Mardock Scramble

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Mardock Scramble Page 45

by Ubukata, Tow


  –Do you think I’d suddenly go all soft on you? It’s me we’re talking about here.

  “Well, sure, but…” The Doctor stuck his lower lip out, and his sentence trailed away into a mumble.

  –I think I’m burnt out through and through.

  Balot’s face had turned harsh without her realizing it.

  –So I think that once I start running, I’m not going to be able to stop. But I really don’t want to cause you two any trouble. Do you think we should leave it here?

  “What’s your ultimate goal?” The Doctor answered her question with one of his own.

  Balot thought as she stared at her glass of cinnamonade. What she wanted was simple enough. But what it meant was something altogether different, and she wasn’t sure if she could put it into words.

  –It’s just as I said to Tweedledee and the others.

  Eventually she took her eyes off the glass.

  –To Professor Faceman too. When I left Paradise. I told them that I needed to solve my own case. That’s what I feel, anyway. I won’t be able to live anywhere properly unless I do so. That’s why I need Shell’s past…

  Suddenly Balot felt cold again. Not just her skin this time, though. In her gut too. She realized that she wanted to kill. She understood this clearly, for the first time. Or rather, the Doctor and Oeufcoque had made her understand.

  –It’s quite possible that when you achieve your goal, someone else will be destroyed by it, Oeufcoque added, quietly.

  –He could have his basic human rights and assets frozen and lose his liberty for a very long time. More than one of the people we’ve sent to prison have tried to take their own lives. Of course, there have been others who were made of sterner stuff, recidivists who come out after their sentence and carry on as before. But even those have lost a part of themselves to us. Were they burnt out? Hard to say. The Doctor and I carry our own burdens too, of course. Now—we chose our paths, however reluctantly. This means that there are things that we can do. But it also means that there are things that we can’t do.

  –I’m not sure what you’re saying. That I need to toughen up and be ruthless? Is that what I need to do if I want to achieve my goal?

  –Exactly. You need to accept, to embrace, your own ruthlessness. Just as Bell Wing was comfortable in admitting her own ruthless cunning streak. If you can’t do this, you might just be better off accepting that you’re an offender against Commonwealth laws…

  “Oi, Oeufcoque. I wasn’t trying to make her feel that responsible…” said the Doctor.

  –At her age, seven generations of my species would have come and gone. She’s plenty old enough to handle the responsibility, said Oeufcoque.

  “Come on, you know that of all mammals, humans take the longest to mature to adulthood. It’s not as if she was born a fully formed adult like you were. Give her a break…”

  –But I think that this is the game Shell is playing.

  Balot interrupted their argument.

  –So I think it’s just a question of whether I’m prepared to play along. It’s the only game left in town. I don’t think I could give it up now, even if that would somehow make everyone happy.

  The moment she finished speaking, Balot felt incredibly small. Ineffectual, weak, and self-conscious, that was all she was.

  So what? A beating from the depth of her heart. The ability that she had now was only a fraction of her true potential. What she had now was just a crutch, something to help her propel herself toward her ultimate goal by hook or by crook. Calm descended on her as she realized this. It was as if she had just had her eyes opened to something that should have been glaringly obvious all along.

  –At the very least I’d like to use up all the chips I have at the moment and see how far this takes us.

  She spoke without bravado, but with plain confidence.

  “Bravo,” said the Doctor. His eyes were looking at Balot’s hands. At Oeufcoque, who was contained inside them.

  “That’s pretty impressive, in our line of work. Isn’t it, Oeufcoque? Balot’s coming up with her own sense of values and pushing them to the limit.”

  Then words that Balot didn’t really understand. “You should really try and be a little more honest with yourself, Balot. You’ll find it easier in the long run.”

  –She’s doing her best already, said Oeufcoque. He seemed a little disgruntled.

  “Well, from here on out it’s nonstop,” said the Doctor. “We have to win, no matter what. No turning back.”

  Balot nodded. She felt as if her heart were about to burst with gratitude toward the pair.

  She prayed that it would always be this way. That would be a real victory.

  03

  The moment the man appeared, the manager of the motel instinctively knew that resistance would be futile.

  There were security guards in the motel, of course, and the high-caliber shotgun under the counter was fully loaded.

  The manager knew that none of these precautions would be remotely effective, and that in any case the man had the law on his side.

  “Dimsdale-Boiled—I’m a PI and Trustee on a case.”

  The manager had surrendered completely even before he was shown the official ID. Boiled exuded pressure from every pore in his skin, and his mere presence was too much for the manager to take.

  “I’ve already checked with the relevant taxi company. These people have been here, right?” As he spoke, Boiled placed photos of a man and a girl on the counter with his massive hands.

  The manager definitely remembered them and had no intention of keeping this information back, no sir. The only problem was that he didn’t have any idea when they had left their rooms. He had no idea that the pair—who had just come from the airport in a gas-powered taxi, after all—would have changed their appearances so quickly and headed out in a limousine. He though they would still be in their rooms. After all, they both had the do not disturb sign displayed clearly on their doors, didn’t they?

  “Show me their rooms,” said Boiled.

