Niemand did. I mean . . . Deckard. Or whoever. Now you've gotten me confused."
That was the difference; the calendar's reminder put an invisible knife through her heart. The difference that made everything else a lie. And rendered futile everything she had done. She had killed her duplicate Rachael-or arranged for her to die, the same thing-and destroyed her inheritance, leaving smoke and rubble where the Tyrell Corporation had once been, and accomplished nothing thereby. All love in vain , thought Sarah. The lies, too . Which was even harder; the lies took more work. And all they'd accomplished had been for her to wind up here, in a hovel in the U.N. emigrant colony on Mars, that bleak way station where nothing happened but people died anyway.
She didn't feel like getting out of bed, despite the prodding from the calendar and the alarm clock; they'd probably start up again in a minute or two. He knew , she thought darkly. He knew from the beginning . With her eyes closed, she could again see Deckard's face at that moment when she'd first realized he knew she wasn't Rachael. She had lied, and engineered lies and death, and gotten nothing from them. If the difference between her and Rachael, the dying and then dead replicant with her face, had been Deckard's love . . . then she would become Rachael. If I could have -that thought bitterer than all the rest. Not meant to be; he had looked at her, as they'd sat in the emigrant ship that was to take them from Earth, and he had spoken and she had known. That in a universe of lies, the one that mattered most to her was the single one that Deckard couldn't even pretend to believe in. Just my luck , thought Sarah.
"Mrs. Niemand-" The calendar spoke again, a little more commanding urgency in its synthesized voice. "You can't go on this way." Lodged in its memory bank were the records of some other bad times that had started out with the hovel's mistress being unable to get out of bed. "This is essentially self-laceration, and pointless. You have to deal with reality, you know."
"I know." With an act of will as simple and decisive as pulling a trigger, she swung her legs out of the bed and sat up; the hovel's recycled-plastic floorboards pressed their imitation wood grain against the bare soles of her feet. "Look, I'm up. Okay?" She shook her head. "For Christ's sake Her fingertips prodded through the rubble on top of the small table, in search of any remains of the last packet of black-market cigarettes she had splashed out on. The stubs in the can lid she used for an ashtray were too far gone to be of any service.
The alarm clock skipped nimbly away to avoid Sarah's trembling hand. "All right! Let's get going!" Its bell-like voice radiated maniacal cheer. "Lots to do today!"
Sarah had found one cigarette butt that she managed to ignite; she sucked a stale drag from it. "Like what?" She blew the smoke into the alarm clock's round face.
"Well The small autonomic device comically waved the smoke away with its pointed black hands. "You could make yourself lovely-lovelier than you are, I mean-and get ready for your husband to come home. Mr. Niemand, that is."
She frowned as she ground out the butt in the can lid. "Is he coming home? Is he supposed to be?" She had lost track of time, the passage of days. Which was a bad sign, something the U.N's social workers and mental health professionals were constantly warning the emigrants about. It was one of the first indications-along with the facial tics, the skin plucking, and other obsessive-compulsive rituals-that the toxic effects of the low-stimulus Martian environment were being felt. Madness and death were usually not far behind. Not that I'm overly concerned , thought Sarah.
"Not quite," said the calendar on the bedroom's wall. "Mr. Niemand isn't scheduled to return for a few more days yet. But you never know." The calendar attempted to sound hopeful and solicitous of its human masters' welfare. "Maybe he wrapped up his business
That was the difference; the calendar's reminder put an invisible knife through her heart. The difference that made everything else a lie. And rendered futile everything she had done. She had killed her duplicate Rachael-or arranged for her to die, the same thing-and destroyed her inheritance, leaving smoke and rubble where the Tyrell Corporation had once been, and accomplished nothing thereby. All love in vain , thought Sarah. The lies, too . Which was even harder; the lies took more work. And all they'd accomplished had been for her to wind up here, in a hovel in the U.N. emigrant colony on Mars, that bleak way station where nothing happened but people died anyway.
She didn't feel like getting out of bed, despite the prodding from the calendar and the alarm clock; they'd probably start up again in a minute or two. He knew , she thought darkly. He knew from the beginning . With her eyes closed, she could again see Deckard's face at that moment when she'd first realized he knew she wasn't Rachael. She had lied, and engineered lies and death, and gotten nothing from them. If the difference between her and Rachael, the dying and then dead replicant with her face, had been Deckard's love . . . then she would become Rachael. If I could have -that thought bitterer than all the rest. Not meant to be; he had looked at her, as they'd sat in the emigrant ship that was to take them from Earth, and he had spoken and she had known. That in a universe of lies, the one that mattered most to her was the single one that Deckard couldn't even pretend to believe in. Just my luck , thought Sarah.
"Mrs. Niemand-" The calendar spoke again, a little more commanding urgency in its synthesized voice. "You can't go on this way." Lodged in its memory bank were the records of some other bad times that had started out with the hovel's mistress being unable to get out of bed. "This is essentially self-laceration, and pointless. You have to deal with reality, you know."
"I know." With an act of will as simple and decisive as pulling a trigger, she swung her legs out of the bed and sat up; the hovel's recycled-plastic floorboards pressed their imitation wood grain against the bare soles of her feet. "Look, I'm up. Okay?" She shook her head. "For Christ's sake Her fingertips prodded through the rubble on top of the small table, in search of any remains of the last packet of black-market cigarettes she had splashed out on. The stubs in the can lid she used for an ashtray were too far gone to be of any service.
The alarm clock skipped nimbly away to avoid Sarah's trembling hand. "All right! Let's get going!" Its bell-like voice radiated maniacal cheer. "Lots to do today!"
Sarah had found one cigarette butt that she managed to ignite; she sucked a stale drag from it. "Like what?" She blew the smoke into the alarm clock's round face.
"Well The small autonomic device comically waved the smoke away with its pointed black hands. "You could make yourself lovely-lovelier than you are, I mean-and get ready for your husband to come home. Mr. Niemand, that is."
She frowned as she ground out the butt in the can lid. "Is he coming home? Is he supposed to be?" She had lost track of time, the passage of days. Which was a bad sign, something the U.N's social workers and mental health professionals were constantly warning the emigrants about. It was one of the first indications-along with the facial tics, the skin plucking, and other obsessive-compulsive rituals-that the toxic effects of the low-stimulus Martian environment were being felt. Madness and death were usually not far behind. Not that I'm overly concerned , thought Sarah.
"Not quite," said the calendar on the bedroom's wall. "Mr. Niemand isn't scheduled to return for a few more days yet. But you never know." The calendar attempted to sound hopeful and solicitous of its human masters' welfare. "Maybe he wrapped up his business
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