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Three days seemed like a reasonable amount of time before making contact again with Arthur. Eames figured he could only pull the “sorry, the Voight-Kampff settings were off” excuse once, so he’d created a backup plan. Something so masterful that it would’ve made his old partner Dominic Cobb weep in appreciation at its subtlety and brilliance: he’d “accidentally” left his ashtray behind in Arthur’s office.
OK, sure, it wasn’t a great plan, but it was the best Eames could do on short notice. Though Arthur’s Cobol employee file listed his address and phone number, Eames couldn’t well just ring him up or drop by for a surprise visit. That would be far too obvious. Eames had already painted himself as a bit incompetent by having to repeat the test “due to his own error,” so the idea of him forgetting his ashtray was utterly believable. Or so he hoped.
He waited until Friday, when he already had a couple of other Voight-Kampff tests scheduled at Cobol. Though he was itching to go straight to Arthur’s office, he forced himself to wait until he was done with his appointments. Arthur and his secrets were strictly a side project, a gamble that might not pay off, and Eames couldn’t let his curiosity interfere with his last steady revenue stream.
By the time Eames was descending the elevator to Arthur’s solitary, subterranean office, it was close to quitting time. He knew that even the most loyal employee could give in to the temptation to skip out 20 minutes early before the weekend, so he was betting on Arthur’s dedication to his new job to keep him at his desk until 5 p.m.
No such luck, though. As he approached the office, he could see through the open door that Arthur wasn’t at his desk. Damn. Eames’ heart sank, more than he expected, and he chided himself. Eames would be back the next week to run more tests on other Cobol employees, so he could come back then for the ashtray. In fact, he could see it sitting on the corner of Arthur’s desk, holding a stubbed out cigarette—
Wait.
Eames sniffed. The air smelled like smoke. Not a stale ashtray smell—fresh smoke. The first spindly threads of suspicion crept down his spine as he pieced together information. Arthur was the only employee so far on this floor, and a confirmed non-smoker. Perhaps someone from another department had come to drop something off and forgotten their cigarette? Then where were they?
And where was Arthur?
The bad feeling spread, coursing through his nerves like electricity. His hand went to his hip, reaching for the sidearm that was no longer there. He cursed silently to himself. The department had confiscated his gun along with his badge years ago, but it was still his instinct to reach for it when something felt wrong.
He moved quickly and quietly down the hall, taking extra care not to bump his metal-cased Voight-Kampff machine into the walls. His eyes darted between the shuttered windows of the other closed offices, looking for watching eyes, but the hallway was eerily still. Abandoned.
Arthur’s office told a different story. As soon as he crossed the threshold, Eames’ stomach knotted tighter as he saw Arthur’ mug of coffee tipped over on his desk. Brown liquid pooled across a series of neatly typed spreadsheets, dripping onto the floor. The chair had been upended, and the drawers of the desk and filing cabinet had all been pulled open and rifled through.
With his heart hammering, Eames crossed to the desk and inspected the puddle of coffee. It had already soaked into the papers, blurring the ink. That would only take a minute, though. Next, he checked the ashtray. There was a single cigarette, half-smoked, stubbed out so hard that it was crooked. Eames touched the end and found it warm, the butt still slightly moist. This had been put out very recently. Whoever smoked this might still be in the building.
Eames dropped the cigarette and hurried out of the door. There was only one elevator that led to this floor. Though there was a decent chance that they might have used it right before Eames had, he knew that it was much more likely that anyone trying to leave this building unnoticed would’ve taken the stairs.
As soon as Eames opened the door to the stairwell he knew he’d been right. He heard the stamp of heavy feet, a pained groan, a barked order to “hurry the fuck up!”
Eames didn’t bother with subtlety anymore. He raced up the stairs as fast as he could, trying to keep track of which floor they’d exit on. Street level was the third flight up, that seemed the most likely. His lungs were burning by the second story, his breath coming in rasping wheezes. He used to smoke back when he was still on the force, but he didn’t remember his chest hurting so much when he’d ran.
You’re cutting back on the cigarettes. Starting now.
By the time he slammed open the door out to the rainy alleyway he could barely breathe. His legs were quivering like gelatin, his vision blurring, and he needed to press his side against the brick wall for just a second to steady himself—
A tell-tale click by his left ear made Eames freeze instantly. His hands came up open, defensive, the Voight-Kampff case dangling from his thumb. Adrenaline cleared his vision, but it was still hard to make out the scene through the curtains of rain. Was that the silhouette of a very large man standing in front of him? No, not one large man—two men close together. It was hard to tell with them backlit like this, but he was pretty damn sure that one was holding the other at gunpoint. He would bet money that the one with the gun pressed to his temple was Arthur.
