doing. It's so damn obvious. Reset the four-year lifespan."

"Only Tyrell can help them with that."

"That's why they're trying to get to him?"

"That's why."

"That’s an elegant delusional architecture, sir. I ..."

Bryant ignored him. Looked me in the eyes, now taking me very seriously.

"What do we do now, pal?"

"Warn Tyrell. Tell him to lock the place down."

Gaff couldn't take it anymore. He exploded.

"It is locked down, sir! It's been locked down since the first two incidents! The pyramid is the tightest of sphincters."

Bryant politely asked Gaff to shut up again. Like a pal.

"How do they get in?"

"There are back doors -- no damn pun intended."

Bryant looked disgusted, let down. Thought I was talking about the Tyrell computer network.

"Jesus, Deck, they've been trying to breach his system since day one --"

"Literal back doors. Physical entrances."

"Why?"

"Black projects. Chimeras, violations of UN law. He's big, but not untouchable. Tyrell has to move things in and out of that damn building without any vid records in case he's investigated."

"Coming from where?"

"Subcontractors. Zaibatsu."

"Guys like Chew."

"No. These guys are off the books. Outside the law."

"So the reps find one of these shady characters, that's how they get in?"

"That's the theory."

"Great theory, Deck. Brilliant deduction ... Or inside information."

Bryant flashed me a look. The look said: Rachel told you this shit, huh? Sure. Far as she knew, she's Tyrell's niece. In on the whole show. She knew about these back doors, shady subcontractors. Pillow talk with a replicant, Deck?

Gaff spat, muttered another curse in cityspeak. Missed the whole implication. Just pissed I'm making points.

"Sir ... it's crazy! How would they even find these people? Even if they cracked Tyrell's system, they're not in the system! No names. Need to know basis!"

I heard him say all this, but I kept my eyes on Bryant. Stated the obvious.

"They'd go through the names they know."

"Yeah. Find legit contractors and beat the names out of them."

"Which explains the social call on Chew -- and he's the only casualty. They got lucky the first time."

"They got lucky yesterday."

"Safe bet they're not wasting any more time, huh?"

I nodded.

"It's only a hunch, sir."

"His hunches are good, Gaff. Yours aren't, lately. Do me a favor and act like a cop, not a damn clothes horse. You mind doing that for me?"

"No sir."

A kick in the balls. Gaff took it. And the next one.

"That's great, Gaff -- now be a pal and warn that lousy mad scientist two wind-up killers are coming in the back way. They'll say he's unavailable. Scream bloody murder, get through to the top security asshole, go through him to Mr. Tyrell. You talk to the boss or you cut of his balls."

"Yes sir."

He hobbled off across the street to the nearest VidPhon.

"I'd tell him to run, but ... you know."

Bryant shouted to Gaff.

"Hey Gaff! While you're at it, get the names of Tyrell black project boys. Names, numbers, addresses. Get the list, flash it to the station. We'll warn these characters too, then lock 'em in place and use 'em as bait."

Telling Gaff how to do his job. When it happens to him, it's funny.

"Deck'll stake out the most likely target. I'll put Resch and his crew on the rest -- depending on who's left alive."

Gaff nodded, then started talking on the VidPhon. Talking turns to screaming. Screaming turned into louder screaming.

"Gaff! You seem frustrated! They putting you through to this Tyrell asshole, yet?"

"No, sir. He’s doing his thing with the stock market. Very special time, can't be disturbed. He says."

"You mention the fucking killers on the way? Got the names?"

"Hai! But he still won't put me through to Tyrell. Pissant thinks he'll get fired ..."

"You mention his balls, yet?"

"Several times, sir!"

"Well, fuck this shit. Tell him we're coming personally then get back here."

Gaff comes limping back. And Bryant stops shouting.

"Deck, trot back to your goddamn conapt and get your car. I'll give you the most likely address over the squawkbox. Gaff, let's you and me take the Spinner. Zip on over to the pyramid, meet up with the SWAT team just like old times."

"Sir, even assuming Deck's crackpot theory is true --"

"Gaff. I think there's a damn good chance he's right and a slim chance it'll do any damn good. I'm thinking it's pretty much too little too late at this point, but let's try, OK? If our happy Band of Brothers does manage to keep the big man out of a body bag, you might get the promotion you're always kissing my ass for. Worth a shot, don't you think?"

