Todestraum

Todestraum

By

Michael Keenan

[email protected]

"You know I wouldn't have dragged you downtown unless it was something big," Bratton mumbled. His bloodshot eyes wandered to the motes drifting in the light falling from the filthy window overlooking a once glorious city.

Davis stared down at the arm of the old leather chair and said nothing. He knew the game. He lifted his glass and emptied it in one long pull.

"Take it easy. You're going to need those famous reflexes for this one."

Davis shifted in his seat obviously weary of not just this, but everything attached to it and other unnamed and unknown things.

"So, what's the emergency? Why not just give whatever it is to Johnson or Greene?"

"No way, buddy. This has got your name all over it. Fresh infestation. Brand new flavor of skin job. And they are going to pass here on Earth. Off World, who gives a bloody damn, but we can't have them here gobbling up what little we have left. They did some illegal Tyrell colony DNA hoodoo and now we can't tell who's human and who isn't. Voight-Kampff is useless as well. The new graft has given them emotional responses and empathy. This is bad. Really bad. We should have greased them all when we had the chance in the war."

Bratton raised his eyebrows in expectation, but Davis was silent.

"Nothing? You have no response?"

"Not my concern. I'm on leave. Besides, why are we retiring them if they are indistinguishable from us?"

Bratton snorted in disgust. "Davis the philosopher! Don't go soft on me. We have orders. That kind of thinking is way above our pay grade. You'll get your thousand credits a head. I know how much you need the cash for the wife’s treatments. This is a quick in-out-over and done deal. D Team did surveillance recon on a nest last night, and they found your file.”

"What?"

"Yea. It looks like you uh... well. let's say the skins are not happy with you."

This got his attention. His hand slowly shifted to his service weapon, an instinctive gesture. "How?"

"The team found a chip with everything on it. Christ, they had your fourth-grade report card. They have your genome. They know your goddamn dick size. That means they know all your friends, And family."

Davis jumped up, headed for the door.

"Hold up! We sent units out and got your people. But you know they are not going to stop. They know who you are and what you did."

Davis was legendary when it came to "retiring" the rogue replicants, the ones who tried to pass as human. Last month he had come across a "rep" family with both an infant and toddler. No one had ever seen anything like it, but the procedure was the same. He retired them all. The crying sounded so human. Until he made it stop.

Bratton scribbled something on a scrap of paper and thrust it toward Davis.

"All yours, tiger. Go do your thing."

Davis glanced at the address and looked up. "The Bradbury Building?"

"Fifth floor. They are holed up just waiting for you. We have a fire team outside, but I figured you would want the bounty for yourself. Also, you know, to make sure."

He landed his dept. issue spinner on the dark, rain-slick street, deep in the shadow of this once iconic building. Now, with its windows and doors shattered it was just another reminder of better days.

He could see the fire team in their squad spinner in place and held out his hand to tell them to hold their position.

Davis drew his weapon and checked to make sure it was fully charged. Glancing up at the face of the building he could see flickering lights up near the top. They were there.

Suddenly overcome with intense vertigo, he vomited all over the trash strewn pavement. The sight of the steaming udon noodles he had had for lunch filled him with a creeping horror.

Something was wrong. All the instincts that had kept him alive through the war and after were telling him to get as far away from the Bradbury as possible. But he had a job to do. He spit out the remaining bile and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

It was then that the advert blimp floated into view, covered with the moving image of a geisha swallowing a pill while blaring a commercial for the off-world colonies. The words "The setting sun sinks down." scrolled across the bottom. Davis nearly opened fire on it. The rage he felt knowing he could never leave Earth because of his wife's condition erupted in him and he could feel himself losing control. Methuselah syndrome. Accelerated decrepitude the medics called it. She was thirty-five but looked eighty. "Well," he thought bitterly, "That is one problem that seems to be solving itself." He nearly vomited again but the vertigo passed. The autodoc said he suffered from anhedonia-- the inability to feel pleasure. He bought a mood organ because of the brightly colored, chirpy commercials, but no matter what mood he dialed; he never felt the slightest bit different. You would think the "ecstatic rapture" setting would give a person a lift, but it might as well have said "ennui."

