Mardock Scramble

by Ubukata, Tow

  The Doctor hesitated a little at this point.

  “Amusement, you see. Or pleasure, comfort, whatever you want to call it. That’s OctoberCorp’s usefulness. Using a variety of technologies they furnish the good citizens of Mardock with their amusements, and in this capacity they’re not too worried about the legality of the pleasures that they so generously dribble into the city. Narcotics, pleasure devices, illegal Shows, whatever your heart desires it can have.”

  And, one part of that is the special technology they donate to the inhabitants of the slums, under the guise of welfare.

  The Doctor explained that the A-10 surgery—which made the brain secrete chemicals that transform stress into euphoria—was also trickled in by OctoberCorp.

  “Shell is one of OctoberCorp’s rainmakers, in charge of money-laundering operations. They use all sorts of methods to launder their money. There’s a very good chance that your recent exposure to life-threatening danger was part of Shell’s business ops. So you could say that you and we have an enemy in common.”

  In other words, the Doctor was saying that Balot’s attempted murder—or murder—was for a purpose.

  Well, that answered one part of the question—Why me?—that Balot was looking to have answered.

  Why do I have to be killed?

  Surely there must have been a definite reason. A reason far removed from love. The heart was already beating softly. The temperature of her heart was frighteningly cold. As if she’d turned into an insect or something.

  An insect could live by its instincts. But, at this moment, this life held nothing.

  Balot held on to the most important part of the Doctor’s words.

  “We will preserve your life and arrest Shell. We’ll receive a bounty from the municipal authorities and when we’re paid, we’ll split it down the middle. As the enemy is part of the stupidly large OctoberCorp, the reward won’t be less than a few hundred thousand dollars. Enough money to change your life plenty.”

  The Doctor was now zealously trying to persuade Balot. As if to say If it’s what you want then take all the money. We’ll give you whatever you want to fulfill your needs.

  “You’ll gain a new life. This case will prove our usefulness to society, and—even better—we’ll expose OctoberCorp for all its crimes and iniquity!” the Doctor said.

  It didn’t seem like he was about to say anything further.

  It felt like he’d run out of steam just as his rhetoric had started to get going.

  Balot didn’t even nod. Her eyes hadn’t seen anything. In her mouth she tasted fire.

  She could clearly taste the fumes she’d inhaled when she burnt to death, like an old wound.

  An old song played on the radio. A woman sang a mournful tune, accompanied by a piano.

  When the song ended the Doctor opened his mouth as if to speak, but Balot used the radio to speak first:

  –…the mouse.

  The static from the radio formed the words.

  “What?”

  –Cute. And talks.

  The Doctor’s eyebrows rose. As if he were surprised. Balot continued:

  –Golden, like egg yolk, it/she added.

  “Whew!”

  A sudden outburst. The Doctor threw his head back and burst into laughter.

  “You held on to consciousness in that state! What incredible aptitude! Not even most astronauts would be able to do that, even after their specialist intensive training!”

  After his little outburst, the Doctor turned around toward the portable radio for the first time.

  “Hey, come on, Oeufcoque! The lady’s calling you!”

  But no one answered.

  “Jeez, what a shy guy you are.”

  The Doctor skipped out of his chair and picked up the radio with a mischievous grin on his face.

  And then—what do you know?—he suddenly raised the radio high into the air and threw it down to the floor.

  The sound of the radio smashing startled Balot. The antenna flew off along with the handle, the speakers popped out, and the volume control knob rolled across the floor.

  The knob rolled under the feet of the dumbfounded Balot before collapsing on its side.

  “Way to startle a lady, Doctor!”

  The knob spoke in an incredibly raspy voice. His tone was somehow troubled.

  “Turning over, it’s called, or just turn for short. This little fella here can return to his usual self out of any of his fragments,” the Doctor explained, ignoring the voice coming from the knob.

  “This guy was originally developed for space exploration. He has this hyperspace within his body, and by reversing this substance that he’s got stored up inside it, he’s able to turn his body into any object you can think of.”

