Mardock Scramble Vol 1 Chapter 3

Chapter 3
CRANK-UP
01
The Stairway to Heaven shone, dazzling, beautiful in the morning sun. The spiral stairway—the
unofficial symbol of Mardock City—wound round in three circles before stopping cleanly in midair, an
unfinished monument that was designed to be just so.
Symbols of Jupiter—the planet of the king of G.o.ds—were carved into its outer edge, and every part of
the handrail and supporting pillar was ornamented with scenes fromthe myths.
The monument that migrants had built long ago to express their hope and their faith.
Mardock—the Stairway to Heaven—was now seen by the steady influx of people into the city as a
symbol of their own dreams and ambitions. This epitomized life in the city: to climb to the top, to arrive,
was the ultimate virtue.
Under the stairway that soared up over the munic.i.p.al offices of the Broilerhouse, Balot waited,
Oeufcoque wrapped round her neck as a choker and the newly besuited Doctor beside her.
–Everytime I look at this staircase I can almost see the phantoms of people falling from the top.
Balot snarced Oeufcoque, and he replied, “It’s the system that people devised long ago, sorting the
world into winners and losers. But it doesn’t necessarily have to be that way—there’s more to mankind
than that. We’re just talking about part of a system. Try not to let it get to you.”
–If I fell from the top, I’d die, wouldn’t I?
“I’d turn into whatever tool I needed in order to prevent that.” Oeufcoque’s voice may have been
small, but it was wonderfully rea.s.suring to Balot.
Balot readied herself, then entered the Broilerhouse with the Doctor.
The court hearing started at nine thirty precisely and later broke for a thirty-minute lunch recess.
After everyone was seated they waited another two minutes for the judge to return fromthe restroom.
Twenty minutes later Balot decided on absolute silence, and before long the time was 15:32 and the
judge lowered his gavel, signifying the end of the proceedings.
The six hours of deliberations produced results that were entirely satisfactory as far as the Doctor,
Oeufcoque, and the district attorney were concerned. For Balot though, it was all one long humiliation.
“The fact that you can’t speak may well turn out to work in our favor. Consider the impression it
makes,” said the DA just before the discussions started.
“It might only be a grand jury, but there’s no better way of demonstrating the suffering you’ve been
through,” said the senior a.s.sistant district attorney, a man in his early thirties—the DA a.s.signed to their
case. He was welcoming the Doctor and Balot who had joined the throng of court personnel congregating
on the eleventh floor of the Broilerhouse on Central Street and was treating them like royalty. He wasn’t
the only one—DAs who were supposed to be busy with other cases were finding reasons to drop by the
waiting roomto catch a glimpse of Balot.
Hey, is that the survivor that everyone’s talking about? She seems in pretty good shape to me,
what’s she going to accuse them of?—they could hear these sorts of snippets of conversation from the
other side of the door.
“Some of the veteran DAs like to make fun of this sort of case,” said their DA apologetically. “They
still don’t think prost.i.tution or rape is anything to get worked up about.”
Their DA seemed different, though. He said so himself, and the Doctor introduced him as a different
sort of man. A man who was sympathetic toward innocent victims, women who were the victims of
violence, and those of a low social standing.
“The counsel for the defense will probably follow the same line of thinking. Are you sure you’re ready
for that? Just try and compose yourself as much as you can. Remember, the counsel for the defense doesn’t
really care whether their client is guilty or not.”
The DA smiled brightly as he gave Balot her instructions. As if that was part of the plan to ensure that
Balot would be nice and relaxed.
“Remember, the truth means nothing to these people. No matter what sort of criminal their client is,
they’ll use every sort of legal trick up their sleeve to try and get them off the hook, and in return they’re
rewarded in the region of sixty thousand dollars a year, a pretty d.a.m.n good salary these days…” The DA
shrugged his shoulders at this point, as if to say he was troubled by it, but what could you do?
“And it’s our job to face these people, specifying which of the material witnesses should be treated as
suspects,” he continued with a shake of his head. “The counsel for the defense we’re up against in this
case is quite a formidable opponent, I have to admit. Even as we’re bringing the lawsuit against them,
there’s no sign of the defendant, Sh.e.l.l-Septinos—he’s not in jail, and he’s not even been named a formal
suspect. He hasn’t even denied the charges—just called to have the deposition denied. Well, to make up
for it we left everything right till the last minute ourselves, as well, I suppose, not letting them see the
charges before we absolutely had to.”
The DA giggled, as if he’d told a particularly witty joke.
“I bet there was some discussion among the other side’s camp when it came to tactics—they would
have been wondering right till the last minute what we were going to hit themwith.”
Balot just sat there, still.
In the waiting room. And later, at the DA’s table in the courtroom. She sat still, making no noise or
sound of movement, just enduring words such as She seems fine to me or Well, it stands to reason, I’m
not surprised.
“So I’m sure the defense will be unnecessarily—well, they’ll say all sorts of things about you and
won’t pull any punches. If he could get a not-guilty verdict for his client by appealing to the court’s latent
misogyny, he’d do it, make no mistake. At any rate, all you need to do is stay calm—even more so this
time given your injuries—and all you need to do is to press the yes, no, or no answer b.u.t.ton.”
At this point Balot nodded for the first time. That was all it took for most men to take the lead, tell her
what to do. The DA was no exception.
“Well then, let’s go,” said the DA, heading toward the courtroom with the pet.i.tioner and Concerned
Party, Balot, and the Doctor, who was the Trustee in charge of the case.
In the elevator the DA spoke to the Doctor. “I have to say, you’re looking good, Mr. Easter! I wish you
were always dressed like this—you’d put my mind at rest no end.”
The Doctor’s hair had been dyed back to its original black and was combed down and slick.