Gaff and Bryant flew off and the cavalry rode in. Too little, too late. About the time Shimato-Dominguez hit 100 points, Eldon Tyrell and somebody named J.F. Sebastian stopped breathing.

I was driving down LaBrea when I got the news.

On my way to Dr. Cunningham's clinic. Some crackpot geneticist working on LaMarkian evolution. Would've saved Tyrell a fortune in R&D. Top name, wrong name.

Bryant's voice came through on the com unit. We were talking on the air now.

He told me to forget Cunningham. Forget Tyrell, too, while I was at it. One of those closing the barn door after the horse ran out situations. Roy made it up in a private elevator like I'd figured.

"Turns you were right, Deck. Too bad you weren't right yesterday."

"Tyrell's dead?"

"Well, that's sort of an understatement. One of the smartest brains on the planet, until recently. Now his head looks like a watermelon dropped out a high window. Messy scene, which I had the joy of witnessing personally." 

"How many?"


"Oh, just two. Could've been worse. Body identified with Tyrell was a twenty-five year old male Caucasian by the name of  J. F. Sebastian -- and the kid's not even on the list. Not so messy. Quick kill. Must of liked him, I guess."

"That's funny."

"It's funny 'cause it's true, asshole.

"Why would Roy like him? What's the profile?"

"Well, it's an interesting profile ... IQ 185. Recluse, pretty much, rich, owns that whole damn building he lives in. Says here he suffered Methuselah's syndrome. Boy genius with premature aging. Poor kid's gonna die young."

"Just like Roy and Pris."

"Great minds think alike."

“Hey, J.F. You’re outside society. We are too. Let’s be pals. The friendly approach, as opposed to strong-arm tactics. They set up a happy home."

"Good bet Roy's on his way home."

"Where ...?"

"Address Bradbury apartments, ninth sector. NM46751. Get down there."

I got down there, or tried. A Spinner swooped down on me and cut me off, lights flashing. Police, but no external ID. Voice boomed down at me from a loudspeaker.

"This sector's closed to ground traffic. What are you doing here?"

"I'm working. What are you doing?"

"Arresting you. That's what I'm doing."

"I'm Deckard. RepDetec. Two sixty three-fifty four. I'm filed and monitored."

My blood turned to ice water. That voice from the sky sounded like my voice.

There were rumors -- urban legends -- that the replicants we caught were the tip of the iceberg. That they'd infiltrated the earth to the extent they'd created a shadow network of Blade Runners. Without warning, they'd pick you up and take you there. To their RepDetec station. You disappear. A replicant hits the streets with your face. They pick us off one by one, until we're all replaced. But that's not what happened. He just hovered there.

"Hold on. Checking. -- Okay, checked and cleared. Have a better one."

He flew off.

While I'd been talking, a gang of literally little people ripped some gear off my car -- the air purifier unit. I pulled away, heard one go thud, and kept on going. Just for the hell of it, I called Sebastian's conapt. Unbelievably, Pris answered.

"Hello?"

"Hi, is J. F. there?"

"Who is it?"

"This is Eddie. An old friend of J. F.'s."

Pris killed the call. 

"No way to treat a friend."

I said it out loud. She didn't hear me, of course.

I'd have to tell her in person.

Animoid Row

I went out on the street. Time to do some hunting of my own. Animoid Row was the logical place to start. Those scales. Artificial fish, probably. Salmon, something trendy ...

I started with Boupha's stall. Cambodian woman, specialized in repairs.

I handed her the scale. She studied it under a cheap microscope. High-power but optical. We had electron microscopes back at RepDetec, but that was out of the question.

"Fish?"

"I think it was manufactured. Look. Finest quality. Superior workmanship. There is a maker's serial number 9906947-XB71. Interesting. Not fish. Snake scale."

"Snake?"

Boupha nodded, handed it back to me.

"Try Abdul ben Hassan. He make this snake."

Figures. I knew where he worked. Sleazy bastard's name kept coming up.

Shop just around the corner. Abdul saw me coming, tried to flip the sign to "CLOSED" in the door. But he wasn't fast enough.

"Abdul Hassan? I'm a police officer, I'd like to ask you a few questions. Artificial snake license XB71, that's you? This is your work, huh? Who did you sell it to?"