  Balot picked up the knob from the radio. Softly, she rolled it around in her hand.

  And then she remembered the curious exchange of electric currents that had just happened between her and the radio.

  The Doctor informed her of its name: “Oeufcoque.”

  “ ’Cause he’s a half-baked little thing, when it comes down to it.”

  As she thought on this, the thing did indeed turn inside out. The part of it that was a radio knob went inside. At the same time, a mouse with golden fur emerged. It was the mouse from her dream.

  “Good evening, madam.”

  The mouse gave a polite bow of introduction from Balot’s hand. Somehow it was standing upright, on two feet.

  “You have no objection to a mouse, I hope?”

  The mouse spread his arms as if appealing to her, and Balot tilted her head toward him.

  “For my part, I’m somewhat different from an ordinary mouse, so do feel free to speak to me without disgust… No, wait, you aren’t able to speak. Hmm. Well, if it would be of assistance I would be glad to become a radio again. Do please let me know what’s convenient, radio or television, as you desire.”

  Balot tilted her head again. She didn’t feel bad. She remembered that the mouse had said something important in her dreams. To do with death. And its value. She wanted him to say it again. Why me—she felt he might be able to teach her a different answer to this question.

  “What are you jabbering on for? Talk to her about our work, the task—” the Doctor interjected, amazed.

  “There’s such a thing as taking it easy, you know.” Oeufcoque stabbed his finger toward the Doctor. “It was quite a shock for her, after all, the whole affair. Let’s start off with a bit of TLC for the mind.”

  “You want me to prescribe her some Prozac? Or should we get her wasted just enough that it doesn’t interfere with her work?”

  “No, I’m saying we need to get her to a state where we don’t need to do those things.”

  –What should I do?

  The speakers on the floor suddenly emitted the words.

  The Doctor and Oeufcoque turned to look at Balot at the same time.

  –Do you need me to nod to say that I’ll help you? Or maybe sign a contract?

  “Well, that didn’t take long!”

  The Doctor was all smiles now. “Okay, so, keep gripping that thing—Oeufcoque—and I want you to visualize what you can about Shell-Septinos.”

  Balot had no idea what the Doctor’s words meant, but she quietly got on with doing what she was asked. She gently wrapped her hands around Oeufcoque’s body and thought of Shell.

  Oeufcoque’s red eyes stared at Balot.

  Balot’s jet black eyes also stared back at Oeufcoque. And then she thought of the thin smile Shell gave her at the very end. His figure waving at her from outside the car window. The Blue Diamonds on his fingers sparkling brightly. Just thinking of that light glinting made her heart slowly ooze poison.

  Her lips trembled. The shame and the sadness suddenly surged through her hand and was transmitted to Oeufcoque.

  Then Balot’s deepest feelings started to take shape and appear.

  This was Balot’s new ability—and Oeufcoque’s.

  Oeufcoque tur
ned with a squish. Oeufcoque’s face, with its troubled expression, disappeared in an instant—and in its place Balot felt a profound weight in her hands.

  A golden revolver had appeared in Balot’s grip.

  Balot stared at the revolver. She wondered whether this was the answer. As she did so the trigger cocked itself. Click. She felt the bullet loading in the steel chamber inside the gun. This was, without a doubt, Balot’s snarc. The gun knew of Balot’s despair.

  “Well, I didn’t think it would take the form of a gun with such accuracy.” The Doctor stared, fixated on the gun, and continued. “Now your psychoprint is recorded inside Oeufcoque. Physical evidence of your heart, as it were. And, using your heart as our foundation, we’re going to protect you and fulfill our objectives. So, we’ll defeat the man known as Shell-Septinos, smash OctoberCorp—”

  “You’ve got it wrong, Doctor,” Oeufcoque interrupted, still in the form of a revolver. “She’s going to shoot herself.”

  The Doctor’s eyes widened.

  “She still has feelings for the man?”

