by Ubukata, Tow
Boiled’s hand went back into his breast pocket. This time there was contact with steel. “Soldiers have their values constantly repudiated on the front lines. Call me worthless if you like—it means nothing to me. The only people who recognize my value are my enemies.”
“The only people who see value in you are people who repudiate their own values,” said Faceman.
“Deep in their hearts, all people know that there’s no such thing as real value.” Boiled withdrew his gun. Without a moment’s hesitation, he pointed it at Faceman in front of him. “I need you to answer my question. What is Oeufcoque checking up on Shell about?”
“You don’t really need me to answer, now that the poisonous rust has so thoroughly spread through your body. As things stand, you’re nothing more than a motor propelled by survival instincts and your intent to kill. Do really think that having Oeufcoque in your hand will serve as a substitute soul?”
Boiled cocked the gun. A second later, there was a ferocious roar, and the white table flew apart in all directions, clods of earth flying through the air.
There was a sudden gust of wind that blew away the lingering acrid smell of burnt gunpowder. The cage that had been on the table was now floating in midair, protected by an invisible shield, and from within the cage the Professor stared out at Boiled with a serious expression. “The technology you use to deflect bullets was developed right here.”
Boiled fired. The bullet was deflected, smashing to pieces a tree stump in the background. Such incredible destructive force—and yet it was unable to influence the state of affairs in the slightest.
Boiled grunted. The Professor’s eyes narrowed. The trigger was pulled again.
This time his bullet grazed the cage, sending sparks flying into the air.
The gravitational field had been breached, and the bullets could now brush past the cage.
Yet—that was as far as it went. Even so, Boiled kept his gun pointed right at Faceman.
“Why don’t you ask your own client?” the Professor asked quietly. “Why would we know the details of what Oeufcoque or Dr. Easter or Rune-Balot are looking for? This case is between yourselves. Why doesn’t your client share this information with you?”
Boiled stared at the Professor, gun still pointed at him.
But Boiled pulled the trigger no more.
“Do you really think that Oeufcoque would ever return to you—you who have cast aside all emotions, even trust?” asked Faceman. His voice was terribly, terribly sad.
03
–This is a…what do you call it?
Tweedledum was in the water, taken aback.
–That’s it…a storm. I’ve never seen one before, but this is definitely a storm.
A storm was what Tweedledum called the swirls of information that were flying about Balot. He was shocked.
–I’ve worked out how to trace a program back to its origin, I think.
From the outside, Balot looked as if she were swimming gently underwater.
The information that Balot’s words referred to flew violently around the water, turbulent currents forming themselves into liquid electronic circuits that could be expressed and understood semantically, so that Balot could effortlessly read and communicate the information.
Brain—this word, with all its meanings and nuances, became the foundation of the information now. Compiled around the image of Shell, she collected every piece of information that was conceivably related to her search before filtering them out for relevance.
Balot’s state was now such that all she had to do was bring something to mind, open up her heart, and it was done. Whatever image she sought. This would then pass through the artificial Lightite skin that covered her whole body, transforming into electronic signals, snarcing through the swirls of information with great vigor.
–There’s a copy…definitely…a trace…
A large bubble—a long sigh—escaped from the artificial respiratory organ that was appended to her mouth. She continued with half-open eyes.
–Eighteen years’ worth of his memories have all been transformed into recorded data…
She looked up at the light above her with her eyes half-asleep. Her eyes then closed further.
–It’s all coming together.
When he heard Balot’s words, Tweedledum gave a short shrill chirp of surprise.
–Amazing stuff, babe…
And then, at that instant, all the information was sorted; the irrelevancies and the dead-ends discarded, only the cold, hard facts remained.
–I’ve managed to analyze a specialist computer program used by Shell to transfer his memories onto writable media. There are traces of evidence suggesting that the program has been implemented. What happens is that all his memories relating to his five senses are selected and isolated, leaving the parts of his memory relating to his imagination and his desires intact. So, when it’s all turned into recorded data, the gestalt of his brain’s memory form is destroyed and he loses all his physical memories.
The information was now pouring out automatically, as if Balot was no longer speaking of her own accord.
–There’s a particular type of storage file he needs to use in order to save all eighteen years’ worth of audiovisual memories… It’s a particularly complicated storage file that requires a very specific type of metalwork to make. That’s how we determine our route—traces of that metalworking.
–Aha! So there’s your magic bottle that holds eighteen years’ worth of brains, huh? Tweedledum said to Balot, who was now virtually sleep-walking, or sleep-floating.
–And where is that bottle, right?
–Every time he does his money-laundering, he skims a bit off the top. He falsifies his own expenses. I think I’ve worked out a pattern. Using this I can work out roughly what his fortune is—both his official one and his black market one. Every time a girl dies, more money swirls around…
Balot felt a chill in her heart as she transmitted this, as though she had swallowed a cold knife. Her pulse was steady, and yet she felt a sharp pounding in her heart.
–Why me?
As she asked the question, the information that was swirling all around her seemed to change course.