"My work? Not too many could afford such quality."

"How many?"

"Very few."

"How few? Look my friend."

I grabbed him by his string necktie. Like pulling the string on one of those old Speak-and-Spells. Suddenly, the answer was more forthcoming.

"Taffy Lewis's, down in First Sector, Chinatown."

I made it to Taffy Lewis' place. Seedy place, full of posers and play-actors. Into that whole retro-1940s fad. The clothing. The lingo. Chicks with fancy hats smoking opium. Some bald-headed guy, looked like Mr. Toad, surrounded by drop-dead gorgeous babes. In the normal scheme of things, he'd be surrounded by flies. He had to be the proprietor. I pushed one of the babes out of her bar stool and sat down next to him.

"Taffy Lewis?"

"Yeah?"

"I'd like to ask you a few questions."

The bouncers were advancing.  I flashed my police ID. Taffy squinted his toad eyes and they backed off. Then he nodded to the woman sitting next to him.

"Blow."

Like some character in an old Bogie movie.

She got up and left. He warmed up a few degrees. From hatred to barely disguised contempt.

"You ever buy snakes from the Egyptian, Taffy?"

"All the time, pal."

I showed him the vid-capture. Zhora.

"Y'ever see this girl, huh?"

"Never seen her, buzz off."

"Your licenses in order pal?"

"Hey Louie, the man is dry. Give him one on the house, okay? See?"

Taffy smiled, or tried to. What a nice guy. Suddenly remembered there was an exotic dancer by the name of Zhora. Yeah. The pic had a slight resemblance, come to think of it. If I hung around, she was doing her act in about an hour, I could sit here and watch. See how cooperative he was? Yeah. Thanks, Taffy. I slipped him some money. I knew he'd keep his mouth shut. Didn't strike me as all that supportive of his creative talent.

Out on the street, I called Rachel on a graffiti-splattered VidPhon. Betting she's still at her place in the pyramid. Even chance she's run off screaming or she came home and Tyrell pulled her plug. But she was there. She answered my call.

"Hello?"

Tried to think of something to say. Couldn't think of anything intelligent, so I said something stupid.

"I've had people walk out on me before, but not when I was being so charming. I'm at a bar here now down in the Fourth Sector. Taffy Lewis's on the line. Why don't you come on down here and have a drink?"

"I don't think so, Mr. Deckard. That's not my kind of place."

"Go someplace else?"

She killed the call. I went back into Taffy's. Zhora's act was coming up.

Some announcer's nasal voice was blasting through on the lousy sound system.

"Ladies and Gentlemen. Taffy Lewis presents Miss Salome and the snake. Watch her take the pleasure from the serpent that once corrupted man."

Take the pleasure from the serpent ...

The implication — well, I don’t have to spell it out for you. But it wasn’t like that. Miss Salome — Zhora — may not have been human. But she really was an artist. I'm not lying. Her dance was beautiful. The Garden of Eden, the creation of man. Something like that. An accusation. A cry of pain. A dance of loss. Not humanity’s loss. The serpent's. That’s all I can remember. Normally I don't go in for this kind of thing. But it moved me. Damn shame to kill her, but what can you do?

The audience was disappointed. Few boos, here and there. Too damn arty for their tastes. They'd expected dirty dancing with a reptile.

After the show, I followed the dancers herding their way into the dressing rooms. Did my sexually frustrated fanboy act. Caught up with "Miss Salomé" in the hall.

"Excuse me, Miss Salomé, can I talk to you for a minute? I'm from the American Federation of Variety Artists."

"Oh, yeah?"

She looked at me like I'd crawled out from under a rock. Trying not to laugh.

"I'm not here to make you join. No ma'am. That's not my department. Actually, uh. I'm from the, uh, Confidential Committee on Moral Abuses."

"Committee of Moral Abuses?"

Zhora laughed. She couldn't help it.

"Yes, ma'am. There's been some reports that the management has been taking liberties with the artists in this place."

"I don't know nothing about it."

She walked away from me. I trotted behind her. We arrived at this musty, cramped closet. Her dressing room. I followed her in. She didn't stop me.

"Have you felt yourself to be exploited in any way?"

"How do you mean, exploited?"

"Well, like to get this job. I mean, did you do, or- or were you asked to do anything lewd or unsavory or otherwise, uh, repulsive to your person, huh?"