His suit looked good on him—it made him look gentlemanly, like a man of distinction. The Doctor
gave a shrug and a little smile. The DA relaxed a little and then whispered in the Doctor’s ear.
“But for next time let’s rethink the girl’s outfit. We’re trying to show that she was a poor girl from the
West Side preyed on by one of the East Side rich, and she’s a little too—elegant—for that.”
Balot could hear that too. Not the precise words, but a general sense of what they were talking about,
by sensing the atmosphere. Unconsciously she folded her arms and wished for something to wrap around
her tights. Her dress was dark, of course, just as the DA had specified, with the skirt hem coming down
past her knees. She dealt with his request as she did with any of her clients who were fixated on her
clothes.
Oeufcoque, still a choker, said nothing.
His existence was a secret to all other people, of course, but even if it hadn’t been, Balot wouldn’t
have wanted him to say anything at this moment. There was still an egg-shaped crystal hanging from the
choker, but this time there was a simple geometric pattern at its core, not a picture of a golden mouse.
09:25 hours. Balot sat at the plaintiff ’s desk.
On the defense side was the counsel, the accused man himself, and the Trustee for the defense.
Balot was very conscious of her own abilities. She didn’t have to look that way, but she knew where
everyone was and what they were doing. The defendant was calm, composed. There was a very faint sign
of fear, but it wouldn’t be this man doing the fighting in any case. And he wasn’t the one who was going to
be hurt. That was the counsel and the Trustee’s job. And Balot’s job. The accused didn’t even look at
Balot.
A number of reporters from the press—with their tags dangling from their necks—had firmly
ensconced themselves in the front row of the spectators’ gallery, and all eyes were on Balot. They were
here with a very different set of aims fromBalot and the Doctor.
They were here, inevitably, to write up events as scandalously as they could.
They wanted to write about Balot as a modern-day Lolita. Someone who was all too aware of her s.e.x
appeal though still a girl, a girl who had seduced an important man from the amus.e.m.e.nts company,
bringing himto ruin; that was how they were looking to make the story play out.
How had she become the lover of this important man? And how was the girl connected to the Trustee
of her case? The girl must have known what she was doing, must have been well aware of her abilities.
This senior executive, Sh.e.l.l, was a foolish man too. Not only had he been deceived by this girl, he
was now being forced to spend hours and hours in this place, time he should have been spending on
important business.
Deceived. By a little girl. By anyone. Never mind what actually happened, the details were trivial—if
the defense could twist the facts to this conclusion then they’d have it made, the perfect story. The best
sort of copy.
The trial began, and the district attorney started off by stating in detail the injuries done to Balot. He
explained how premeditated and how deliberate Sh.e.l.l was in inflicting these injuries. And what his aims
were in doing so—what was he hiding?
At each stage the counsel for the defense interrupted with objections such as “Irrelevant!” and
“Conjecture!” He reb.u.t.ted the DA’s arguments, claiming that the whole story was a fabrication by the
plaintiff, designed to steal Sh.e.l.l’s a.s.sets by improper means.
The defense counsel then pressed his case further, explaining in minute, piercing detail the track
record of Balot’s dissolute and slovenly lifestyle, diligently arguing that Sh.e.l.l merely wanted to rescue
Balot from her struggles. After all, Balot wasn’t forced to live with Sh.e.l.l in the first place—she’d gone
there voluntarily, or would it be more accurate still to say that she’d forced herself upon him?
As he did this the DA resisted in turn with strong objections of his own: “Counsel is deliberately
trying to shift the focus” or “Counsel is appealing to the emotions, not the facts!”
Now and then Balot was called on to testify, and at such times she pressed the b.u.t.tons marked yes or
no, or occasionally the no answer b.u.t.ton. Whenever a more detailed answer was required of her she
wrote her answer on a designated sheet of paper and handed it to the clerk.
The courtroom was not set up to be particularly sympathetic to those who couldn’t speak. Instead,
everything was rather awkward, stilted. As if to say, What do you mean, someone who can’t speak is
appearing at the trial? An uncomfortable atmosphere pervaded the courtroom.
And it was toward such a person—Balot—that the counsel for the defense would use phrases such as
“You reap what you sow” or “The defendant can’t be held responsible for the plaintiff ’s choices.” At the
same time the DA emphasized the enormity of the suffering that Balot had been subjected to.
The grand jury craned their necks from left to right following each of these exchanges, as if they were
following the volleys in a tennis match. Good? Evil? Like a rally. As if they were playing a game,
climbing a flight of stairs, muttering guilty, not guilty, guilty, not guilty alternately with every step, and
whichever foot they ended up on at the top of the steps would be the decider.
“So, at the beginning, why didn’t you resist?” asked the defense counsel. “If Sh.e.l.l really manipulated
details of your status, or forcefully raped you, or trapped you in a car, there must have been some point at
which you actually tried to resist him?”
While the DA was objecting, Balot thought back to her time in the inst.i.tute.
Back to the time when she was told, year in and year out, by the social workers what a bad girl she
was.
Some of the volunteer workers weren’t like that, of course. But some were, and they were the ones
who had more clout when it came to the everyday management of the children’s lives.
And so it was that when, for example, a male volunteer would rape a child on a lower bunk bed, the
child on the upper bunk could only tremble in dread and pretend to be asleep. They had fear drummed into
themas a way of life, each child deep in their personal h.e.l.l.
Once, a girl from the inst.i.tute dropped a kitchen knife on her foot when she was on kitchen duty. Balot
watched as the girl’s foot was skewered through her slipper. Balot remembered seeing the tip of the knife
protruding from the sole of the girl’s foot. And, of course, the girl had dropped the knife—thrown it at her
own foot, actually—on purpose, knowing that if she hadn’t then something even worse would have been
lying in wait for her that night.
