Mardock Scramble

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Mardock Scramble Page 9

by Ubukata, Tow


  All lies. She realized just how abnormal this Shell-Septinos must be to manipulate another person’s existence according to his whim in such precise, meticulous detail.

  And moreover, this wasn’t just any old graffiti: it was beautifully done.

  It was a cruel veneer, as if to emphasize the ugliness of the original, of what had gone before.

  Oeufcoque highlighted certain entries on the monitor from various pages, and each time he did so Balot snarced Oeufcoque and made a separate copy—with her true details added—into individual reference files.

  Like unearthing fossils from underneath a beautiful display of ostentation.

  Balot tried to remember the first time—and indeed the last time—that she had accessed the data. The very act that triggered the events that caused Shell to burn her to death. Was she grateful to the man who had made such a vainglorious display of her? How pathetic if she was. It was like taking a file to her heart surrounded by the perfect shell.

  According to this data, Balot was currently nineteen years old. She was from a middle-class family, and if you had to use one word to describe her it would have been wholesome. There was no trace of an incident in which her brother was sent to prison for beating her father so badly he was left with permanent damage. There was no sign of an incident in which ADSOM—the Alcohol and Drug abuse Society of Mardock City—put a cap on her mother’s pregnancy rights, meaning that IVF was the only route open to her, which in turn led to a cycle of abuse driven by the inferiority complex this had given the woman.

  Here, her father was a salaryman, an average office Joe. He wasn’t driven to extreme neurosis thanks to backbreaking manual labor, and the despair that he was plunged into after losing his job didn’t cause him to cling to Balot and take her virginity as if she were just another woman. Balot had been able to go to school properly, and she wasn’t subjected to sexual abuse by Social Services. And it certainly wasn’t the case that, after she had escaped from the institute along with a few others, she was forced into the even harsher position of having to sell her body and soul piece by piece.

  A dream family—a dream life. Not a life in the depths of despair and hatred, where the tears had run dry.

  “I’m starting to see it now—I’m beginning to understand what Shell was plotting with all his evil business with you,” Oeufcoque said. Even as they confirmed Balot’s personal details Balot and Oeufcoque both sped through the huge network, collecting any other relevant data.

  “As I suspected, that man has his fingers in a number of different pies—illegal banking. According to his personal data he’s bought over 170,000 different items in the past six months. The data is fictional, of course, and no transactions will have taken place. The question is where the money has gone.”

  Balot felt her bile rising when she heard Oeufcoque’s words.

  “So, he gives you your forged status and arranges it to look like you’ve embezzled money. It’s written here that you’re an employee at this bank. The bank in question is closely connected with Shell’s masters, OctoberCorp, and certain government officials are involved too. First, he entered details of fake deposit accounts into the computer, complete with forged certificates of deposit. Under your name, the fake one, of course. And as long as your records are never accessed, they never come under any official scrutiny. That’s the key point. And the moment you accessed your file, many of the official procedures started automatically.”

  The official procedures started automatically. One of the procedures being Balot’s death.

  Why was she killed—why me? Another part of the answer to this question floated before her eyes, and Balot felt her whole body enveloped in a wave of hatred she’d never experienced before.

  “So, they get your fake documents, add some fake wage slips, and drain this from the non-bank they set up specially for the purpose. We’re talking millions of dollars. It takes time, though, for the funds to be cleared. If our case is recognized as legitimate within the next week then we—and the public prosecutor—will be given leave to investigate further… I get it now, this is where Shell’s brain becomes so important. It’s likely that a ream of his memories have already disappeared. Psychelaundering rather than money laundering. So, while the legal investigation into his memory takes place, it’s too late for the investigation into the funds to go any further.”

  Balot inhaled slowly. As her heartbeat started to settle, the hatred flowing around her became one with her flesh and blood, and she felt it silently beating away.

  “Once the payments have gone through, as long as the memory of this case is completely wiped from Shell’s brain, there’s nothing more we can do. Although, on the other hand—if Shell’s memories are preserved somewhere…”

  Balot didn’t yet understand in full the complexities of Shell’s scheme, but she did understand that she herself had started the ball rolling toward the events that would bring about her own death.

  Or rather, Shell had known that Balot would start the ball rolling.

  There was no one in her circumstance who couldn’t be aware of just how much they were being used, of what they were being used as.

  In the end the petition that they collected together to send in to the Broilerhouse ran to a total of 280 counts of status fraud.

  While they were doing that, Balot ordered another cappuccino. The youth from earlier was clearly relieved when Balot called him over and served her with a wink and threw in a free cookie.

  As she was working Balot’s hands sometimes stopped, and at these times a strange song would run through her head.

  Dish, wash, crash, mash.

  A nursery rhyme that she’d once heard. The taste of the cappuccino in her mouth changed to the distinctive acrid taste of the explosion.

  Hash, gash, josh, bash.

  Once the hellish work was over—work that was like dredging through a swamp with your face—Balot sat still, unflinching, staring at the monitor. The long-decayed contents of a broken shell. No tears came. Her head was strangely cool. Even as it spewed forth its poison, her heart continued to beat steadily.

