ref: b9fbb17c04e4ccfb2021dac818e514351ca8f646
dir: /troff/0401.ms/
.LP \& .ce .sp |4.25i .ps 12 .I And rookies ain't the only ones that drop .R .PP .ps 12 \(em Threat, .I Color Blind .R .PP .ps 12 .CW ░ DET\-86, Mars. 1984. .PP .ps 12 "No, see, Gaff has to be human," Thomas was saying. "They might be close to extinct, but I refuse to abandon this notion that a handful of especially clever humans have set the machines against themselves. I mean, people are people, right? Dekard can be a skin job, fine, but surely we can agree that Gaff is, at the very least, his handler. And so here's my pitch for the third movie: Deckard does indeed leave Earth for the Off\-World Colonies, where he arrives, years or decades later, having been misrouted during transit. The recipient takes delivery, immediately switches him back on, and then, surprise for Deckard, here's another human being, his contact, apparently, telling him all about the Blackout Event (circa 2022\(emdid Don DeLillo work on BLADE RUNNER: 2049?) that wiped out human life on Earth. Only problem is, half the machines left on the ground don't realize they're machines. Gaff's controllers, whomever or whatever they might turn out to be, are folding their fingers into hand tents, grinning keenly, as one\-half the replicant population hunts the other half to extinction. Neat as you like." .PP .ps 12 Piotr nodded. .PP .ps 12 "Anyway, fuck movies," Thomas said. "Let's go outside and play." .PP .ps 12 Thomas popped the latch on his lookout and scanned the desert horizon. All clear. Made a foothold with his gloved hands, boosting Piotr up, out of the hole, into the pink sand. The sand was coarse, irritating; it got everywhere. There would be no shortage of irritations in this life, but of course Thomas had known that when he signed up. .PP .ps 12 Piotr double\-checked his binoculars, sliding his point of view across the familiar sand formations that appeared like subliminal breasts airbrushed into the background of a rock album cover. That fickle bitch in the dunes was laughing at him, he was sure of it now. .PP .ps 12 "She's gone," Piotr said. .PP .ps 12 The ship. .PP .ps 12 "No surprise, after what we pulled. Let's give her a few days to cool off, eh?" .PP .ps 12 "Why?" Piotr asked. .PP .ps 12 It was fine to sell coke to the government. The supply was provably infinite, and, anyway, it made the legislature happy. It helped them to forget about \fIever\fR going home. Call it an obligation of the office. Call it a calling. They enjoyed their work. .PP .ps 12 And besides. Strictly speaking, the government was meant to be kept squirreled away, sequestered levels below the so\-called .I drug area, .R but it was still an easy enough trick for Thomas to make deliveries by hand. He wound up visiting during the course of his duties, either way. Call it an obligation of rank. .PP .ps 12 Not that Thomas bothered to justify himself. Reader, it was not for him to think such thoughts. Suffice to say that he fulfilled the requirements of his lofty position to within an inch of acceptable parameters. And he'd recently been promoted. So, you know, he figured this was the proof he must be doing something right. Jesus, let's call it a day. .PP .ps 12 Piotr continued to monitor for errors. Everything on his end was fine. Trouble had to be on the customer's side. Soon enough he spotted them, inching across the desert towards his position. The Little Green Men. Well, there was your problem right there. .PP .ps 12 "There go those motherfuckers, right now," he whispered into his collar mic. Code words, prearranged. .PP .ps 12 Thomas couldn't see them. Still fiddling with his visor. .PP .ps 12 "I can't see them," he finally admitted. "But you go on ahead. I'll catch up with you as soon as this upgrade completes." .PP .ps 12 "If it ever does," he added, under his breath. Signal here could be stronger. And whose idea was it to disable basic functions during an update? .PP .ps 12 Thomas was dissatisfied with his device. .PP .ps 12 On the ground. .PP .ps 12 Piotr adjusted the angle of his pistol slightly, aligning it more precisely with the throat of his quarry, the recently subdued point man of the Little Green Men. He sat happily on the man's chest, pink dust settling all around them. As ever, he concealed his facial expression beneath a mask of bland, but definitely implied, contempt. .PP .ps 12 "I\(emI didn't think you'd recognize me," sputtered the Little Green Man, his accent fluctuating now, admittedly under duress, but muddled by his years spent abroad, toiling inexpertly behind a physical computer keyboard. Probably not even Cyrillic. .PP .ps 12 Piotr didn't respond. .PP .ps 12 The silo reminded Thomas of home. No, not the Chrysler Building\(emnot even West Berlin\(embut the humble depths of the downtown missile silo in Manhattan where he'd grown up. Though he'd never remarked upon it aloud, Piotr often reminded him of his long lost childhood friend, Peter. His relatable, reliable, imaginary friend. Murdered by himself, so many years ago... .PP .ps 12 Also, there was that guy at summer camp. The combatives instructor, friend of his father. What was his name... .PP .ps 12 Thomas couldn't keep them straight in his head. He had to admit he was bad with names. Also, faces. Presently, he became distracted by the next item on his agenda. Abruptly dropped the pleasant reminiscence, retaining no memory of its passing. .PP .ps 12 The Senate was moving to new chambers.