"Are you for real?

"Oh yeah. I'd like to check your dressing room if I may."

"For what?"

"For, uh, for holes."

"Holes?"

Zhora laughed again. I may be an asshole, but I'm funny.

Her dressing room had a portable shower, a dressing table and not much else. She stood there, the snake coiled around her. A question mark from thigh to collarbone. She took the snake from around her shoulders and put it on the dressing table. I watched it undulate in the warmth of the lights.

"What kind of holes?"

I felt myself blushing. That was good. Made my character more believable.

"Little, uh, dirty holes they uh, drill in the wall so they can watch a lady undress."

I bent down and studied the wall under her makeup table. There were, in fact, two neatly drilled holes.

Zhora started taking a shower. Naked. Indifferent to my presence. More of those artificial snake scales washing off her body. She dried her hair in a transparent globe hairdryer that was probably older than my grandmother.

"You'd be surprised what a guy'd go through to get a glimpse of a beautiful body."

"No, I wouldn't."

"Is this a real snake?"

"Of course it's not real. Do you think I'd be working in a place like this if I could afford a real snake?"

I grinned at her like a chickenhead. Gee. No. I guess not.

Zhora smiled. Then walked up to me.

"So if somebody does try to exploit me, who do I go to about it?"

"Me.

"You're a dedicated man." Tossed me a towel. "Dry me."

I started to. She turned her back to me. Then she elbowed me -- like two knives to the collarbone. Before I knew what was happening, she was on top of me, ready to throttle me with my own tie. Some dancers came in. She ran.

I sprinted after her into the street. The damn Hari Krishnas were hogging the sidewalk. Hari, Hari. Hari. I elbowed them out of the way and they stopped their chanting. Zhora stayed ahead of me. Went into a bus -- ducked out. The trafficator started yelling commands. I'd lost her.

Cross now... Don't walk...

Then I spotted her. She's trying to be invisible, frozen like a hunted animal -- then ran like hell. I kept dodging and side-stepping, fighting my way through a tide of pedestrians.

Zhora made it to an intersection, glanced back at me over her shoulder. I aimed my Blaster. Two pedestrians walk into my line of fire. Neo-punks, florescent green, spiked mohawks like human parrots.

"Move! Get out of the way!"

Punks had good reaction time. They hit the sidewalk. I shot her in the back. Zhora flew through a department store window. The glass cut her to pieces. She died, blood all over her transparent vinyl raincoat.

The report would be routine retirement of a replicant. That didn't make me feel any better about shooting a woman in the back. I imagined shooting Rachel in the back.

There it was again. Feeling, in myself. For her, for Rachael.

A crowd started gathering. Nothing good to see, but they wanted to see it. Zhora just lying there, not dancing anymore. I noticed the snake tattoo. Left side of her face, thank God. A cop showed up. Rookie. I'm holding a blaster, and he's ready to take me down with a rubber truncheon. I flashed my badge.

"B-263-54."

Not sure that would work, but it did. He backed off. 

A crowd-controller was hovering. Move on. Move on. The crowd obeyed.

I hobbled into the nearest White Dragon. Not my particular favorite, but close enough. It's a chain.

A lady with an eye patch came up. Wiping a dirty glass with a dirty towel.

"Yeah? What do you want?"

"Tsing tao."

I gave her a wad of old-fashioned paper money. Didn't trust my cards for the time being.

"This enough?"

"Yeah."

Bryant appeared out of nowhere. Gaff too. His faithful lapdog.

"Christ, Deckard, you look almost as bad as that skin job you left on the sidewalk."

"I'm going home."

"You could learn from this guy, Gaff. He's a goddamn one-man slaughter house. That's what he is. Four more to go. Come on, Gaff, let's go."

"Three. There's three to go."

"There's four. That-- That skin job that you V-K'ed at the Tyrell Corporation? Rachael? Disappeared. Vanished. Didn't even know she was a replicant. Something to do with a brain implant, says Tyrell. Come on, Gaff. Drink some for me, pal."

"Two for one special over at Taffy's."

Bryant smiled at me. Walked off. Gaff trotted off after him.

Corner of my eye, I thought I saw Rachel across the street. Bad thing if Bryant and Gaff spotted her. I started after her. Next thing I know, Leon was there.