The girl was taken to the inst.i.tute’s medical wing, but she had to return two days later. Hobbling on
crutches. Three of the workers gang raped her on the night she came back.
“Why didn’t you resist?” the defense counsel asked Balot, bringing her back to reality. If Sh.e.l.l was
deliberately trying to hurt Balot then surely there would have been some sign of resistance, no?
The DA objected. Speaking rapidly, in a loud voice.
Why hadn’t she resisted? Everyone tried to escape. Some of the children did manage to adapt to life in
the inst.i.tute the best they could. Those who’d worked themselves into positions of influence, of authority.
But for the vast majority of the children, all they could think about was escape.
And after surviving under conditions that felt like you had a knife to your throat every minute of every
day, after having every aspect of your life regulated by those in charge—food, drink, shelter, leisure time,
friendships—at the end of it all they asked you why you didn’t resist. The same adults that never gave you
the slightest chance to do so in the first place.
Balot’s reply to that question was no answer.
Eventually they arrived at the recess for lunch, and the DA conferred with the Doctor regarding the
points where they were losing ground.
Balot and Oeufcoque ate lunch while the others talked in elaborate detail about possible strategies to
ensure the case progressed from the provisional jury to indictment. She could barely eat anything, and he
hardly spoke.
–I want you to understand that I’m doing this for your sake, Balot explained to Oeufcoque.
After a short pause Oeufcoque responded. “These are just procedural formalities. They’re not for my
sake or for your sake. The real battle comes later.” He seemed somewhat apologetic on one level, but at
the same time was deliberately keeping these feelings in check. In order to prevent himself from
accidentally letting slip any words of apology, such as I’m sorry or This is inexcusable of me.
Balot gripped the crystal on her choker and squeezed hard.
“At this point I will need to disclose some shocking facts,” said the counsel for the defense. Brightly.
As if he were relishing his duty—as, indeed, he was.
“This girl had s.e.xual relations with her father. Starting from when she was even younger than she is
now. Isn’t that right, Miss Rune-Balot?”
The courtroomrustled. A hesitant, low rumble.
The DA jumped up. “Objection! Irrelevant, a meaningless question.” But the court’s interest had been
piqued. The jury was curious, and who was a mere senior a.s.sistant district attorney to stand in the way of
a jury’s curiosity? He gritted his teeth and took a seat.
Balot stared right back at the counsel. Coldly. Coldly enough to freeze the poison solid in her heart.
Slowly, calmly, she pressed the b.u.t.ton.
–Yes.
The courtroom erupted. The judge banged his gavel. The counsel pressed further questions. Pointless,
stupid questions.
“Was it your father who initiated this?”
–Yes.
“Did you resist him?”
–No.
The courtroomheld its breath, not even daring to swallow.
“Why didn’t you resist?”
Balot scribbled an answer on the paper she was given and handed it to the clerk.
The clerk then pa.s.sed the paper to the judge, who read it aloud: “Because I loved my father.”
The courtroom erupted in noise, like a kettle overflowing. The judge banged his gavel wildly,
repeatedly.
“You mean, as a man?” continued the defense counsel.
–No.
“Then you loved himas a father?”
–Yes.
“You had s.e.xual intercourse with himmore than once?”
–Yes.
“Many times?”
–No.
“Can you remember precisely? The number of times?”
Balot raised her hand and lifted three fingers.
“Three times?”
–Yes.
“Your older brother attacked your father violently when he learned of your relationship, yes?”
–Yes.
“Do you know why your brother felt so angry at your father?”
–Yes.
“Why?”
Balot was given more paper. She scribbled on it again, pa.s.sed it to the clerk again, and again the
judge read it out: “Because he loved me.”
Further excitement in the courtroom. A number of the reporters rose from their seats, running to pa.s.s
on the news.
“Did he look at you as a woman?”
–No.
“Then as a younger sister?”
–Yes.
“Now, as a result of his injuries, your father was admitted to a hospital in the capital as a severely
disabled patient, yes?”
–Yes.
“Did you ever see your father again after that?”
–Yes.
“How did that make you feel?”
Balot, head bowed, didn’t answer. The DA leaped up and shouted, “Objection, an irrelevant
question.” The judge banged his gavel. The counsel continued down a different line of questioning.
“Do you still love your father? As a father?”
–No answer.
“Why can’t you answer?”
Balot remained silent.
“Do you love your father as a man?”
Balot shook her head emphatically. The DA objected, screaming. As if to intercede, Balot raised her
hand to call the clerk over for some paper. On it she wrote: “I don’t know how I should feel about my
family anymore.”
“Not just your father?”
–No answer.
“Your brother is still in the penitentiary, isn’t he?”
–No answer.
“After that, your mother entered an ADSOM facility—that is to say a rehabilitation center for alcohol
and drug addicts—and still lives there to this day? Is that right?”
–No answer.
“Did your mother know about your relations with your father?”
–No answer.
“Do you believe that what’s happened to your family is your fault?”
It was a reflex action. Balot didn’t press the b.u.t.ton. But she did snarc it.
–Yes.
No one saw that Balot had actually not pressed the b.u.t.ton, but then, no one was about to pay any
attention to that now. Apart from the Doctor. The defense counsel then asked her a succession of
additional questions. Balot just stared at the one b.u.t.ton, fixated, snarced it, and made sure her will was
unwavering.
Balot’s answers to all the additional questions were the same: No answer.
02
Balot’s father was a mild man. He had a beard but didn’t make a frightening impression. He had a
healthy physique and was a sound blue-collar worker. He was somewhat rustic—burly—but had a gentle
grip. Even when his motor neuron disease started taking a turn for the worse and he was down to three
fingers on his right hand, he still gave off an aura of gentleness. On his left hand he only had his thumb.