"Focus," he said under his breath as he adjusted his grip on his weapon.

He crept into the lobby of the building. Puddles of fetid water and broken glass covered the floor. The crunch of the glass underfoot reverberated through the cavernous space. He had five flights of steps to climb. He wasn't going to be surprising anyone.

He paused on the third flight and held his breath, listening. Nothing. He was just about to continue when he heard the soft click of a door opening from somewhere above. He had to fight an overwhelming urge to race down the steps and out of the building to safety. He had never felt anything like this before, not even in the war.

Something moved in the darkness two floors below. He stepped back into the cover of deep shadow and waited for more movement, his senses on high alert. And then, there it was, moving like a ghost into the gray light from the window. A dog? No, it was a fox! A red fox! What the hell? Foxes had been extinct for 20 years. It couldn't be a synth because it would be worth a fortune, and no one would just let it run around in this rubble. It stopped and sat down, staring directly at Davis. Then, as quickly as it appeared, it was gone.

Davis stood stunned, his mind overfull with wordless questions. That was when the music started. At first it was nearly inaudible, but it gradually increased in volume until it filled the space. Delibes: Lakme--Duo des Fleurs--hauntingly beautiful yet wildly dissonant in this context. This is Grace's favorite aria, he thought. The deep power of the music here in this tomb disoriented him. For a moment, he didn’t know where he was. Then he came back to himself in a rush.

Just get it done and go home, he thought and resumed his ascent.

Dread bloomed in his chest. He was overcome with nausea again but refused to pause.

Above him, a pale yellow light spilled down the stairs. He continued upward keeping his back to the wall, as much for balance as for cover. By the time he reached the top of the stairs his heart was pounding so ferociously he thought, Am I dying? This is what it must feel like—the moment before death.

The aria built to a crescendo just as he reached the top. He spotted an open door, the frail light falling out of it and onto the marble tile. He nudged it open with the barrel of his weapon, prepared for anything.

That is, anything except the stunning young woman who sat at a table. She seemed to be waiting for him. He rushed into the room expecting a battle, but she just sat staring at him.

"Mr. Davis, do you know you are the villain in my story? That you are the monster? I just want to live." Her tears had caused her makeup to run down her face. The gravitational pull of her grief made her impossibly beautiful.

"I don't make the laws… I am just…”

There was a noise behind him, and he spun, but the man had the drop on him. His enormous pistol pointed at Davis’s laboring heart.

The man smiled. "You are nothing. You are an animated corpse spreading your gospel of nothing everywhere you go. You have nothing alive inside of you. Were you ever alive, Mr. Davis? Was there ever a little boy who knew how to laugh, or who watched the setting sun with awe? I would grieve for you, but you have been dead for nearly your whole life. I am going to free you now and return you to the stars.. Time to die."

He felt more than saw the muzzle flash as the slug tore through his chest. As he slumped to the ground, he fell into the endless nothing.

It was twilight. He found himself in the rubble-strewn empty lot behind his childhood home. He was seated, a boy once again, playing in the dirt with a red truck. Off in the distance, he could hear his mother calling him for dinner.

"Johnny! Johnny, time to come home!"

He stood up, dusted himself off and began to walk to the back porch when he noticed something partially buried where he had been digging, a metallic glint reflecting the setting sun. He reached down and pulled it from the ground to discover that it was a heart-shaped locket with a gold chain. Mom will love this, he thought.

As he gamboled up the back steps and reached for the screen door he stopped for a moment and turned. A red fox sat in the spot where he had been playing. A friend!, he thought, overcome with joy. He waved timidly, but the fox scampered off into the weeds. “Wait!” he yelled, hoping the fox might reconsider. But the boy knew he was not coming back. He was overfull with a vague sadness. I don’t want it to be over, but everything always ends. That thought vanished as quickly as it came, and he went inside, just as the last vestiges of day gave over to the night.