I whipped out my Blaster -- but his reflexes were beyond human. Leon slapped it out of my hand like a plastic toy.

"Leon."

"How old am I?"

"I don't know."

"My birthday is April 10, 2017. How long do I live?"

"Four years."

"More than you."

Leon punched through the impact-resistant nanotech resin of the garbage truck behind me. Grabbed me and pinned me against the truck.

"Painful to live in fear, isn't it? Nothing is worse than having an itch you can never scratch."

"Oh, I agree."

He slapped me into unconsciousness. Then slapped me awake again.

"Wake up! Time to die."

He kept me pinned with his left hand, did the v-for-victory sign with his right. Then poised the v of his fingers right next to my eyes -- ready to drive them into my skull. When reps go rogue, that's the signature move. They go for the eyes, the balls, the things that make humans feel vulnerable. It sends a statement.

I heard a loud bang. The top of Leon's forehead exploded and misted my face with blood. He slumped to the ground. Rachel was standing there, holding my Blaster. Pretty good for the first shot of her life.

We went back to my conapt. She was quivering.

"Shakes? Me too."

"What?"

"I get 'em bad. It's part of the business."

Her voice took on an edge of pain. Unfamiliar, like a coarse set of clothes.

"I'm not in the business. -- I am the business."

Good way to put it. Could also say you're the product, but I didn't mention it. I went to the sink and rinsed the blood out of my mouth. Adjusted a loose tooth.

"What if I go north. Disappear. Would you come after me? Hunt me?"

"No. No, I wouldn't. I owe you one. But somebody would."

"Deckard? You know those files on me The incept date, the longevity, those things. You saw them?"

"They're classified."

"But you're a policeman."

"I didn't look at them."

Bullshit. Incept date Jan. 16, 2016. Termination date, Jan. 16 2020.

"You know that Voight-Kampf test of yours? Did you ever take that test yourself? Deckard?"

She started playing the piano. I hit the couch and nodded off. My throbbing jaw woke me up again. She was still playing the piano.

"I dreamed music."

"I didn't know if I could play. I remember lessons. I don't know if it's me or Tyrell's niece."

"You play beautifully."

Before we knew it, there was no distance between her flesh and my flesh. She wasn't sure of herself. She needed instruction.

"What do I do now?"

"Say kiss me."

"I can't rely on..."

"Say kiss me."

"Kiss me."

"I want you."

"I want you."

"Again."

"I want you. Put your hands on me."

She got the hang of it, eventually. We did what came naturally. Almost fell asleep. But she woke me up. She was angry as hell.

"...can't you hear me?"

"Yeah. No. What?"

"I'm alive. I said I'm alive. I feel alive. Look at my hand. It's got blood in it. You think I'm a living doll?"

"No. I think you're Rachel."

I turned my head and looked at her.

"Maybe it's not such a bad idea."

"What?"

"Disappearing."

I sat up.

"Look. You need to run."

"What's the point? You said somebody -- "

"If you stay in LA they'll find you faster."

I fished around in a drawer, grabbed a handful of fake credit cards with a fake woman's name on them.

"Don't go back to the pyramid. Check into a hotel room --"

My brain reminded me of my own stupidity. That wouldn't work. Once her face was in the system ...

I logged on to RepDetec -- which Bryant had specifically ordered me not to do. Didn't use my name. Used a scrambler to change my voice pattern.

"Resch, Phil. 345656."

"Recognized."

"Fugitive status?"

"Two replicants at large, presumed greater LA area. Face recognition data not available."

"End."

Two. Bryant hadn't logged her in yet. We'd dodged that bullet. For an hour or two.

But he'll get back to the station. Log in. File Rachel as an escaped replicant. She goes back to the pyramid, hell, she even shows her face, she's ...

"Stay here, OK?"

"Here?"

"In my conapt. Just stay put."

"Why?"

"Smart thing to do if you don't want to die. You want to live, right?"

She slapped me.

"Of course I want to live!"

Jesus. Of course.

Rachel wanted to live. They wanted to live.

All God's children want to live. All Tyrell's children did, too.

"Stay here, OK?"

"Don't tell me what to do, asshole. You know why. That's great. But you don't know how. You're kind of cute, OK? But you're a lousy detective."

Rachel smiled at me sweetly. Then she told me how.

I ran to the street and found a VidPhon.