But I could see the fear in his eyes.
It would not be long now.
And he knew it.
“Thought you could sneak up on me, skin job?” Halihan cocked his R-7 Pulse Cannon and tore up the multi-million-credit penthouse. “You’re in my world now…and it’s a world of hurt.”
With all the racket, you’d figure that someone would call the police. But he was the police, or what was left of them.
“You’ve got your wires crossed, Deckard, or perhaps you forgot that I hunt Replicants for a living?” He shot up the hall closet and then opened it.
“I’m not Deckard,” I replied.
He turned and ran down the hallway, skipping over Natasha Barnes, his companion for all of two years, by far the longest relationship he’d been in. Lying face down in a pool of her own iridescent blood, she knew better than to move an inch. Surely he could patch up her ruptured extremities and add some sinful enhancements if he desired; but even the droid knew that he wouldn’t shell out a dime. He’d ditch her for a newer model, faster than he could say…
“Die, motherfucker!” he screamed, and redecorated the master bedroom.
This is just a small portion of an idea that hit me the other day. It is an ode to the late Phillip K. Dick, author of Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? which was translated to the screen as Blade Runner, one of the most influential Science Fiction movies of our time.
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