He had seconds to figure this out.
Facts. What he did know for sure? Two suspects, both armed. One hostage. The one who had Arthur at gunpoint was holding a small silver briefcase in his other hand, nearly identical to the Voight-Kampff case Eames still carried. Blade runners, then? No. The goon holding Arthur had a large, gold ring on his finger—no cop could afford that. Which meant these two were well-funded. Which meant they were most likely corporate. If they’d been organized crime, Eames would be dead already. The mobs left no witnesses, ever.
Eames knew exactly what to do.
“Good job, guys!” Eames crowed, forcing himself to stand up straight. “When I saw the mess in the office below, I was sure that you were goners! Not many men can take on a Nexus-6 and live to tell about it.”
He didn’t move, but he watched the man holding Arthur very carefully. Midas, he’d call him, with that big gold ring. Eames didn’t dare move his head, but he could hear the rustle of fabric as his own assailant shifted.
“Who the fuck are you?” The man beside Eames asked. He was trying to sound tough, but his voice was too thin, too young to be truly threatening.
“Officer Dominic Cobb, SFPD replicant detection unit.” Eames said easily.
“Blade runner.” Midas said, in a deep, accented voice. What was that? Not English or Welsh—South African?
Eames turned his head very slowly towards the man with the gun trained on him, keeping his hands open. This close, Eames could see his face. He was smooth-cheeked, practically an adolescent. His sparse moustache and beard did nothing to make him look older. The rain had plastered his scraggly brown hair to his forehead, the water dripping into his eyes. Good. It would make it harder for him to see. He was definitely not what Eames had imagined when he’d heard the click of the gun, but he knew all too well that even a boy could be a killer. Eames still had to tread carefully.
“Look, I get why you’re a bit jumpy after apprehending such a dangerous replicant,” Eames continued. “Most bounty hunters don’t have the guts or the skills to bring one in alive for proper…retirement.” Retirement. The polite term for termination. “But I need you to put that gun down so I can do my job.”
“Bounty hunters?” The man didn’t lower his gun, but his eyes shifted quickly between Eames as his shadowed partner. Uncertain. Confused. Good. “You think this guy’s a replicant?”
“Oh, I know he is! Been watching him for a few days now, trying to see if he’d lead me to his comrades. Now that you jumped the gun, I’ll just have to bring him in for questioning.” Eames sighed, deeply put upon.
“Boss didn’t say nothing ‘bout this guy being a skin job,” Midas muttered. “Nash, if he sent us after a replicant, means he didn’t expect us to co—”
“Shut up!” Nash hissed.
Eames had a name. Perfect.
“Look, boys. Nash,” Eames let a note of exasperation leak into his voice, “I’ve got an armored car out front ready to take this replicant in to the station. You’re fucking heroes, as far as I’m concerned, and you’ve earned that $20,000 reward—”
“$20,000?” Midas piped up. Of course Mr. Gold Ring would be interested in the money. His aim waivered slightly in his excitement, but not far enough from Arthur’s head for Eames to risk making a move.
“Oh yeah. Enough to get you off-world if that’s what your meaty little heart desires. But, but, but, I need you both to lower your guns so I can properly apprehend the suspect.”
They were quiet for a long moment.
“How do we know you’re a real cop?” Nash asked.
“You want to see my badge?” Eames’ tone became brisker, businesslike. “Then lower your fucking guns.” He didn’t have a badge anymore, and he wasn’t crooked enough to have a fake. What he did have was his Voight-Kampff operator license, which might work if he flashed it fast enough…if these guys had never seen a real police badge up close.
Slowly, the gun pointed at Eames’ face came down. Eames relaxed slightly, until he saw that Midas still had his gun to Arthur’s head.
“You, too, chief,” Eames ordered.
“If I stop pointing my gun at him, he’ll make a break for it,” Midas said matter-of-factly.
Well, damn. Now that was a flaw Eames hadn’t thought through. He thought quickly.
“All right then. Keep the gun trained on him until I can get him cuffed.” Eames shrugged. “Then I’ll need you both to come down to the station with me to fill out some paperwork to get your reward.”