  “I didn’t think we’d be able to prepare such a detailed document in such a short time.”

  –I couldn’t bear any more.

  “You’ve done well. All we need to do now is send this off to the Broilerhouse.”

  –Send it off?

  Balot was terrified. As if it had only just occurred to her that this was what they were going to have to do.

  –We’re going to show this to people? This? The truth about my past?

  “We are.”

  The documents were suddenly collated now, turned into data ready to mail. Oeufcoque’s actions.

  Balot’s whole body stiffened. She couldn’t take her eyes off the monitor. Just as you can’t take your eyes away from a sharp knife flashing in front of your eyes.

  But the data wasn’t being sent. Oeufcoque was silently waiting for Balot. Balot hadn’t yet said either yes or no.

  “Balot?”

  –Just wait a minute. Please. Try and understand me.

  Her stomach clenched. She wished there was something that could squeeze her tighter. Without it she would blow away like a fine powder, she thought.

  “Balot. How about looking at it like this,” Oeufcoque said cautiously. “This is just like excavating fossils. A number of skeletons are going to emerge, one by one. But as you know, they’re all long since dead. However fierce they used to be, now they are sleeping soundly as fossils.”

  –Do you really want to hurt me so badly?

  Balot lowered her eyes and gritted her teeth. Oeufcoque continued on, politely as ever. “You’re living in the present, not back in the primeval era of the dinosaurs. The things that used to live are real only insofar as they used to exist. But right here, right now, you are the one who’s really alive.”

  –Can you wait? Just a little longer.

  “Of course, you could even delete these documents if you wanted. If that was
the best way for you to deal with your fossils.”

  She realized that Oeufcoque meant it. Even though there would be serious repercussions.

  But Oeufcoque cared more about Balot’s feelings, right to the end.

  If I said no, this person wouldn’t make me do it. She could believe this fact.

  The very fact that she could believe it took a great weight off her shoulders. The conviction that you would never be betrayed—if only there was more of this, the world would no longer need its drugs or guns.

  Balot took a slow breath. She straightened her back and looked at the monitor as if to accept that she was now about to die. Balot’s surroundings started to disappear from her consciousness. Soon everything was gone, and all that remained was herself and the rotten egg of her past—her josh—that floated on the monitor before her eyes. As a result she didn’t even notice the presence of the waiter who passed beside her.

  For some time now the youth had been wandering back and forth from her table. Like a bellhop angling for a tip. Balot snarced the monitor right in front of his eyes without lifting a finger.

  Just then she realized the waiter was looking at her and raised her head, taken aback.

  The waiter was marveling at Balot. Not so much because he’d been peeking at her private documents, but simply at Balot’s abilities. And then he quickly thought that she must be using some newfangled electronic device, and moved away, having convinced himself.

  Balot averted her eyes. Like she was coldly pushing him away. She checked the monitor. She saw the symbol that confirmed the documents had been safely transmitted.

  She let go of Oeufcoque quietly and took her lipstick from her bag.

  She gave it a twist and used the poppy-red stick to graffiti the monitor.

  SWITCH, WITCH, BITCH

  She wasn’t particularly thinking about her actions. She just knew that she wouldn’t be satisfied unless she did.

  I AM THE WITCH

  she added, then put the lipstick away.

  Oeufcoque popped his head out of the adaptor and watched Balot writing the graffiti.

  Oeufcoque said nothing but returned to being a mouse and looked up at Balot.

  Balot turned away from him and sipped at her half-finished cappuccino.

  Her lips felt the milk that was stuck to the rim of the cup. She licked it off with her tongue. Deliberately. Thoroughly, lasciviously. Then, unable to stand being under Oeufcoque’s gaze for any longer, she put the cup down.

  Casually she extended a hand toward the monitor and focused her consciousness in her fingertips. She felt electricity crackling through her fingertips. The lipstick on the monitor peeled and fell off.

  Oeufcoque seemed a little surprised. Balot was extremely adaptable when it came to using her abilities, had figured out all sorts of handy tricks. It took her less than five seconds to neatly clean all the graffiti.

  Balot took a pinch of the flecks of lipstick that had piled up around the edge of the monitor. She rubbed it together with the dirt that it had picked up and brought the mixture up to Oeufcoque’s eyes

  –This is what I am.

  She manipulated the screen, bringing the letters up.

  “It’s a pretty shade of red. In the right context and as long it’s matched with the right things,” Oeufcoque expounded, seriously. “It’s undoubtedly an appropriate color for you at the moment. That’s what you mean, right?”

  He gave an extremely raspy chuckle for a mouse.

  Balot sighed. A long, drawn-out sigh. Enough to make her tight clothes loosen a little.

  –We’re like kids arguing.

  She brought this up on the monitor, then cut the power. She wiped clean the red stain on her fingers with a napkin, and then made Oeufcoque turn into a choker before putting him on.

  Inside the crystal pendant a golden mouse was wearing garish red lipstick and winking.

  04

  –When did you first start watching me? Balot snarced and asked Oeufcoque as they walked through the mall.

