Replicant Night by K. W. Jeter Read Free Book Online Page B

programming the skiff's course. "That's not a problem for me." It was, though; portions of his mind, the coldest ones and first to regain their balance after witnessing these quick deaths, had already begun fretting about the money. Or the lack thereof-the whole point of taking the technical adviser gig on the production had been to pump up his dwindling account back at the U.N. emigrant colony. He thumbed the last button on the panel and got a confirming red flash in return. "See you in some other life."
    "Don't bet on it." The director turned his wide, sullen face away. "I carry grudges for a long time."
    As the skiff's cockpit hatch began to lower, blocking off Deckard's view of Urbenton exiting from the dock, he heard another voice calling him.
    "Mr. Deckard! Wait a minute!"
    He stopped the hatch and looked out the side of the skiff. The bespectacled production assistant ran toward him carrying something pressed against her nominal breast.
    "Anything I left behind," said Deckard, "you can keep." He'd come to the Outer Hollywood station with little more than a few changes of clothes. "I don't need it."
    "Are you sure?" The heavy black glasses' rims had slipped down the bridge of the woman's nose; she pushed them back with one corner of the object she held in her hands. It was a briefcase, Deckard saw now, a plain black leatherette one. "I thought this looked like it was maybe important. You had it back there in the office, when you were having your little conference with Mr. Urbenton."
    The woman was right; now he remembered seeing it, on the table with the two Tyrell Corporation chairs at either side, one chair overturned with Dave Holden's corpse bleeding away nearby. "That's not mine." He supposed it might've been brought to the station by Holden. It didn't matter to him, one way or the other.
    "Really?" The little production assistant twisted her face into a puzzled expression. "It's got your initials on it." She turned the briefcase around to show him the small metal badge set in beneath the handle. "See?"
    The initials RMD were engraved into the metal piece. Deckard said nothing, his own face a mask, as he listened to a small warning bell ring inside his head. Anything with his name on it, that had come to him by way of a dead man, was unlikely to be good news.
    Another voice spoke, though there was no one but himself and the production assistant on the dock. Or at least no one human; it took him a moment to realize where the voice came from.
    "Hey ... Deckard..." the briefcase whispered, just loud enough for him to pick up. "Don't blow this one. Just take it."
    "What was that?" Looking even more puzzled, the production assistant glanced around the space. "Did you hear something?"
    "No-" Deckard shook his head. He reached out and took the briefcase's handle, pulled it away from her. His grip tightened on it; he'd recognized the voice in just those few words. "Thanks. You're right; almost slipped my mind."
    "Have a nice trip home." The production assistant bent down as the cockpit hatch began lowering again. She looked wistful, as if she would've liked to leave with him. "Sorry things didn't work out-"
    He had no chance to reply; the hatch hissed shut. The briefcase, silent now, rested on the other seat. In a few minutes, the skiff had been ejected from the station and was on its course back to Mars.
    When the last lights flicked out on the control panel, Deckard loosened the strap running over his shoulder. "Hey-" He extended his forefinger and poked at the briefcase. "You in there?"
    A few seconds passed before the briefcase spoke. "I take it," the voice said, "that there's nobody else around right now."
    "You got it."
    "Keep it that way. I try not to go rattling off in public." The voice's tone shifted to cordial. "Good seeing you again, Deckard. Metaphorically speaking; I don't actually have any visual percept systems at the moment."
    "Sure." He nodded. "Likewise, Roy."
    Deckard closed his own eyes. The last time