As he approached Midas and Arthur, he pretended to be reaching into his jacket pocket for handcuffs that weren’t there to lead a man who wasn’t a replicant to an armored squad car that didn’t exist. He didn’t know exactly what he was planning to do when he had Arthur “in custody,” but he hoped that Arthur would have the sense to play along.
“Wait a second…Cobb,” Nash said slowly. Dominic Cobb. I recognize that name.”
Shit.
“I can give you an autograph back at the precinct.” Eames said, quickening his steps. He was only two feet away from Arthur—still not close enough to reach, to even see the expression on his face.
“Wait a second!” Nash yelled. “Cobb’s that blade runner that got kille—”
Eames didn’t wait a second longer. He swung his Voight-Kampff case up hard and let it go. It connected with the gun trained on Arthur, pushing it up just enough to break Midas’ aim. Eames was about to yell at Arthur to run—
Arthur’s elbow connected with his captor’s sternum. As Midas doubled over with a pained groan, Arthur swept smoothly to the side and grabbed Midas’ gun arm, twisting as he went. Midas began screaming a split second before Eames heard the sickening pop of his elbow dislocating. The screaming only went on for another few seconds before Arthur silenced him with a hard, open-palmed strike to the head. Midas dropped to the ground like a sack of rice, both his gun and the silver briefcase clattering to the street.
Eames barely had time to be impressed—or to wonder just how a data analyst knew the steps to this violent ballet—before a shot rang out from behind him. Eames ducked his head, just as he heard the ping of the bullet ricocheting off something metal. Nash may have missed his first shot, but that was pure luck. Eames frantically looked for cover that wasn’t there. He was out in the open, unarmed, his back to a man with a gun trained on him. Stupid.
Arthur dropped and rolled on his shoulder until he reached Midas’ dropped gun. Eames barely caught the gleam of silver in Arthur’s hand before he’d fired two shots of his own. He heard Nash cry out, followed by the clank of metal hitting wet concrete. Eames risked a look over his shoulder, and saw Nash slumped against the alley wall. He was bleeding from one hole in his shoulder and another in his thigh, too dazed to go for the abandoned gun.
“They’ll live,” Arthur said as he rolled gracefully back onto his feet. He didn’t drop his borrowed gun, though. He trained it on Eames, who was still half-crouched, holding his hands up. “How about you, blade runner? Today a good day to die?”
Panic flooded Eames’ mind, killing any quips he might have made about being repaid for his kindness with betrayal. He was too stunned to think properly. In all of his testing, Eames hadn’t read Arthur as a stone-cold killer, but then again, he hadn’t read him as an expert martial artist either. There was a very, very good chance that Arthur was about to blow his brains out right here—
Arthur leaned forward just enough so Eames could see the hard, flat expression on his face in the broken light. Then, so quickly that Eames thought that he imagined it—he winked. Arthur fucking winked.
Before Eames could make heads or tails of anything, Arthur stepped over to the silver briefcase lying beside the unconscious Midas. Arthur didn’t even look at the case as he stooped down to pick it up, instead keeping his gaze moving between Eames and his two assailants. He backed out of the alleyway until he was close enough to the street to round the corner, and then he was gone.
What—what the fuck had just happened?
Doesn’t matter now. You’re standing in an alleyway with two wounded hitmen. Get the fuck out. Now.
Eames moved, feeling clumsy and slow compared to Arthur. He scrambled for his own Voight-Kampff machine behind Midas, already regretting the damage his little stunt had surely cost the machine. As he stood up, the gleam of Nash’s gun caught his eye. He snatched it up out of a puddle, putting the safety on as he shoved it into his pocket. Better safe than shot in the back.
“You’re going to regret helping him.” Nash wheezed, dark eyes narrowed in pain.
“I already do,” Eames snapped.
“No. When we’re done with you—”
“Oh, save your speeches for the cops.” He could already hear sirens in the distance. Gunshots in the financial district weren’t anything new, but they were definitely bad for business. Police responded more quickly in this neighborhood than in others. Eames turned to go, forcing himself to walk briskly rather than run, ignoring the tremors beginning to run through him. Show no fear.
He’d disappeared into the safety of the shadows when Nash’s final taunt echoed off the alley walls.
“We’ll find you, blade runner! You can’t hide from us!”
