homage-to-Eldon-Tyrell outfits, in a new light; they belonged to her as well, part of the package. A familiar sensation, one that ran from her groin all the way to the top of her spine and beyond. They looked at her, not just reverently, but would not have dared to touch her. She could use them for whatever purpose she had in mind, and they would be grateful. Just to be in her presence and bear her orders.
That notion made her smile, one corner of her mouth lifting a millimeter.
She thought of Deckard, wherever he was at this moment. Perhaps coming home-if this counted as home-after his stint trolling for money at that Outer Hollywood station above Earth. Coming home to whatever surprise he might've figured would be waiting for him-the gun at the door probably wouldn't have been completely unexpected. If I were gone , though-Sarah mulled it over- that might knock him back . For a little while, at least.
Which would give her time to prepare another surprise for Deckard. The last one he'd ever receive. She wasn't sure yet what it would be. But with all the resources of the shadow corporation at her fingertips . . . a mere gun and a single bullet now struck her as entirely too simple.
I'll have to do better than that , thought Sarah. It's only what he deserves .
"Please, Miss Tyrell-" The duo's leader made a show out of checking the complicated watch on his thin wrist. "We really have to get going."
"I suppose so." She turned and headed toward the hovel's bedroom. "Just let me get a few things."
She took one of the bullets from the gun's clip, using its weight to hold down on the bedside table a note she'd quickly scribbled out for Deckard. There -Sarah stood up from the mattress edge. Let him figure that one out . The alarm clock walked across the folded piece of paper and looked down at the bullet, the face behind the black hands seemingly mystified.
In the minuscule bathroom, she splashed water on her face, then straightened up from the sink and pulled her dark hair back with one hand. For a moment longer, Sarah returned the gaze from the figure in the clouded mirror. It didn't look like Rachael standing there. Or only a little; the sad dreaminess that had always marked her replicant double had been leached away, replaced by something harder and colder. That's my face , thought Sarah. The cheekbones were more pronounced, edged sharper, as though the flesh were being cut away by interior knives. She toweled off the water trickling down her throat and turned back toward the hovel's bedroom.
The calendar on the wall fluttered its page as she approached the doorway. "Mrs. Niemand-I mean Sarah-" The calendar's voice betrayed its anxiety. "What're you doing? This is madness. You don't know who these men are-"
"How rude." Sarah glared at the snow-covered wilderness scene. "You were listening in."
"Of course. I'm a calendar; I'm supposed to keep track of things." The number-dense pages fluttered. "Listen to me. These characters are trouble. They could be anybody. Lunatics . . . or maybe they really are the police; they're just lying to you. To get you to go quietly." Its voice rose in pitch. "I beg of you. Don't go with these people-"
"I have to." Sarah repositioned the strap of the little shoulder bag she had hurriedly packed. "It's my destiny. Or as close to it as I'm going to get."
"Sarah..." The calendar wailed as she exited the bedroom.
"Let's go, gentlemen." Pulling the bag up higher, she nodded toward the hovel's front door. The two men stepped aside and let her go ahead of them.
In the corridor outside, she heard tiny feet running through the decaying trash. The minute noise came from behind; she turned and looked, and saw the alarm clock racing to catch up.
"Take me with you!" The clock's shrill, tinny voice sliced through the oxygen-thin air. "I wanna go, too!"
She stopped and pulled the shoulder bag around so she could root through its contents. The gun's weight had sunk it to the bottom; by the time Sarah
That notion made her smile, one corner of her mouth lifting a millimeter.
She thought of Deckard, wherever he was at this moment. Perhaps coming home-if this counted as home-after his stint trolling for money at that Outer Hollywood station above Earth. Coming home to whatever surprise he might've figured would be waiting for him-the gun at the door probably wouldn't have been completely unexpected. If I were gone , though-Sarah mulled it over- that might knock him back . For a little while, at least.
Which would give her time to prepare another surprise for Deckard. The last one he'd ever receive. She wasn't sure yet what it would be. But with all the resources of the shadow corporation at her fingertips . . . a mere gun and a single bullet now struck her as entirely too simple.
I'll have to do better than that , thought Sarah. It's only what he deserves .
"Please, Miss Tyrell-" The duo's leader made a show out of checking the complicated watch on his thin wrist. "We really have to get going."
"I suppose so." She turned and headed toward the hovel's bedroom. "Just let me get a few things."
She took one of the bullets from the gun's clip, using its weight to hold down on the bedside table a note she'd quickly scribbled out for Deckard. There -Sarah stood up from the mattress edge. Let him figure that one out . The alarm clock walked across the folded piece of paper and looked down at the bullet, the face behind the black hands seemingly mystified.
In the minuscule bathroom, she splashed water on her face, then straightened up from the sink and pulled her dark hair back with one hand. For a moment longer, Sarah returned the gaze from the figure in the clouded mirror. It didn't look like Rachael standing there. Or only a little; the sad dreaminess that had always marked her replicant double had been leached away, replaced by something harder and colder. That's my face , thought Sarah. The cheekbones were more pronounced, edged sharper, as though the flesh were being cut away by interior knives. She toweled off the water trickling down her throat and turned back toward the hovel's bedroom.
The calendar on the wall fluttered its page as she approached the doorway. "Mrs. Niemand-I mean Sarah-" The calendar's voice betrayed its anxiety. "What're you doing? This is madness. You don't know who these men are-"
"How rude." Sarah glared at the snow-covered wilderness scene. "You were listening in."
"Of course. I'm a calendar; I'm supposed to keep track of things." The number-dense pages fluttered. "Listen to me. These characters are trouble. They could be anybody. Lunatics . . . or maybe they really are the police; they're just lying to you. To get you to go quietly." Its voice rose in pitch. "I beg of you. Don't go with these people-"
"I have to." Sarah repositioned the strap of the little shoulder bag she had hurriedly packed. "It's my destiny. Or as close to it as I'm going to get."
"Sarah..." The calendar wailed as she exited the bedroom.
"Let's go, gentlemen." Pulling the bag up higher, she nodded toward the hovel's front door. The two men stepped aside and let her go ahead of them.
In the corridor outside, she heard tiny feet running through the decaying trash. The minute noise came from behind; she turned and looked, and saw the alarm clock racing to catch up.
"Take me with you!" The clock's shrill, tinny voice sliced through the oxygen-thin air. "I wanna go, too!"
She stopped and pulled the shoulder bag around so she could root through its contents. The gun's weight had sunk it to the bottom; by the time Sarah
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