–That’s it…
Balot stared at the silent swirls of light that surrounded her. She took a deep breath, trying to put aside the feeling of sheer hatred, the overwhelming desire to kill that had sprouted up inside her and was now rising to the fore. Trying to calm herself, she exhaled slowly.
–The answers are all in Shell’s memories.
This was Balot’s conclusion.
–For a memory transplant…you need lots of money and the right facilities. The flow of money, evidence of computer programs being used, Shell’s actions, special facilities for memory transplants, payments to certain people, the girls used at the time…
Before long, Balot could feel, through her skin, all the results of her searches. She had her moment of satori, when she knew that no matter how many more times she interrogated the information she would only arrive at one inevitable conclusion.
In her dream state, Balot felt all the cogs of the wheel slotting into place.
–Have you found it, babe?
Tweedledum’s voice was distinctly under pressure now.
–Yup—got it.
Balot slowly turned over to Tweedledum.
–The inside of our egg—rotten to the core.
≡
–Mr. Boiled? Boss? Mr. Iron Man? Fuck! Why isn’t this thing connecting? Piece of shit.
Medium spoke not with his voice but through the transmitter implanted in his head. The electronic signal disappeared mournfully into space.
Medium checked how long he had now been inside this giant structure. Just over an hour. In that time he had managed to penetrate the security defenses with ease, in the process killing three guards with his two-hundred-thousand-dollar butter knife—that magnetized blade.
His knife made easy work of the three,
and he cut them into pieces to store them in the lockers in the guardroom, not forgetting to first strip the uniform off the guard closest in size to him. Medium then donned the uniform himself.
After that, Medium had obtained all the information he could from the guardroom. The blueprints for the whole facility, including the plumbing and wiring. He downloaded what he could from the information circuits, copying it straight into his intracranial hardware, and took a few minutes to digest it fully.
When he had finished that operation, he covered his bald head—his glassy pate suggested more “inpatient” than “security guard”—with the regulation uniform cap, and left the room.
He had followed the patrol route carefully and had planned on contacting his new boss, the one that sent him here, but now he wasn’t able to get through. It seemed that the whole building was set up to block the transmission of most electromagnetic frequencies. He had noticed back in the guardroom that there was a particular wavelength that did seem to work, but even that was being shielded by something at the moment.
With his knife still gripped casually in his right hand, Medium continued down the corridor as if he were on a pleasant evening stroll. He passed a number of doors to either side of him, occasionally branching out into a spacious lobby or a terrace encased in glass, but there was almost nobody around. Even when he came across the occasional group of people, it was always old people attached to machines, or researchers huddled together in deep discussion. There was no sign of anyone who looked remotely like a young lady.
Eventually, the hardware in his head scored a hit. “Rune-Balot,” Medium murmured. His internal computer had managed to crack the flimsy password that protected the visitor records. He grinned. Both corners of his mouth swerved up to abnormal lengths. Behind his sunglasses his eyes glittered red, and Medium moved toward the area that the data entry pointed toward.
It wasn’t long before he arrived. There was a thick door in his way. Medium got out his Lockbuster Card and shoved it casually into the slot in the wall. He looked into the retina scan with his mechanized red eyes, which projected a fake iris for the scanner to recognize. Then he took from his pocket a human finger that he had removed from one of the security guards he’d killed and placed it onto the DNA scan, gripping tight. The fingers on his own left hand—blown off only the other day—had been replaced with electronic substitutes. His new metal fingers picked up the finger on the DNA scan and crushed it. Blood dripped out onto the machine, and the ID check was complete.
“Here, kitty, kitty, kitty! I’m coming for you!” Medium was laughing now, a high-pitched squeal. The door opened with a heavy rumble.
He took a step into the room. “Oho!”
He scanned the insides of the room.
Against the backdrop of the verdant foliage, the bright sunlight, and the warm breeze, Medium danced about with his brutal knife held in one hand. It was almost as if he were waltzing. “Man, this is hardcore! They’re not kidding when they call this place Paradise! What a blast! What a great place to play with my little kitty-cat!”
He swayed from left to right, brandishing his knife every which way. Plants and flowers fell to the ground, burnt, scorched. Silver flashed all around, and his eyes glowed bright red.
Then, in an instant, his manic spree was over. Medium had seen someone. He crouched down and approached, circling around the trees so as not to be seen.
“Who are those guys?” he murmured to himself, exhaling through his nostrils.
No one was moving. Some were in wheelchairs, others lying down in the gaps in the shrubbery. All were staring up into the sky with content expressions. It was as if a number of stationary mannequins had been dotted about the place as decoration.
Medium stayed in the thicket for a while, observing the stationary people, but then he revealed himself, walking toward them with rough, deliberate footfalls.
And yet no one seemed interested in either his gleaming red eyes or the blade in his hand. They didn’t even try and look at him.
Soon he was standing next to a woman with abnormally white skin. She was sitting in a wheelchair. He peered at her, stooping over her to take a sniff. He heard her breathing, faintly. The woman showed not the slightest movement. Medium rubbed the top of her head with his knife-wielding hand. He parted her hair, as if savoring the sensation, and noticed that there were surgery scars across the back of her scalp.
