Mardock Scramble

by Ubukata, Tow

  The next moment—and even more noisily—the egg smashed its tip into the roof like that mythical egg of Columbus. Only in this case it was the concrete rooftop that was crushed into place, not the egg.

  “Over here, Balot!” The Doctor appeared in the space that had just opened up, brandishing a rifle and shouting. “As of six o’clock this afternoon this case has been approved for the highest level of the Life Preservation Program! All Concerned Parties have been given temporary approval to take up Floating Residence, and hereafter any attempt to trespass on the residence or its inhabitants will be interpreted as intent to harm a material witness and be punishable under the full extent of Commonwealth law!”

  Before the Doctor had even finished speaking Boiled’s gun was trained on the Doctor.

  That instant Balot experienced the feeling of blood rushing to her head, as if it had started churning through her body in reverse.

  For she had spotted the one moment, one point, where the chink in Boiled’s armor had opened up.

  Boiled fired. Had her voice been working, she probably would have shouted out a war cry.

  The bullet flew out of Balot’s gun—and pierced the back of Boiled’s right hand.

  Boiled’s aim faltered as he was hit, and his bullet slammed into the side of the silver egg, causing an impressive but ineffectual explosion of sparks.

  The bullet reached him.

  Emotions bubbled up inside Balot, and that very moment Oeufcoque cried out in her hands, “Quickly…to the Doctor!”

  Balot snapped upright. Her feelings of wanting to attack Boiled evaporated in an instant, and all she could now think of was obeying Oeufcoque’s words.

  Boiled watched with dusky eyes as Balot ran toward the giant silver egg, ignoring the pain that wracked her body. He peeled the gun out of his injured right hand, checked that the grip of the gun hadn’t been hit, and lifted it with his other hand.

  “Why… Oeufcoque?” Boiled muttered the same words over and over as he fired at Balot.

  Balot read his movements precisely and fired back at him. And the Doctor let rip with his rifle at the same time. None of the bullets found their target.

  Boiled retreated a step. Balot ran faster toward the silver egg. She thought she heard the crack of another rifle shot, and then the Doctor was hauling her up into the egg.

  “Get in and stay inside!” the Doctor shouted, and there were more rifle shots in quick succession.

  Without warning the egg started rising. Noiselessly and so smoothly that she didn’t even feel the sensation of her body being lifted. All she noticed was the ground moving farther and farther away as she looked on.

  Its Gravity Device Engine was evidently a powerful one, as they were up in the air in no time.

  “Head as far inside as you can! If you’re near the shell wall then your blood will start moving around. If your eyes start blurring then you’ll need to lie down. Now, I’m just going to close the shell wall back up and—”

  The Doctor stopped shouting. There was a thud on the outside wall of the egg.

  There were steady, rhythmic footsteps.

  The Doctor’s expression changed, and he moved toward the entrance, readying his rifle.

  Boiled appeared. Revolver in hand, he peered down at the Doctor. He was standing on the wall at a right angle, bisecting the entrance, a perpendicular line, muzzle pointed at the Doctor. At his feet, the wall closed back into place, as if it were mending a broken shell.

  “Give it up, Boiled. In a few seconds we’ll be at too high an altitude for you to use your abilities,” the Doctor warned, almost as if he were giving him a lecture. “And I don’t particularly want to get into a shootout with you.”

  But there was no reasoning with Boiled, who just raised his gun.

  “Why did Oeufcoque leave me?”

  Still pointing the rifle at Boiled, the Doctor’s face now showed a trace of doubt. “You were the one who left him.”

  Then Boiled leapt, brandishing his gun.

  “Stop it! Do you really want to be outlawed from the Commonwealth?” the Doctor shouted, but the blast from his rifle drowned the last part out. The rifle round didn’t even scratch Boiled, and Boiled punched the Doctor’s slender body, smashing him into the wall.

  Having rushed into the egg, Boiled changed direction.

  And that was the moment. Rather than heading inside, Balot had been sitting there on the floor, waiting for the perfect shot.