  “Since before you started living in Shell-Septinos’s apartment.”

  –Then all the time I was with Shell?

  “On the whole, yes. We weren’t particularly focused on you at that time, though.”

  –So how far did you guys investigate me?

  “We don’t know anything more than what was in the documents we sent off today.”

  –Well, everything’s there, but there’s nothing really about me.

  “How do you mean?”

  –Do you think I’m crazy too?

  “Crazy? Why?”

  –Well, letting people touch my body for money, for example. A child who’d do that sort of thing.

  “All I know is, the way our society is set up, that sort of thing is pretty much part of the system. And that it’s men, with their notions, who prop the system up. If you are crazy, then there’s an awful lot else that’s crazy along with you.”

  Balot looked around the mall, now bathed in twilight. People were gradually starting to hunch their backs in response to the cold wind that was now blowing. The transparent rays of sun were casting long shadows across the hard glass surfaces, and no one walking along the ruby-colored Sunny Side seemed particularly crazy.

  –Can I tell you a little about myself?

  “Talk to me.”

  –When the Hunters—the cops—closed down the house where I used to work, one of them asked me a question. “Why prostitution?” he asked.

  I answered, “Because I wasn’t a virgin.”

  When I did, the Hunter whistled. Whew, just like that. Like I’d done something incredible.

  “Is something funny?” I asked.

  “You girls these days, you got it all worked out,” the Hunter answered. And then he asked, “When did you give it up—your virginity—to the lucky guy?”

  The lucky guy—I didn’t know that this was how you were supposed to look at it.

  And then I answered.

  “To my father, sir. When I was twelve.”

  I thought that the Hunter would whistle again, but he didn’t say anything.

  When he first met me the Hunter said that he had daughters. Two of them. The elder already at high school. The younger the same age as you, he said. As if to say, Don’t worry, you can talk to me. So I tried asking him this question.

  “Have you ever wanted to touch your daughters, sir? Have you thought about sleeping with them?”

  I was just wondering if everyone was like that. But the Hunter said, “You’re crazy. What a ridiculous idea. Such a thing!”

  I didn’t understand why it was such a thing, and it hurt me when he said I was crazy. And the Hunter’s expression—as if he were staring at a crazy woman. I couldn’t understand anything. Only that the Hunter wasn’t a friend of mine, like everyone else.

  Soon after that I met Shell. He came to meet me, saying he was a fan of mine. He’d once come to me as a client. He promised me everything. Said he’d reinvent me completely. I asked if that meant he loved me. He said, “That’s exactly right.” Then I got in his car.

  And then:

  –Oeufcoque, are you going to tell the Doctor all this?

  “No, I’ll lock everything you’ve just told me away inside myself. Only you can decode it.”

  –And what do you think? Do you think I’m crazy?

  “Hmm… I wouldn’t know. After all, I’m just a mouse with his intelligence amplified to human levels for the sake of research. I’m not even a mouse anymore, just something that looks like a mouse. There are people who say that my very existence is crazy.”

  –You? Why?

  “Who knows. From their perspective I suppose I am crazy. I’ve been trying to pin down exactly what I am ever since being born, but in the end I still have no idea. As I’m originally based on a male mouse, I’ve studied the human male psyche, trying to act like one, but I don’t even know if that’s right.”

  –What exactly are you? Why were you born?

  “Ther
e were these people who commissioned some researchers to come up with the ultimate tool,” said Oeufcoque. “The commission came from the army. A few prototypes were manufactured, and I’m one of those. But the research project itself was halted, and I was about to be disposed of as something that had never existed in the first place.”

  –You were almost thrown away? Why?

  “It became politically expedient in the postwar era. Was it people that were evil or their tools? This was the political hot potato that emerged not long after the peace treaty between the Commonwealth and the Continent was signed.”

  –Were people evil or their tools?

  “Let’s say there’s a gun crime. Is it the person who used the gun who is at fault? Or is the gun evil for existing in the first place? Well, postwar politics repudiated the gun and exonerated the person. The very fact that weapons of war existed at all was considered the root of the evil. As a result the regulation of weapons—and all technology related to them—became the subject of intense debate. In order to protect people.”

  –So you were abandoned too?

  “That’s right. I was born for political, military reasons, and for the same reasons I was about to be eliminated. Had the Scramble 09 bill not gone through I would have been disposed of for sure. My existence depends on continually proving my usefulness to society.”

  –Is that why you’re helping me?

  Oeufcoque seemed about to answer, but then suddenly went silent.

  –What’s the matter?

  “A strange smell. Plural. A strong sense of duty, systematic movement. Hostility.”

  Balot was about to reflexively stop in her tracks when Oeufcoque gave a sharp order.

  “Carry on walking. Don’t stop.”

  Balot did as he said. Unconsciously she started picking up the pace.

  “Cut through the department store. We’ll be able to determine if there are people following you.” Oeufcoque gave precise directions, which Balot obeyed as she sensed the presence of the people around her, feeling them in all three dimensions. It was as if the skin covering her whole body were splintering under the tension. Before long she noticed six people emerge from the hustle and bustle following her every move.

 

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