He brought his knife-wielding hand back to his own chin, deep in thought.
Then he took a step back to gauge his distance before kicking the wheelchair viciously.
“Hey, you fucking blow-up doll! What’s the matter? Look at me, why don’t you?” He kicked her repeatedly as he shouted.
The wheelchair trembled but absorbed most of the impacts, and when the woman looked as if she were about to topple over, a cushioned arm extended from the chair’s frame to catch her body, propping her up.
Medium snickered. “What a fetish someone must have. All these living sex dolls…”
He looked around with a fierce grin on his face. However much he shouted, the people just stayed absolutely still without lifting a finger, the gentle breeze blowing against their blue hospital robes.
Medium took the hair of the woman he had just kicked about and put it neatly back into place. He took her hand that was resting on the armrest and stared at it intently. He picked up the fingers and licked them. Then he placed her left hand onto the armrest, fixed it into position, and severed her hand with his knife.
The woman’s body stiffened in an instant.
The smell of burning flesh pierced his nose as the wound was instantly cauterized. There was no blood. Medium took the severed hand in his own, smiled a satisfied smile, and placed the hand on the woman’s lap with a polite gesture.
Then he fixed her other hand to the armrest. He took his knife to her pinky.
Her pinky fell to the ground, like an off-cut from a vegetable he was paring.
He proceeded to neatly snip off her middle finger and then her thumb, enjoying the uneven shapes that he was creating in the process. The fingers fell one by one to the side of the wheelchair. As he did so, tears started welling up in the woman’s eyes, eventually brimming over and rolling down her cheeks. Medium noticed this and brought his mouth to her face, sticking out his tongue so that it tapered at its point, and licked the tears as they flowed down.
As he did so, her last finger fell to the ground, and Medium laughed. “This is great! Why don’t I see if I can replace my fingers here? And then on to my little kitty. That’s it. There’s plenty of treasure here to enjoy. It’s all wonderful. Wonderful!”
Just then,
–What are you doing?
A sound reverberated around Medium’s head. “Wha—?”
Medium leapt up. He was so surprised that he flew through the air, and even as he landed he went bounding back for cover in the vegetation. Running away, he reached the shade of a tree and quickly scanned the area with his glittering eyes. His breathing was rough. His face was a mask of fear.
More interference waves hit Medium.
–Are you the person who just accessed Balot’s data? I’m sorry, but to get Rune-Balot’s main data you need special dispensation from the Professor him—
“Where the hell are you? You fucking hacker bastard! Fucker, you killed my friends! You killed all my friends!” Medium screamed. Knife firmly in hand, he jumped out of the shadows, looking from left to right.
–I’m over here. Gosh, you like to talk a lot, don’t you? It’s the first time I’ve ever heard anyone speak in such a loud voice.
Medium’s voice stopped.
A young man walked slowly and steadily into the clearing.
He had evidently seen Medium—noticed his knife, even—but showed no sign of wariness.
–I’m Tweedledee. Who are you?
He stopped just a short way away from Medium.
“Me? Who am I, you ask? Right, I get it now!” Medium took his sunglasses off,
staring at the youth. His bright red eyes were wide open.
“You did it. Them. My friends. My pack. You’re the one who did them.”
Tweedledee tilted his head to one side, staring at Medium as if he were trying to work something out.
–You have a hard drive in your head—
“Stop speaking inside my mind!”
Tweedledee seemed surprised. He watched with furrowed brow as Medium crushed his own sunglasses into little pieces. But he showed no sign of fear—indeed, he looked on with interest as Medium smiled a smile that could only be described as brutality personified.
–I was just—
“Get out of my head!” Medium screamed, and the blade in his right hand flashed, light reflecting from it straight into Tweedledee’s eyes.
Tweedledee squinted hard, surprised.
That was the moment. Medium ran toward him and seized Tweedledee’s arm.
The hair on Tweedledee’s arm stood on end at the touch of metal.
He tried to wriggle free from Medium’s grip but couldn’t shake him off.
“I’m going to look after you good and proper. Pet you plenty. Come here. Over here!”
–You know that we’re allowed to deal with violent visitors in a number of ways? Tweedledee explained patiently and politely.
Medium’s expression went blank. His whole body radiated tension.
The very next instant, that tension transformed into something much harsher.
The fist that gripped the knife smashed into Tweedledee’s face.
There was a damp gush sound, and Tweedledee’s nose split open, releasing copious quantities of blood.
Tweedledee turned his face away, not making a sound. He made no effort to cover his face with his one free hand.
Medium said nothing and punched him again and again. Tweedledee’s lips, ears, and eyebrows all split open.
Tweedledee’s face was now a half-swollen mass, drenched in blood.
“I’ll look after you all right, you little brat. I’ll look after you good and proper.” Medium licked Tweedledee’s blood off the back of his hand with his long tongue.
–I’ll put up with this till the point that security automatically kicks in, Tweedledee informed him, raising his battered head. His face was serene—as if he didn’t feel that little thing called pain.