Replicant Night by K. W. Jeter Page A

kill them, simply raise the gun, still in her hand, place it against each man's forehead in turn-they probably wouldn't resist that, either, just accept it from her as what they deserved from a wrathful deity. Or even better , thought Sarah, I could kill myself. Right in front of them . That would accomplish a lot-almost everything, she decided. She'd be dead-something for which she'd been yearning for a long time now- and the Tyrell Corporation's shadow entity, this valiant little band of the faithful, would die out soon thereafter. No living Tyrell, no corporation, all lost, finally and forever. Perfect...
    Except for one thing. She knew just what it was. Deckard, that sonuvabitch, would still be walking around. Still mourning his dead Rachael, a shrine to a female replicant assembled inside his skull, memory scraps and the taste of her kiss, the way her face had looked- My face , Sarah thought grimly; Rachael's was just a copy -when he'd forced his kiss upon her. And she had given herself to him, wanting him ...
    She couldn't remember anymore whether that had been her or Rachael. There had been a time, a moment, when time had repeated itself; the kiss, the wanting, even his words. She had made Deckard say them again, the way he had said them to Rachael long ago ...
    Say that you want me . He had said that.
    Then her voice. In the past, in memory. Standing in the middle of the hovel, a world away; she closed her eyes and heard her own voice, Rachael's voice, the same-
    I want you.
    "Miss Tyrell ... did you say something?"
    She forced her eyes open and looked at the two men standing in front of her, not recognizing them for a moment. Or mis-recognizing them; she had the uncomfortable feeling that she was looking at her uncle, brought back from the dead and somehow doubled, with neither aspect quite human. Then the feeling passed, and she found herself once again looking at the two loyalists, ambassadors from the shadow corporation. If they weren't real-or at least not yet-they were certainly trying to be.
    A shake of the head. "No," said Sarah. She wondered if she had spoken aloud, if the words of the past had forced their way into the present once again. How embarrassing , she thought. Though it proved that nothing ever died. As long as there was memory, there were ghosts. Like me -perhaps when Deckard looked at her, that was what he saw. The ghost of Rachael. "No-I didn't say anything."
    Sarah watched as the two men consulted with each other, whispers and nods. They finished and turned back toward her.
    "We don't have much time, Miss Tyrell." The more talkative one, the evident leader of the pair, clasped his hands together. "Our enemies-the enemies of the Tyrell Corporation-they very likely know that we're here. They'd do anything to stop us, to thwart our sacred mission. We have to leave. Now ."
    "We've stayed here too long already." The other one cast a nervous glance over his shoulder, toward the hovel's front door, as though he expected a black-clad SWAT team to come bursting through at any moment.
    "You have to come with us, Miss Tyrell." The talkative one's intertwined fingers squeezed themselves white and bloodless. "There's so much more we need to tell you. And that we can show you. But you must come with us. You must ."
    "All right-" Sarah held up a hand, palm outward. "There's no need to hector me. I've made my decision." It had been easy, once the image of Deckard had come into her mind. "I'll go with you. Wherever you want." Of all the possibilities, those that had her dead while Deckard would still be alive-those had been ruled right out. As if a terminating memo had been sent down from the corporate headquarters, that columned, high-ceilinged chamber that still existed behind her brow.
    Besides , thought Sarah. It's mine; the Tyrell Corporation, in all its guises, shadowed or in light . She could do whatever she wanted with it. A glance from the corner of her eye showed the two men, in their