His four working fingers undid Balot’s uniformwhen she returned fromschool one day.
That was when she learned to project her consciousness into s.p.a.ce. As Balot’s father’s fingers and
tongue tentatively caressed her body, she felt an unknown feeling well up inside her. Desperately trying to
suppress this feeling, she launched it into the air. There were the unbearable feelings of guilt, and then
there was her clear, calm consciousness. With half-shut eyes she looked at the room, looked at the
furniture, and tried to project her consciousness onto something else.
But she hadn’t yet perfected her technique of losing herself.
Sometimes her voice leaked out. Naturally. Like in the movies, when a woman was embraced by her
lover. She fought it. Biting down on her lips, frantically averting her eyes. Trying not to look at her
father’s face.
How long had she been doing this? Then, all of a sudden, a feeling to extinguish any lukewarm waves
of pleasure. A red-hot scalding sense of bitterness. It was penetrating her. She heard her father’s voice,
apologizing. She heard her own voice asking him to stop, please. But the pain intensified, and her father
started moving his body.
She tried forcing her father back with both arms. Her father was crying. He gripped her arms tightly
with his hand with three fingers. His tears dripped down onto her arms and b.r.e.a.s.t.s. As if he were
vomiting up blood. Eventually, the waves of pain subsided into silence, and a lukewarm liquid—different
fromtears—trickled down her thighs.
This was the “lucky guy” that the Hunter spoke of. This was why she had no answer when the defense
counsel asked her why she didn’t resist.
She could recall her father’s face from then—full of sorrow—anytime. She could barely remember
himlooking any other way.
She’d wanted to do something about this sadness. Balot didn’t really understand that her father had just
made love to his own twelve-year-old daughter as he would a woman, and in any case she wasn’t really
in a position to refuse.
After the last time they had relations, Balot was taking a shower, mind blank, when she heard shouting
and screaming. And then—a burst of gunfire.
Balot wrapped a bath towel around her body and came out of the shower to look on the scene. Her
older brother, screaming like a mad dog. At his feet was her father, writhing in agony from a gunshot
wound.
When her brother saw his little sister, steamrising fromher half-naked body, he cried out maniacally.
Her brother was a volunteer at ADSOM. The reason he worked there could be traced back to
childhood, when his mother shouted at him for not properly holding the end of the tube she was using to
bind her armas she was shooting up.
Balot’s brother was as neurotic as their mother. He was trying to save her from herself, but despite his
good intentions, his irritation and hatred grew violently. And her brother was pretty much the only one in
the family who could do a proper day’s work to earn a living wage.
So her brother was always on the lookout for opportunities to earn money more ef iciently.
Before long he got mixed up in bad company and became a gunrunner. This all came out in the
investigation into his father’s shooting, and her brother was consigned to the penitentiary.
“It was all for nothing,” her brother said to her at their last meeting.
Balot wasn’t able to say a word and just watched her brother’s back as he was led away. Then she
herself was put into the inst.i.tute, which was just as bad as prison. For a long time she thought of the
inst.i.tute as her punishment. That she was the one who broke her family up, so she was the one who
deserved to be punished. Words that were said to her at the inst.i.tute—bad girl, you’re a bad girl—still
resounded in her ears.
The counsel for the defense unceasingly pressed his line of argument: the explosion was a complete
accident and Sh.e.l.l had absolutely no murderous intentions. Indeed, Sh.e.l.l had been trying to rescue her, but
she wouldn’t trust him and started violently clawing at the door handle—and that had made the whole
situation worse. He pointed to several scratch marks on the inside of the AirCar door as proof. As if the
whole thing was Balot’s fault.
The defense counsel spared no effort in his exertions trying to persuade the jury of this.
Balot seduced her father without hesitation, wrecked her own family, plunged wildly into the
uninhibited lifestyle of the dropout, and did whatever took her fancy—a Teen Harlot such as we’ve never
seen.
So the counsel continued. Should we really abandon Sh.e.l.l-Septinos to his unfortunate circ.u.mstances,
this man who had gone through trouble upon trouble to reach his position, working hard, motivated by his
healthy ambition? Rather, shouldn’t we be supporting such a man, who showed such kindness toward a
girl such as Balot?
Right now, Sh.e.l.l-Septinos is worried—frightened that he might have committed murder. Because he
can’t remember the details of the day in question, due to his memory disorder. Of course, the girl knows
all about his condition, and she’s trying to take advantage of it.
This was how the defense counsel argued.
The DA hit back with all he had. He summoned to the witness stand the Hunters who were
investigating the case and the Doctor as an independent PI. He explained exactly how the girl had become
an innocent victim, a sacrifice to one man’s vaulting ambition.
After it had all finished, the DA said to Balot’s team, “That counsel overplayed his hand, I think.
However you look at it, our girl here was calm and composed, and she was obviously hurt. That’s all
going to make an excellent impression on the jury. Not a single one of these jurors is a university
graduate. That’s in our favor too. Because Sh.e.l.l has manipulated his own status records, pa.s.sing himself
off as a member of the elite, a university graduate. I have to admit I was a little worried at first, though—
our girl is beautiful and elegantly done up, after all. There are some jurors who refuse to believe that a
defendant can be guilty unless they see a victimat death’s door, shredded to pieces.”
Ultimately, though, there was one word that emerged from the proceedings that interested Balot above
anything else: ambition.
A regular man, motivated by his healthy ambition.
No: he was a pathetic man, who had found a way of climbing up society’s greasy pole—or stairway—
and was prepared to discard everything else in order to achieve this, just so he could lord it over other
men and women, as if he were some sort of a hero.
Balot could see this clearly now. I’ve been a fool, she thought, and at the very same moment she felt a
burden—the cursed voice that told her that she was a bad girl—lift cleanly fromher shoulders.