  Her gun was red. Blood was squelching out of the barrel.

  The barrel vibrated. A red object came pounding out. The barrel spat fire, over and over, and even though Boiled managed to cover his vital organs, the bullets all found their mark, whether on his arms or his body.

  A ghostly scream surged forth from Boiled’s mouth. He’d been too slow to deflect the bullets. As impressive a figure as Boiled was, he was thrown backward. He scrambled for purchase on the egg, but his feet wouldn’t reach. He tried to grab hold of the edge of the entrance with his right hand, but the blood flowing from the wound that Balot had inflicted caused him to slip, losing his grip, and he hurtled into space.

  Boiled’s scream was already tailing off into the distance when the wall closed, cutting him off completely.

  Everything was quiet. Silent, just like the interior of a high-class AirCar.

  Balot kept her gun trained on the shell wall. She could no longer lift a finger. Her eyes stared at something. Bloody fingerprints—left by Boiled when he frantically tried to find something to hold on to as he was blown away.

  Liquid of the same color dripped down from the end of her gun and stained the carpet.

  Red droplets ran from the gun down her wrist, dripping from her elbow.

  The Doctor put his rifle down and knelt down at Balot’s side. He looked nervous.

  “Is Oeufcoque injured?”

  Balot’s gaze slowly moved from the wall and toward the Doctor, and she nodded.

  Her hands still gripped the gun.

  “What about you? You’ve cut your forehead, I see. Anywhere else?”

  In a daze, Balot shook her head. She became aware of her surroundings.

  The room they were in was like a villa in a holiday resort. A tall ceiling, with a staircase heading up to rooms with windows looking out onto a veranda lobby. Chairs were scattered around a chic table, and the whole place was furnished luxuriously.

  The Doctor gently touched Balot’s hands.

  “This is a Floating Residence, Humpty-Dumpty. Part of Scramble 09—originally it was military technology, developed as a flying fortress. The Broilerhouse has given permission for you to use it for a given period in a designated airspace. It’s VIP treatment for you all the way now. I personally guarantee to keep you alive, not just as a Trustee but also as a material witness to the second case myself.”

  The Doctor’s hand gently lowered Balot’s gun.

  “You’re safe, now.”

  Balot felt all the tension in her body evaporate and let go of the gun with her right hand as the Doctor indicated. Blood overflowed, gushing out from every crack in the weapon.

  The Doctor tried to pick the gun up, but however hard he tried he couldn’t pry it from her left hand.

  As she gripped the blood-soaked gun Balot felt a darkness encroaching on her from all sides. Balot was in space. She was inside a silver egg that shone in the darkness, and she was underneath the moon. She understood all of this, neither awake nor dreaming.

  The Doctor peeled her rigid fingers from the gun, finger by finger.

  “We’re flying through the sky as an egg.”

  The Doctor’s face suddenly went puzzled. “Which one of us just said that?”

  The gun slipped out of Balot’s hands. She heard a song starting to spin around in the back of her mind.

  Dish, wash, brush, flush…

  She receded from consciousness, but the charm continued, almost like a prayer, rosary beads and all.

  Bash, rush, trash, ash…

  The Doct
or was saying something. Balot felt like she had turned into an empty vessel. Her body tilted backward, and she toppled over.

  Flash, flesh, wish, finish…

  And with these words she lost consciousness.

  People from the neighborhood were gathering around the building, watching anxiously as fire engines appeared on the scene. A number of police patrol cars appeared, closing off the area, and the Hunters and the firemen all milled around, their roles apparently jumbled together.

  Boiled cut across the melee, driven by a sense of purpose. Some Hunters tried to stop him, unsure where he was heading, but he just flashed his PI license and curtly told them that he was on the heels of a material witness and that any police questioning would have to come via the Broilerhouse. The Hunters grumbled some words of abuse, but they let him pass, and he walked on in silence.

  Before long Boiled found the gasoline-powered van. An airline company’s logos were plastered across its body and smoked windows. The door was unlocked.