********
It took Eames three hours before the shaking stopped. As he soaked in the cooling bathwater of his tub, he tried to tell himself that it was just the exertion of sprinting up three flights of stairs. The shakes had nothing to do with his nerves, with picking a fight in an alleyway with two foot soldiers from some powerful shadow company who now had a personal beef with him. And what for? To help a man who he’d only spoken to twice, who obviously hadn’t needed his fucking help.
God. Eames had right botched that one up good.
He should’ve walked away the second he’d seen Arthur’s office empty. Just turned right around and left. Sure, he would’ve found it empty when he checked it the next time, and the next, until it was finally filled by Arthur’s replacement. Then Eames could have just let go of his little fantasy of getting himself back on the force’s good side by cracking a big case.
What a fucking joke. Even if there had been a case, it was long gone. Arthur was probably on a bullet train to Los Angeles by now. Farther, if he was smart. Whatever scheme had sent him to Cobol was most likely called off at this point. Eames would never see him again.
Yeah, well, good fucking riddance.
Eames took another long drink from his glass of whiskey, wincing as it burned down his throat. God, he hated drinking liquor straight, but with his hands shaking as badly as they had been, mixing a cocktail had been out of the question. Back in the old days, Robert was the one who’d make the drinks on nights like this.
Robert used to make the perfect Manhattan, using real bitters, because he could afford them. After particularly rough patrols—nights when Eames actually had to make a retirement—Robert would keep the drinks coming while Eames soaked quietly in the tub, trying to forget his night. Once Eames was finally convinced he’d be able to sleep without nightmares, Robert would help Eames out of the tub, wrap him in his bathrobe, and lay him down on the bed with a soft kiss…
Eames screwed his eyes shut tight as he tasted bile in the back of his throat, the whiskey threatening to come back up. Yeah. The liquor was doing its job distracting him, but in the wrong ways. He forced himself out of the tub and dried himself, then slid into his stained bathrobe. Man, this thing needed a wash badly. He padded into the kitchen and poured the rest of his glass of whiskey down the sink, then rooted around in the fridge for the last beer and any scraps of dinner he could find.
He felt slightly better after a cold spam sandwich, and decided he was finally steady enough to check on the Voight-Kampff machine. The case had gotten pretty banged up in the fight, being used as a projectile, and Eames was dreading seeing the damage on the inside. Hopefully it just needed a bit of tuning, because if real repairs were in order it was going to cost him. Too much. He couldn’t afford not to have his Voight-Kampff in working order, though. That machine was the sole source of his livelihood. Without it, he didn’t know what he’d do. He set the case down carefully on his desk and went to pull his calibration tools out of his drawer.
The phone on the wall warbled its electronic chime, the monitor flashing with an unknown number. Eames practically jumped out of his skin. No one, and he meant no one, called him past business hours. His heart slammed against his ribs, and he couldn’t help but hear Nash’s final threat echo in his mind.
“We’ll find you, blade runner! You can’t hide from us!”
Refusing to let fear master him, he punched the red “receive” button, ignoring the renewed shaking in his hands. He composed his features into the most neutral expression he could, making himself camera ready, and said in his most bored tone, “Hello?”
“Mr. Eames?”
The phone’s video screen crackled to life, broken up badly by static. Even through the tracking lines, Eames could make out Arthur’s lean face, his hair wet and disheveled. Eames’ heart practically stopped.
“Mr. Kenig. Arthur.” It took every ounce of Eames’ willpower to keep his tone even, jovial, as if he’d been expecting Arthur’s call. He forced a grin. “Why, it is lovely to hear your voice on this fine evening.”
Arthur was silent for a long moment, and he looked nervously over his shoulders. He was in a phone booth, judging by horrible lighting and the graffiti-specked silver background. In the lull, Eames heard the rush of cars through rain, the tinny honk of motor scooter horns.
“Tell me, darling, you faring well?” Out of Arthur’s sight, Eames opened the top drawer of his desk, studying Nash’s gun. He didn’t touch it, but seeing it simultaneously made him feel better and worse.
“I believe you have something of mine.” Arthur said, ignoring Eames’ inquiry.
“Now what could that possibly be? It’s not your gratitude for saving your life. Nor is it an apology, it seems.”
“Look, I’m sorry about the mess—”
Eames barked a humorless laugh. “The mess, that’s what you’re calling—”
“But I need that case!” Arthur snapped.
Confusion coursed through Eames as his gaze darted to his Voight-Kampff machine on the table.