  The manager swore with all his heart that he’d take full responsibility to find out which rooms they were in and then to open the doors personally.

  The first room that Boiled went into was the one that the Doctor had reserved. There was no sign of life. The manager waited in the hall, twitching.

  Boiled went over to the trunk that had been left open and started examining the contents as if he had every right to do so.

  He looked through the maps and bus tickets that the Doctor had undoubtedly prepared.

  The map had a number of red crosses marked on it—destinations, evidently.

  There were crosses on Shell’s apartment and the hotel that he ran.

  Boiled exhibited no sign of emotion as he threw the map to one side.

  Then he went to the room that Balot was supposed to be in. No one was there either.

  She had hardly any luggage, only a few outfits that had been cast to one side, forsaken. She had a map similar to the one in the Doctor’s room, and it too was covered in crosses. Boiled took one glance at it.

  Suddenly his cell phone rang. He answered and was met by Shell’s voice.

  –I’ve just seen the email you sent me last night. Not what I wanted to hear. And what the hell do you mean by “They escaped to an altitude of 15,000 feet”?

  “A Floating Residence, military issue. It’s made of a fine, light alloy, and it’s under the jurisdiction and protection of the Commonwealth,” explained Boiled calmly. “I figured there was a high probability that they would be back on the ground by now, so I’ve been searching for them. They came to a motel via the Broilerhouse. I’m at that motel right now.”

  –And? They’re not there at this moment, I assume? Won’t they be coming back?

  “They’re certainly not here now. They’ve left some clothing and maps.”

  –Maps…?

  “Maps with markings on them. Your apartment, the hotel where the woman involved in your transactio
n is staying, that sort of thing.”

  –What?

  Shell seemed about to erupt, to rush after them in hot pursuit, but Boiled stopped him.

  “A childish bluff. If they’d really intended to target your residences they wouldn’t have left their maps lying around.”

  –This is a nightmare, Boiled. I’m not talking metaphorically. An actual, factual nightmare. I see her in my dreams, day in, day out. I’m being assaulted by a girl I can’t even remember! She’s destroying me!

  “It won’t be long before I work out what they’re up to.”

  Shell laughed when he heard Boiled’s words, spoken in an unchanging monotone. A laugh of relief.

  –You know that I was planning on showing my father-in-lawto-be a good time at the casino later today, right?

  “Yes.”

  –Well, I can’t show him the slightest sign that I’m worried about either the girl that should be dead or her PIs. Nothing gets past my father-in-law—he’s a shrewd customer. So I’m completely defenseless at the moment. If our enemies try something in front of us, we’re not even allowed to react, because we have to show the world that we’re completely unconcerned by this case. That’s right, isn’t it?

  “Sure…” Then Boiled spotted something from the corner of his eye.

  A small square card. Boiled leaned down to pick it up from the side of the bed, cell phone still to his ear.

  –I’m leaving it all to you. Do whatever you have to do to crush the girl and the PIs.

  “I understand. But in order to do my job properly I need to work out what their aims are. In order to make sure that I cover this from every angle, will you tell me what this key to your deal is—”

  –Stop it, Boiled. Don’t you understand that I can’t tell you that? Not you, not anyone. The whole point is that I’m the only one who knows. If I tell you, that’s gone; the company has all sorts of ways of finding it out, and I lose my edge.

  “You know I have a duty of confidentiality to—”

  –Listen to me carefully, Boiled: fuck right off. Your “duty of confidentiality,” as you put it, isn’t worth shit to me. This is my deal. The reason I’m going to be able to pull it off is because I’m doing it alone. Can you manipulate the contents of your own mind? Can you break your memories into pieces and use them as bargaining chips?

  Boiled said nothing. He was looking over the object he had just picked up.

  It was actually a rectangular piece of card. On the back there was a detailed grid. On the front, a table of rows and columns of numbers.

  –Anyhow. You do what you need to do, and you do it now. Got that?

  “Understood.”

  The call ended.

  Boiled placed the cell phone back in his jacket pocket. Having lost interest in the room he headed back out into the corridor.

  The manager seemed visibly relieved to see that Boiled had finished, but then, “What’s this?” Boiled asked. Surprised, the manager took it from his hands.

  “Erm… I’m not entirely…” he leaned his head to one side and caught a glimpse of Boiled’s cold, piercing gaze. “We could always, uh, ask some of our other staff.”

  The manager returned to the front desk on the verge of a panic attack. Boiled used the time to call a number of limo companies, collating data on all the cars that had recently been sent to the motel.

  “We’ve, uh, worked out what it is, we think. It’s a crib sheet. One of the other employees here is quite keen, you see…”

  Boiled plucked the card from the manager’s fingers. “Crib sheet?”

  “Yes, it has the odds of various hands for different card games, apparently. I couldn’t tell you in any detail…”

  “Odds…card games…” Boiled muttered. Then, decisively, “You’ve done well.” He thanked the manager—if it could be called thanks—and headed straight out of the motel and into his car.

  “Games…” His voice was heavy. He took another glance at the card before placing it in his pocket.

  He drove off, turning the steering wheel sharply. There was a flicker of anticipation in Boiled’s otherwise blank gray eyes, and the car headed uptown into Mardock City.