  “No, not that,” Oeufcoque said. Balot realized then for the first time that the gun didn’t have a trigger.

  That was Oeufcoque’s will. And it was the first act of kindness that Balot had received from this curious little mouse.

  She felt the warmth of a body in her palms. The gun lost its form with a squelch and turned into a golden mouse before looking up at Balot from within her grip.

  “She just can’t break out of the shell inside her heart. There are too many things around her that cause her pain.”

  Balot breathed the air, deeply. She opened her eyes wide and stared at Oeufcoque.

  “What’s this?”

  The Doctor’s face was doubtful.

  “The girl’s lost everything. We’re the ones who saved her. It’s our responsibility to help her find a sense of purpose in the life she’s now living. My usefulness at the moment is to make sure she doesn’t make the choice to abandon life.”

  Oeufcoque looked right into Balot’s eyes. Mature eyes, as if they were filled with a mixture of dignity and courtesy. In the end even the Doctor couldn’t argue with Oeufcoque’s words. Balot understood that quickly. She also understood the reason.

  She didn’t know how, but Oeufcoque had the ability to search a person’s heart, see through them in an instant. Also, the power to evaluate the value of that heart. A power that Balot, the Doctor, the people of this city, all seemed to have lost.

  The mouse and the girl stared each other down. As if two pieces of a whole had finally met. They remained like that for a good while.

  Eventually the Doctor, who had been left all on his own, nonplussed, said, “How’s about I shine a spotlight on the happy couple?”

  It was all he could say.

  Chapter 2

  MIXTURE

  01

  Adagio string music floated through the bar, caressing its contours.

  A man sipped a scotch at the counter.

  It was a basement bar in a hotel on the East Side of Mardock City. The hotel epitomized the postwar excesses of the city: brash, shiny, flourishing.

  As the night went on customers flocked to the bar. Here and there, business was discussed. Big deals—the sort you wouldn’t even hear of in the south or west parts of the city—were discussed as if they were a new type of drug.

  The man listened to the noises of the joint, as expressionless as the bartender in front of his eyes.

  The man’s name was Dimsdale-Boiled.

  Right now he worked for Shell. His body was big, but cold-blooded.

  Before long, Shell-Septinos appeared in the bar and sat down next to Boiled.

  Shell took his lead-gray Chameleon Sunglasses off and ordered a gin. Cut a lime in two and drop the halves in, Shell ordered, and don’t forget the powder.

  The bartender silently chopped the lime, took a capsule in his hand, and sprinkled its contents on the flesh of the fruit. He squeezed the lime into the gin and dropped it into the glass.

  The powder was from a Heroic Pill, one of OctoberCorp’s special bargains. It had recently started getting popular with the East Side rich, so in this place it was actually quite pricey. Drugs leaking in from the west could actually go for almost ten times the rate in the east. The Social Welfare Department had put some safer drugs on the market, but no one liked them. They didn’t have the same effect. The Garden Plaza in Central Park supplied this bar, and most of those who went shopping there returned home with these pills. There were those who fed them to babies who wouldn’t sleep. They helped you quit smoking, give up drinking. But whether from the east or west, very few of those people who took the drug actually knew what happiness was.

  “What’s it like to be reborn?” Boiled asked.

  “Like I was in a long dream.”

  Shell smiled a watery smile.

  “Clapping—memory preservation—that’s what I’m about.” He pointed to a spot just above his right eyebrow. A small pin was embedded there. “I attach a cord here. It’s linked to my frontal lobe with fiberoptics. From here I can download my memories and save them. This wipes them neatly from my mind at the same time. I have to do this once in a while, apparently, or my brain wouldn’t be able to cope with all the memories and would start decaying. Originally I had the operation done to cope with the aftereffects of A-10 surgery, but now I’m finding it useful in all sorts of other ways.”

  “Sounds useful.”