“There…there seems to have been a bit of a mix-up in all the excitement,” Arthur said carefully. He held up the silver case that he’d snatched up during his hasty departure.
A trickle of suspicion coursed down Eames’ spine like cold sweat. No. Oh no. We didn’t…
“Let me check. Don’t go anywhere.” He left the phone on as he crossed back to the machine, eyeing it curiously. On closer examination, he could now see that what he’d assumed was new damage was actually completely different markings. He couldn’t find the small dent in the left corner from when he’d banged it into a doorknob once, or the deep scratch on the plastic handle. With his heart in his throat, his fingers went to the latch. He’d expected to find it locked—he always locked his Voight-Kampff down when he was done—but it snapped open with a click. He opened the lid.
It wasn’t his machine.
It was definitely a device of some sort. He could see wires and canisters and God knows what other little bits of apparatus poking about. But Eames couldn’t tell you what the bloody hell this machine was for. There was really only one thing that mattered though—this wasn’t his Voight-Kampff. Which meant…
“Are you still there?” Arthur asked, a surprising edge of panic in his voice.
“Mmhmm,” Eames hummed, strolling back around to the phone so he could see Arthur on the screen. “Just verifying your story. You do seem to be correct.”
Arthur sighed in relief. “Thank God. I was afraid that they had it.”
An alarm bell went off in Eames’ mind. “It’s not a bomb, is it?”
“No,” Arthur said vehemently. He calmed himself. “I promise, it’s of no danger to you or anyone. I just…I need it back.”
Oh, was that a note of desperation in Arthur’s voice? It sent a lance of mean pleasure through him, followed immediately by one of mild guilt. Despite all of the trouble Arthur had put Eames through, he was obviously in a worse place. At least Eames wasn’t calling from a phone booth. Which reminded him…
“How did you get this number? I never gave you a card.”
“You’re in the book,” Arthur said simply. “You even have an ad.”
Eames felt foolish. That ad had been Robert’s idea, a last-ditch effort to bring some legitimate business in before Eames had finally given up.
“Must be an old phone book,” Eames said. He crossed his arms, pulling his bathrobe closer around himself. As he considered his next step, he overheard voices near Arthur chatting in Mandarin, followed by the ring of a bicycle bell. He took a gamble. “You in Chinatown, darling?”
“No.” Arthur snapped, telling Eames he was right on the money.
“You like dumplings?”
“I—”
“Get yourself to Wing Sing Dim Sum on Stockton and Jackson. I’ll meet you there in an hour.”
Arthur was quiet for a long moment. “How can I trust you?”
“Mutual want. You want your machine back, I want mine. Not to mention, I’m in the mood for pork buns. I don’t mess around when there’s pork buns involved.”
“Fine.” Arthur rubbed a hand across his mouth, looking as tired as if he’d run a marathon. For all Eames knew Arthur had been running since he’d left Cobol’s offices three hours ago. The thought sent an unexpected pang of concern through him, which he promptly tried to quash the only way he knew how.
“You know, you didn’t have to go and get yourself abducted to ask me out to dinner.” Eames gave Arthur a sly smile.
“One. Hour.” Arthur snapped, pointing at the screen for emphasis. “Then I’m gone.” However, right before he stabbed at the button under his screen to end the call, Eames thought he detected the very faintest hint of a smile.
Once Eames terminated his end of the call he closed the mysterious case and headed towards his tiny bedroom to get dressed. There wasn’t much left in his drawers—the building’s coin-op had been on the fritz all week—but he managed to scrape up some clean underwear and mismatched socks. He had one last button-down shirt in his closet, that hideous salmon thing that Robert had given him as a gift. Not much choice there, as well as with the grey trousers he’d been wearing earlier today. They were still in the best shape out of all of his pants, and he pulled them down from their drying rack over the space heater. They were still damp from the fight in the rain, but they’d have to do.
As he gave his hair a quick comb-through in the bathroom mirror, he realized that he was still nervous—but he wasn’t shaking anymore. Surprising. He should be even more anxious, planning on sitting down with a man who had taken out two armed thugs in five seconds flat. Not to mention, who was still wanted by the company who had sent those men. Or maybe it wasn’t Arthur they wanted. Maybe it was the mysterious box on Eames’ desk. If that was the case, the sooner Eames was rid of it—and rid of Arthur—the better.
Then why is the idea of seeing Arthur in an hour making you smile?