  As Boiled opened the door, he heard the sound of a trigger being cocked.

  Boiled looked at the man in the passenger seat who was holding a gun.

  “I thought that someone would come. One of the gang…” the man groaned. “Do you know who I am?”

  Boiled took one glance at the man’s irregular fingers and nodded silently.

  “Medium the Fingernail…that’s my nickname. A hound from the greatest pack of hunting dogs in the world. Or that’s what we were supposed to be, anyway.” Medium spoke through gritted teeth. His other hand was wrapped in a blood-soaked cloth. His fingers had all been blown off from their base.

  His whole body was covered with blisters, the left side of his face particularly badly. His left eye was shot through, and blood trickled from both his ears. His legs were limp and lifeless, his knees trembling.

  Silently Boiled climbed into the driver’s seat. He closed the door and turned the keys that had been left in the ignition, the gun still pointed at him all the while.

  The engine revved, and Boiled spoke just loudly enough to be heard over it.

  “Everyone except for you is dead.”

  Medium breathed out heavily, lowering his gun, his hand flopping into his lap, as if to say that he could no longer support its weight.

  The vehicle drove off. Medium stared at the entry wound in the back of Boiled’s right hand.

  “So, this PI called Oeufcoque, he can make himself look like his employers, can he?” Medium spoke with barely suppressed emotion.

  Boiled shook his head.

  “So that was actually our target, was it? That girl who fired her gun and put me in this state before I even knew what was going on?”

  “He uses special technology to strengthen his employer, enhancing their combined battle skills. It’s all part of Mardock Scramble 09, one of the emergency measures that the Broilerhouse sometimes takes as part of their Life Preservation Program.”

  When he heard this, Medium crumpled into a weeping wreck. “We were the perfect hunting pack! And a single bitch ruined it all…”

  The gun slipped from his hand. It fell between his legs and slid underneath his seat. Medium noticed, then stared at his own hand as if to say how pathetic. He opened and closed his fingers, lamenting even as he did so that he no longer had the strength even to pull the trigger.

  “We need to pull it back, don’t we?” Medium looked at Boiled with pleading eyes. “We men, we set the agenda. It’s men who define what beauty is. We define society, we define war, and we even define what is feminine—or that’s how it used to be, at least. It was men who ruled the world. The crème de la crème, the very best. And yet—a woman, a little bitch, did this to me. We need to get our pride back. Isn’t that right? I’m right, aren’t I?”

  Eyes still on the road, Boiled nodded. It was a small but definite movement.

  “That’s right. We need to get it back,” he whispered in a low voice. Great globules of tears now pouring down his face, Medium yelled, voice trembling, “I’m going to kill you! I’ll cut you to pieces and pass you around to everyone! Just like we all wanted! I’ll tear you to shreds and own all your body parts!”

  02

  Balot was in darkness. There was no one near her. She fumbled, trying to escape. She felt that as long as she remained there, she would be subjected to secret horrors…

  As she squirmed, Balot noticed a person’s shadow.

  It was the Doctor. He looked her way and took a step back.

  “Wait!” She reached for him but was only quick enough to catch hold of his patchwork gown.

  “Where’s Oeufcoque?” Balot said.

  Looking uneasy, the Doctor tried to push Balot back into place. As if Balot had no right to follow the Doctor.

  Just then there was a cry of pain from behind the Doctor’s back. Her heart stopped. She realized that Oeufcoque was in another room, suffering.

  “Please, let me see Oeufcoque!”

  But the Doctor wore an expression of reproach, as if he blamed her for Oeufcoque’s condition.

  “I want to apologize! I just want to say I’m sorry! Please…” Balot pleaded.

  The Doctor leaned forward, his face filled with doubt. Why? he seemed to want to ask. How come you’re so attached to him, he’s just a mouse, his face seemed to say.

  “He never told me to come out of my shell. He just took me to a warm place. He’s so kind, he’d keep an egg nice and warm even if it was all rotten.”