  “Oh, it is.”A crackly laugh spilled from Shell’s lips. “And when you say you’ll let them fiddle about with your brain you get a free pass to any hospital you like. Gives them invaluable clinical data, you see. You’re treated like royalty.”

  “And what happens to the data? I mean the stuff downloaded from your brain, not the clinical sort,” asked Boiled.

  “Put it like this: are there any dentists who want their patients’ cavities after they extract them?”

  “And what’s the chance the data is being copied?”

  “I won’t say zero, but the odds are tiny. I’d say about the same chance as someone going all-in in a poker game when they have nothing at all in their hand.”

  “How many times has that situation come up during the course of your life?”

  “Who knows. We’re talking about what happens in my dreams, after all.”

  Shell grinned. A smile as cold as the drink in his hand. And, his expression suggested, would be just as sharp as the glass would be when it smashed. “With my most recent memories, I’m now ready to proceed with the deal. Not a deal like the sort that’s always come down from higher up. A deal that I’m proposing myself. My memories are the chips. And in order to beat any concealed card, I have you as my ace.”

  Boiled nodded silently.

  “And, as payment, the past. For most people it’s invaluable. In my case it’s just worthless. We’re just talking about a josh, stuff I don’t even want to remember, stuff that leaves a bad taste in my mouth.”

  A low-pitched laugh leaked out of Shell. Boiled said nothing.

  “I started life as a cheap little bookie—a punter—for OctoberCorp. Then I earned my stripes as a star gambler. I had a casino entrusted to me, and money started flowing in left, right, and center. That led to a job cleaning money. I cooked up schemes to launder their money—and accrue interest at the same time—that they hadn’t even dreamed of. I gave rookie politicians—those on their way into federal government—the chance to enjoy themselves at preferential rates. I got them to pool the money from their parents’ businesses in our treasury. All sorts of dirty deals.”

  Shell spoke in a singsong voice. He was in a frighteningly good mood. Shell was a man who was climbing the Mardock—the Stairway to Heaven—out of the slums and right to the top.

  “But do you think I’m going to settle for that? If that’s all I achieve then how am I different from a high-class maid cleaning the toilets of the rich? Maids clean dirty toilets and take care of the beds. I clean dirty
money and take care of the bets. No real difference. So I’m making a deal. To make me one of them. I’m able to abandon everything. I can throw everything away, completely, and become a new person. They should know that—I’ve shown it to them many times over, haven’t I? And then when they remembered all the things that I cleaned for them, they started to take me seriously. Do you think that I’ve been pointlessly discarding my memories up till now? You must be joking. They’re safely recorded and stored in a safe place that only I know. That’s my game. And it’s your game too. That’s right, isn’t it, Boiled?”

  Boiled slowly nodded his head.

  “I’m happy being an empty shell. The contents are still to come. A container to be filled with glory—that’s what I am.”

  At this point Shell finally calmed down. Such was the madness of Shell. Who could understand the feelings of a man who sold the memories of his own past piece by piece?

  “I think that I’m going to work extremely well having you as my employer.”

  Boiled spoke softly. Then, quietly, he took a newspaper cutting from the inner pocket of his jacket and placed it on top of the counter.

  “A Mardock Scramble 09 has been proclaimed.”

  Shell read the article in silence. He ordered a second gin, then looked at the article again. Not read—looked.

  “Who is she? This girl?”

  “Rune-Balot. A girl from your dreams who should have died.”

  “Dreams? Ah, so, the raw material for a Blue Diamond that the cops in our pay were going to collect for us—it’s still alive and kicking, is that it?” Shell murmured in a voice devoid of any emotion and drank his gin. He drank away his possible past along with the lime juice and Heroic Pills. Shell’s next move came quickly.

  “Since when has the case been under someone’s charge?”

  “The preliminary courtroom business was concluded a few days ago. The girl gave the Broilerhouse some sort of information and filed charges of status fraud and attempted murder,” said Boiled.

  “The Life Preservation Program’s in effect. Proof that Trustees—dirty little PIs—are involved. Have you looked into them?”