That was the one ray of sunshine that she’d gleaned from the whole experience—the silver lining to
the gray clouds of humiliation.
If she quit now there was nothing left. This was now a matter of life or death.
She understood this clearly. That was why she could stay so calm.
Why me?—she imagined yet another answer to this question.
Beyond that answer lay Balot’s personal stairway, the one that she was destined to climb.
Balot left the courtroomwith the Doctor.
The DA was in an excellent mood. He said that the next time they returned to the court it would
definitely be in the form of an official trial—he was so enthusiastic that it wouldn’t have been surprising
if he’d broken out into a cheerleading routine for Balot. The DA bid farewell to the pair for the time
being, and Balot and the Doctor were just at the Broilerhouse entrance and about to leave when they
noticed a man silently approaching them. A man so solidly built that even the shadow that he cast seemed
enough to swallow themup.
“Boiled…” Taken aback, the Doctor spoke his name out loud without meaning to. The man who had
sat at the table on the defendant’s side. The man who had threatened Balot. The Trustee supervising the
case on Sh.e.l.l’s side—Dimsdale-Boiled.
For the first time Balot was within spitting distance of the man and faced himdirectly.
He seemed even more humorless, even more lacking in emotion, than ever. Violent, dusky eyes stared
out fromunder his wide brow, gaze fixed on Balot. Or at the choker that Balot was wearing.
“The full details of the lawsuit will be made available to the defense from now on. It’ll mean that I get
to start my operations in earnest.” Boiled, heartless as ever, clearly directed his words toward his former
partner Oeufcoque. The former partner he had fallen out with spectacularly over some obscure incident.
Balot stared right back at him, head-on.
“I’ll find it. Withdraw your case.” Boiled was undoubtedly talking about their hideaway. His voice
was light and indifferent, but it carried the impact of a thunderbolt.
Balot’s knees quivered. Acid rose in her stomach.
The man looked at Balot. As if he had noticed her existence for the first time.
“When you have the time, be sure to ask Oeufcoque about my MO for solving cases,” Boiled said, then
turned his back. His footfalls made almost no sound at all as he glided away. In the distance they saw
Sh.e.l.l-Septinos appear, and the two men climbed into a car.
Balot stood glaring at themfromthe entrance of the building. She watched where they were going. And
the building, and all the people around her.
The fear inside her was being pushed aside by a feeling she had never experienced before: fury.
It was the first time this had ever happened. When she came to, she noticed that her knees were no
longer shaking.
She breathed out quietly. It was like blue fire pouring fromher lips.
It was live or die. And now her whole body was making its choice.
Still glaring at the world, she put her fingers on the crystal hanging down fromher choker.
–Show me your way of doing battle.
03
“That was a weird scene we just witnessed. And I’m experiencing weird emotions too,” Sh.e.l.l
muttered. His Chameleon Sungla.s.ses gave off a dull glint the color of zinc. “I don’t have a single
recollection of ever being nervous or frightened. All that vanishes whenever I have my Clapping, my
memory preservation operation. But…it’s weird.”
At this point he looked at Boiled. “I’mfrightened,” Sh.e.l.l said, shivering. He wore a forced smile.
Boiled gave no answer. He just nodded ever so slightly and drove on in silence.
“I can understand that I’m experiencing fear. I can even understand why this situation is making me
afraid. What I don’t get is, why her?” Sh.e.l.l stretched his neck forward as if he were looking for an
answer fromthe sky beyond the window. “We’re talking about a girl that I, in my current state, have never
met—never even heard of her. A puny, powerless little girl. And yet I’m afraid of this. Just thinking about
the fact that the girl is still alive makes me choke on my breath.”
He loosened his tie as if he were indeed having trouble breathing and took a flask fromhis pocket.
“Business is business. Sacrifices need to be made—things, people. And the most important sacrifices
have the honor of shining on as precious jewels on my fingers. Nevertheless, this time I’m surprised. I’m
afraid fromthe bottomof my heart. Because that girl isn’t on my finger yet. Why is that? Why?” he moaned
as he opened the flask with trembling hands, taking a violent gulp of its contents.
“What on earth was it that made me want to kill that girl?” He was speaking to himself now, between
gasps. Behind his sungla.s.ses his eyes were bloodshot. Alongside the scotch he downed a large handful of
the Heroic Pills that he’d bought cheaply at insider rates.
He stared pointedly at Boiled with his eyes that were now bright red and inflamed. “Tell me now,
when exactly did you say this girl was going to disappear forever fromthe face of this earth?”
“Soon enough…” Boiled spoke quietly, and this was all he would say. He controlled the steering
wheel without the slightest hint of wavering and directed the AirCar toward the foot of the high-cla.s.s
Senorita district in the east.
Sh.e.l.l’s lips suddenly twisted into a crooked smile, and he laughed an unsteady laugh. “That man who
was at the trial today—he seemed very flaky for a former partner of yours.”
“That was the maintenance staff.”
“What?”
“In other words, that one’s a tricky enough customer all right, but he’s not the one we really need to
worry about.”
“He’s not this Oeufcoque you keep talking about, then?” Sh.e.l.l’s lips were again distorted. He was
frantically trying to conquer his gnawing fear, turn it into hatred and murderous intent.
“No, Oeufcoque never shows himself in public. He’s always teamed up with someone else.” Boiled
spoke in a low voice, cold and machinelike.
“But you’ve got his number, right? You know his MO, his special skills,” Sh.e.l.l insisted, staring
unblinkingly at Boiled frombehind his lead-colored sungla.s.ses.
“And the same goes for him. He knows me well—my MO, and my special skills.”