  The Doctor tried to push Balot back. Balot struggled desperately to get out of his grip.

  “I’m sorry. I’ll apologize. I’m sorry. I want to hear his voice. And feel him in the palm of my hand. This time, I’ll keep my promise. I won’t do anything to hurt him. I promise.”

  She pressed back against the force that was trying to pin her shoulders down. She heard Oeufcoque’s cries of anguish in the distance, and a voice nearer to her asking why?

  “I don’t want to stay here any longer! I want to be where he is!”

  The Doctor suddenly let Balot go. He stood over her, like a priest taking confession. Almost as if he were testing her.

  Why was she trying to get away from there? Why was she the one who had to leave? A horribly familiar question started to emerge, one that contained multitudes of other questions in a single question—Why me?

  And with this question, the bitter taste of the acrid smoke was revived in her mouth.

  “I don’t want to die!”

  Balot stood up in the darkness, yelling for all she was worth:

  “I…WANT…TO…LIVE!”

  And sure enough, that very instant, Balot woke up.

  ≡

  Painfully bright white lights shone down into Balot’s eyes from the ceiling. She caught the smell of antiseptic solution and, noticing someone next to her, twisted her body around to look. She gritted her teeth in pain.

  Her eyes fell on the figure of a young man.

  He had the look of an intellectual about him but wore a cherubic smile. Thin blue veins were visible under the skin of his white forehead. Pale blue eyes stared out at her from under his curly ringlets.

  All of a sudden she realized that the youth was holding her hand. Reflexively she tried to shake him off, but he let go of her first. As if he’d sensed Balot’s feelings and acted on them before she even knew them for herself.

  The young man stood up from the bedside chair and stepped away from Balot as if he were looking for something. There was nothing he could conceivably have been searching for, though. The room was bare.

  Other than the bed Balot was lying on and the chair that the young man had just vacated, it was an empty room.

  Everything was stowed away in the walls—it seemed like an expensive private hospital room.

  Balot glanced at the door. It had an electric lock, but it was currently off. If she were to touch the panel in front of the door, it should open. That was if the young man didn’t try and stop her first.

  Perhaps he’d sense
d Balot’s wariness, for the young man raised both arms in the air and shook his head. Like a playful child. He seemed to just be interested in Balot.

  It was as if he were a kid who’d just returned from his holidays, impatient to catch up with his friends and swap all the gossip.

  Watching the young man carefully, Balot raised a hand to feel what she was wearing. A hospital gown made from insulating material—just like she’d been wearing when she first met the Doctor. The same size, performing the same function.

  The young man wore clothes of the same material as Balot. He took something from his pants pocket and rolled it toward Balot. It stopped by her knee. The young man pointed at his ear. Balot picked up the earphone and, staring at the young man, placed it in her right ear.

  –Hello.

  The earphone spoke. Balot looked at the young man in surprise.

  –I heard that your snarc abilities give you an Interference Rate of over 80 percent. Really amazing! So I thought this would be easier for you than speaking.

  The young man pushed his forelocks apart. Somewhat surprisingly, Balot saw a protuberance on his forehead, almost like the horn of a young deer.

  He tapped his forehead.

  –I can speak using this. And listen to what you have to say. So I don’t need earphones.

  He used the same finger to roll up his sleeves and rub his upper arm.

  –This is what you use to speak with. You might have a good Interference Rate, but your reception abilities aren’t too developed yet, are they? I imagine that the best you can do is reduce a bit of electronic data into basic audiovisual signals.

  The young man grinned, head tilted to one side. Balot nodded.

  –In my case, it’s not that I can’t speak, it’s just that I forget to speak. To breathe as well. So whenever I do speak it tires me out. You can’t speak either, right?

  Balot started to nod again, then stared at the young man’s mouth.

  She sensed his pulse and tried to calculate his breathing patterns based on it.

  –This is Paradise.

  The young man waved his arm in a broad circle, indicating his surroundings.