  ≡

  As the car sped down the freeway, Boiled thought about the conversation that he had had with Faceman in Paradise. About violence, curiosity, and the value of life—it echoed all around before dissipating.

  When had he lost his consideration for life? It must have been just after he joined the army.

  Or was it when he was recognized as one of the best soldiers in his class and assigned to the fighter planes?

  Either way, there was no doubt that one of the defining points in his life was shortly after the formation of the Airborne Division—the air raid designed to inflict a decisive killer blow on the Continent. Instead, Boiled made a mistake that ended up blowing his own life wide open.

  He tried to remember what that moment had been like. How he had felt at that instant.

  The moment he realized that he had just dropped half a ton of high-explosive incendiary bombs on troops on his own side.

  Friendly fire, it had been called. The people that he had called his comrades, his friends—vaporized in an instant. Boiled was shielded from the media frenzy that ensued—he wasn’t named personally, the army made sure of that. But even the army couldn’t keep a lid on the disclosure of endemic drug addiction among the ranks of the elite fighter pilots. The press had a field day.

  Not that it had been anything other than an open secret in the first place. In particular, it was common knowledge among the top brass. It was even seen as part of a fifty-year-long tradition, if not a particularly proud one. Stimulants were all but officially prescribed.

  Indeed, it was one of these “officially prescribed” stimulants that Boiled was dosed up on the day of that fateful friendly fire.

  Dextroamphetamine—amphetamines, or possibly dexedrine.

  They stimulated your central nervous system, dispelled fatigue, and focused your mind and improved your reflexes. They were legitimate drugs with legitimate medicinal uses.

  But the media didn’t refer to these drugs by their scientific names. They used more prosaic terms. Speed. Uppers. Pep pills.

  These were prescribed as a matter of course to tired and nervous pilots on night raids. It was the obvious thing to do. It would practically have been wrong not to.

  They accelerated your brain function, revved up your metabolism, made all your aches and pains fade away.

  Time for R&R…

  And made Boiled kill his comrades.

  I’m due twelve hours of rest—no, make it six. As long as I can have…

  Back then, Boiled had complained of fatigue to his commander. He was only asking for his due—adequate rest time in between strenuous missions. His commander’s response was that he should ask the army doctor for medicine that made him want to do his duty. Boiled did so. Then he went back in the sky and dropped the 500-kilogram payload on his target, with deadly accuracy, from a height of ten thousand feet. Thinking that the flashing light that signified “friend” meant “foe.”

  Eight dead, fourteen wounded. The survivors were so horrifically maimed that they would never be able to find a job back in civilian society, let alone continue in the army. It was literally friendly fire: men he had ate with, fought with, slept alongside. Some of them were the ones who had celebrated with Boiled when he won his coveted place in the elite Airborne Division. They’d shared his joy, selflessly, without a trace of envy or jealousy. And when Boiled had the opportunity—the duty—to clear a path for his friends and comrades, to make their job easier by taking out the enemy they were advancing toward, he did exactly the opposite.

  After the incident, Boiled was moved to the place where all soldiers with the “distinguished but dangerous” mark on their files were sent and had his options laid out in front of him.

  It was a Hobson’s choice: transfer to the Experimental Strategic Space Corps, P7 for short, designed to pi
oneer high-altitude combat at ten thousand feet and above. Ridiculous by name, ridiculous by nature. Or be discharged.

  At first Boiled had been prepared to accept a discharge. But then he thought of the life that would be waiting outside the army: no proper job, nothing but days of loneliness and endless guilt.

  Furthermore, the side effects of the amphetamines were tearing up Boiled’s body at an alarming rate.

  Boiled knew all too well what was waiting for him, having seen it in all too many of his comrades.

  The terrible withdrawal symptoms that addicts would suffer if they deviated even slightly from the most careful weaning-off program.

  Bouts of abnormal violence. Delusional paranoia. Insomnia. Hallucinations. At the end of it all, a pointless death.

  So Boiled signed the papers that said he was volunteering for his new assignment and was bundled off to Paradise. In order to wipe the slate clean and return to being a good, upright, normal soldier again.

  As it turned out, Boiled did manage to rid himself of his amphetamine addiction while he was there…

  Driving along in the car, Boiled tried to remember what it was like.

  The last time he slept. The last time he prayed for the souls of his fallen comrades. The last time he thought that life had any value—

  As he tried to remember, he felt a phantom tingling in his right hand as it gripped the steering wheel.

  Now, this thing is still in the experimental stages, it’s a prototype…

  And he was reminded of the first time he had held it in his hand.

  He had been introduced to it shortly after he first arrived in Paradise. He’d been passing, by chance. Before long, he treated it as if it were the only thing he cared about in the whole world. His only friend.

  It was so warm.

  It was in the palm of his hand, soft, trembling, and yet so comforting and warm.

  I’m…so…cold…

  That was how it spoke, the golden mouse—with great difficulty, in broken words.

  Boiled was surprised, and he quickly clasped both his hands over the mouse to try and keep him warm. He tried to be as gentle as he could.

 

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