“In short…” Sh.e.l.l started. Silence reigned, then eventually he found the words to continue. “He’s
going to be a tough nut to crack.”
Boiled nodded.
“But who are you saying he’s partnered with? That lanky guy we saw today? What’s he hoping to
achieve by standing behind someone like that?”
“Perhaps it’s not that man,” said Boiled.
“Then who?”
“That’s what we’re going to find out. That’s why I need to hire some people. Starting tonight—from a
place that you don’t know about.”
“Well, feel free to use the hidden stash of money as you need. Do as you please. Just be thorough and
show no mercy,” said Sh.e.l.l.
“As you say.”
“I’m…terrified. Even though I’ve never once been frightened gambling at a Show, even with hundreds
of thousands of dollars at stake. No job is supposed to faze me. And yet…” Sh.e.l.l’s teeth had suddenly
begun chattering, and his limbs were shaking.
The truth was that Sh.e.l.l was wavering. From a place so deep within himself that even he didn’t know
what was happening right at that moment. Accordingly he was panicking about all sorts of things.
“Flashbacks!” Sh.e.l.l spat the word out under his breath. Then he shook his head stubbornly. “That’s
absurd. There’s no way I could be having such things. How can my past be coming back to haunt me…”
He trailed off into a faint moan—this man who was always wiping his mind’s slate clean—and then he
leaned over toward the driver’s seat.
“So, what are we talking about? What sort of people are you planning on using, for example?” Sh.e.l.l
asked like a rabid dog, drooling and baring his teeth.
“The sort of person who works not just for the money but also for the satisfaction they get out of their
target.” Boiled’s voice was low and calm. “I’m talking about the type who enjoy treating people like
objects, slicing themto pieces and using their remains as ornaments.”
The meaning of these words gradually dawned on Sh.e.l.l.
Behind his sungla.s.ses his eyes narrowed before gradually widening.
“That’s…fine,” he said with a smile. A gruesome smile that twisted across his face. “That’s excellent.
And while you’re doing that, I’ll continue with my business. My deal, a huge deal, a deal for my benefit.
That’s what I’mgoing to use to run farther up the stairway. The stairway to heaven—Mardock. I’ll run far
enough, high enough, higher, higher still, that my past will never be able to reach me. Far enough that my
past will vanish forever.”
Sh.e.l.l continued his feverish mutterings as if he were speaking in a nightmare.
Boiled dropped Sh.e.l.l off at his luxury apartment and sped off in another direction.
He headed toward the riverbank, stopping at a car park in a mall along the way.
There he switched cars. From the AirCar to a normal gasoline-powered car. A car that he had left
there beforehand.
Before setting off again he opened the trunk of the new car. There were two attaché cases within.
He checked their contents, first one, then the other. Then he got into the car and headed straight for the
harbor.
The evening sun was painting the sea a bright scarlet as he reached the gates that marked the
checkpoint to the harbor.
Boiled handed over his ID card at the gatehouse.
The security guard, a young man, stuck the card into his machine to confirm that Boiled’s jurisdiction
was active and asked with a whistle, “An incident at the harbor, eh?”
Boiled took the card as it was returned to him, shaking his head. “Not a big one.”
The young security guard was clearly thrilled as he opened the gate. “Call me if it looks like
anything’s about to go down. I train every day at the shooting range, you know.”
“Guns won’t be needed.” Boiled cut him down instantly, but this only impressed the young security
guard even more.
“Just as I thought—a true PI.” He nodded in agreement.
The car entered the harbor, where heavy machinery was lined up all around. He drove past a giant
mechanical crane that looked like a mutant crab, which was unloading a multicolored convoy. He pa.s.sed
the part of the convoy that had been stripped of its load before turning around and returning, skeletal now,
via the overland route fromwhich it had come.
Boiled parked his car in the car park where the trailers were lined up, took the attaché cases from the
trunk, and carried one in either hand as he walked toward the boats. He soon spotted the crane that he was
looking for.
BANDERs.n.a.t.c.h: ANIMAL HUSBANDRY EXPORT AND IMPORT
The billboard was written in large letters above the crane house. Boiled looked up at the person in the
c.o.c.kpit. He slowly approached the workplace videophone and pressed the call b.u.t.ton.
–Wha.s.sup?
A crude-sounding voice answered. Then an image. A man in fatigues.
He had a broad face partially hidden under a ma.s.s of dread-locks. His skin was brown like a
scorpion.
“Where’s the company?”
–You gotta say which company you talkin’ about.
The man maneuvered his body uncomfortably in the tight c.o.c.kpit so that his ear was on the earpiece.
“I’m bringing payment. For the company that’s said to be involved in animal husbandry import and
export,” Boiled informed him, and in return received a shrill laugh fromthe video phone.
–What’s your name?
“Dimsdale-Boiled.”
–Heard aboutcha from the boss. That’s us. Import and export of livestock. Wait a sec, I’ll just get
everythin’ sorted. Come on to the weir. Yeah, come inside the white line.
Boiled did as he was told. Before long a giant shipping container was lowered down from the sky. A
rectangular box big enough to fit a whole house. It was an impressive sight to behold as it hit the ground
with a thump.
The electronic lock on the door lifted, and the door slid open sideways. Boiled entered the container,
and as he stepped in, the door closed behind his back automatically.
It was dark inside, but not for long. Pale fluorescent lights illuminated a number of works.p.a.ces
divided by part.i.tions as well as filing cabinets and sofas. There were even monitors on the desks. It was
like being in an office somewhere.
An unexpectedly high-pitched giggle emerged frombehind one of the part.i.tions.
“Are you surprised at the contents of our trailer? Welcome to our offices.”
Judging by voice alone, it was a young girl who spoke. But when the speaker emerged from behind the
part.i.tion he was clearly a man, probably in his late thirties. He had evidently had an operation of some
sort on his vocal cords. He was very small—short—and had long hair. His hair was all one length, with
parts of it blond, others streaked red, all of it random.
Boiled took one look at the little man, then continued to scour his surroundings.
“It seems we’re moving.”
There was a sensation of gradual elevation. The whole container was being lifted up again.
“Don’t you worry. Little Minty is a veteran crane operator.” “The man in the c.o.c.kpit?”
“The very same. Mincemeat the Wink. Used to be a bomber helicopter pilot. A famous pilot in the
Commonwealth Forces, he was a proper macho little angel of death, raining down his showers of fire on
the Continent.”
“Where are you planning on taking me?” asked Boiled.
“We’re just taking you aboard our ship. That’s our home base, you see.”
Boiled didn’t ask any more questions. He made no move to put down the attaché cases in his hands but
just stood there in silence, facing the little man.
“You’re a real hunk, Mr. Boiled. Little Minty is quite the tough guy, but you’re not bad yourself.” The
little man seemed fascinated by him. “I’m Rare the Hair, by the way. That’s my registered trademark
within the company.”
He combed his hair upward with a flourish. His multicolored hair flowed like water through his
fingers.
“Isn’t my hair lovely?” Rare asked, tilting his thirty-odd-year-old face toward Boiled. His skin was
abnormally smooth. It was white and appeared slippery, and when you looked closely it seemed to be
composed of various different types. You couldn’t quite see the patchwork, but there was no doubt that
Rare was a modern-day Frankenstein’s monster, born of the latest technology.
Boiled looked at Rare’s eccentric person with an expression devoid of emotion.
“We’re almost there. While we’re waiting, I think I’m just going to go ahead and keep on gazing at
your cute little poker face,” Rare said in the clear voice of a little girl. The giant box they were in was
slowly being lowered. There was almost no swaying now, but Boiled could tell that they were now atop a
much bigger object.
“Oopsie, here we are. What a shame! I could have stared at your face all day long.”
The door opened and another man entered. Blond hair, blue eyes, and gave the appearance of a
successful businessman.
“I am sorry about this. Having to go through this rather elaborate charade. Do please take a seat, make
yourself comfortable,” the blond-haired man said.
“Ooh! And I’ll sit next to him! That’s okay, isn’t it, Medi?” asked Rare.
The blond-haired man shooed Rare out of the way with a wave of his hand, as you would a dog.
Rare gave a cackle and leaped around the sofa in a circle like a little child at play.
“Welcome, Mr. Boiled. Given our respective professions, shall we dispense with the formalities of a
handshake?”
The man went to sit on the sofa opposite Boiled, fluttering his hands as if to show themoff. His fingers
were unusually pristine. Each finger was prepared meticulously, nails well-manicured so that they were
squeaky clean and sparkling, and then covered with a blue nail polish. But when you looked at them as a
whole they seemed oddly mismatched.
“Medium the Fingernail is how I’m commonly known in this line of work. It’s a nickname. Like the
aliases university students use when they’re looking for playmates online.”
“I need confirmation of the results before I tender your remuneration,” Boiled said. His hands were
resting casually on the attaché cases.
Mediumdropped his banter and undid his tie before unb.u.t.toning his dress shirt.
Rare, now standing diagonally behind Boiled, gave an affected yelp and then mock-shyly covered his
face with his hands.
Despite his squirming he was looking through his fingers, getting a good peek at Medium’s rippling
torso.
Boiled watched the scene play out, expressionless as ever. He looked at the pendants that adorned
Medium’s chest. Medium took these off and placed them on the table. Carefully, one by one, so that they
didn’t rest atop one another.
“Still alive,” Medium said. “The metal cylinders used as the basis were for exchanging bodily fluids,
and the metabolism is still there—they still regenerate. You can use them as decorations straight away.
Even the nails grow properly and the skin flakes off as it should.”
“Fromhow many people?”
“Five right thumbs—Uncle Toms, I call them. If you take their prints you should find they fit exactly.
Five brain surgeons—three male, two female. Just like you ordered, right?” Medium laughed amiably.
Like a black marketeer boasting how scrupulously fair he was in his business dealings.
“Doctors’ fingers are pretty rare and valuable, as far as they go. So I’ve taken the liberty of keeping
one for myself. See—the pinky fromthis left hand. Fromone of the two female doctors’ hands. Absolutely
beautiful.”
“Just the fingers?” asked Boiled disinterestedly. Mediumlaughed and shook his head.
Just then the man who had been operating the crane entered the container.
“Hey, Medi, I’ve finished loading the crates. The other guys. .h.i.t our container and damaged it again, so
I’ve sent the idiots a demand for compensation while I was at it.”
He was suddenly at the side of the sofa. He was both bigger and taller than Boiled.
“Thanks for your hard work, Mincemeat. This is Mr. Boiled,” said Medium.
“Yeah, we just met. How was my driving, not bad, eh?”
“Mincemeat, Rare, you two show Mr. Boiled your shares of the loot too,” continued Medium.
“Ooh, even mine?” asked Rare.
“So, uh, you’re interested in our collections, are you?”
Boiled stared at themquietly and said, “Just for confirmation.”
“You mean from those doctors, don’t you? Wait a sec, I’ll fetch them for you right away.” Rare
slipped by Mincemeat and hopped away.
Mincemeat stood still and unzipped his fatigues. “Kayleigh and Linda. Girls should be kept close to
your heart, don’t you think? And on my right breast, Daniel. Last, these guys on my left arm are Rick and
Steve. These two seemed to be good buddies, so I planted them together. See, they’re looking at each
other.”
It was as he said. The two eyes embedded in his left arm started blinking, as if they were staring at
each other.
“I thought that doctors’ eyes might have been cold and unfeeling, but as it turns out they’re quite
romantic. In particular this Linda—she seems to have taken quite a shine to this guy in my stomach, Rock,
a big-shot lawyer.”
“Ah, little Minty, that’s just because of how your muscles developed after the transplants,” said
Medium.
“Don’t be a spoilsport, Medi. Here, everyone, let me introduce you all to Mr. Boiled.” Mincemeat
flexed his muscles, squeezing tightly. The eyes, which had been winking away all over his body, opened
their lids as one and turned to look at Boiled simultaneously.
Boiled stared back grimly. The eyes were neatly lined up in pairs, complete with lids, eyelashes, and
tear ducts. A number of the eyes were red and swollen, as if they were crying for someone to release
them.
“Sorry for keeping you all waiting—Gosh, little Minty! What a naughty boy you are!” Rare had
bounded back into the room and was blushing bright red. “Here you go, here’s mine! Five people’s
worth.” Rare showed Boiled some pieces of skin and hair pressed between plates of gla.s.s, folded up
neatly and soaked in liquid.
“None of them really take my fancy, to tell you the truth. The hectic lives they lived meant they didn’t
have much time to look after their hair, I suppose,” continued Rare.
Boiled ignored himand turned to Medium. “And are there any of their parts that you discarded?”
“When they catch a whale on the continent they use up all the parts. I mean all—skin, bones, nothing
goes to waste. The only part they discard is the nothingness left after the whale is gone, so to speak.”
“And what do you use the parts for?” asked Boiled.
“The flesh is used for transplants, scientific research, as decoration—or as a delicacy,” said Medium.
Rare giggled. “We sell themto people who really get of on the idea of eating human flesh.”
Medium pointed at Rare as if to silence him. Pointing with a finger that could have come from
anybody. “We get a good price for the bones, for marrow transplants, or to medical students. And the
internal organs have long since been reserved. Even parts like appendixes,” said Medium.
“And the parts that you’ve taken for personal use?” asked Boiled.
“We’d agreed that these were to be part of our payment…”
“That’s fine, I just need confirmation.”
“Well, it’s all safe, everything’s okay. They’ve all vanished. Not a single drop of blood left.
Transplant technology advanced in leaps and bounds as a result of the war. There aren’t going to be any
leftovers. Three cheers all round,” said Medium.
“And the data the doctors were working on?”
“We’ll show you to our a.n.a.lysis department straightaway. Follow me, sir,” Mediumbeckoned.
Boiled stood up and followed Mediumdeeper into the container, an attaché case in either hand.
“Ooh, that back—manly, but in a very different way than yours. And what smooth skin for a man!”
Rare whispered to Mincemeat as they followed behind.
It was a giant container with a series of joints where it could be dismantled. Medium unlocked the
electric lock on a door that divided two of these joints and headed in.
“Please do come in. This is the information HQ for our company. One of our members is a specialist
in data management. In the war he was a distinguished Comms soldier—hey, Flesh! We have a guest!”
Inside were various computing and communication devices strewn all over the place. They walked
through the gaps, tracing a route to a place surrounded by even more equipment, when some flabby ma.s.s
wobbled round at them.
“Hey,” said a sweet voice. His eyes were black and wet.
He had no hair and gave the impression of a young boy’s head protruding froma ma.s.s of flesh.
“I’ve been watching you since you entered the port. Using the harbor cameras. Now that’s probably
the man we’ve been waiting for, I thought to myself. He’s that sort of person, I thought,” the ma.s.s of flesh
croaked. He sounded like a precocious schoolboy.
“Indeed, Flesh. This is the iron man himself, Mr. Boiled. Be sure to treat our valued client with all the
respect he deserves,” said Medium.
“Welcome, sir. I’m Flesh the Pike. In charge of information ops.” He pointed at himself with his right
hand as he spoke. His hand was like a pale baby’s hand that had been grotesquely overinflated. Boiled
watched Flesh—and his hand—in silence.
Flesh was wearing something that at first glance looked like a gown, but on closer inspection turned
out to be more like a giant sheet that covered his fleshy ma.s.s. There was an incredible amount of fat there
—the word obese wasn’t enough to describe it accurately.
The sheet was swollen into a bizarre shape. From the outside it was impossible to tell even whether
he was sitting on a chair or was just sprawled out on the floor. He could have been standing.
Boiled put his attaché cases down and took a step toward Flesh. He stood in a position so that he
could see a number of monitors all at once, then spoke.
“Show me the data. The neurotreatment reports that the five doctors were collaborating on.”
“Just a moment.” Flesh’s whole body started trembling under the gown. As he stared at the screen his
fat hands plugged something into the port that was embedded in the back of his neck at the top of his spinal
column, his fingers moving with surprising agility. It didn’t seem to be the sort of device that plugged into
his brain tissue directly—rather it was a simple output device fromhis brain.
“It’ll be a little while. We’re covering our tracks as we go, you see, falsifying the University
Hospital’s data at the other end as we download them for ourselves. Wanna have some fun while we
wait?” asked Flesh.
Boiled didn’t say yes and he didn’t say no.
Still, Flesh continued, looking up at Boiled with a drowsy expression. “I don’t mind this man touching
them. This man knows about our little hobbies, right, Medi?”
“Mr. Iron Man didn’t seemto find anything too objectionable when I showed himmine—or when Rare
or Mincemeat did,” said Medium.
“That’s what I thought, most probably.” Flesh grinned. He fiddled around for a while loosening his
gown with his chunky fingers. The gown fell to the floor, slowly, nonchalantly.
“Go on then, just a little. I don’t mind if you feel up my collection.” Flesh’s voice cracked as he made
his mound of flesh wobble. A mountain of white meat swayed as one. Boiled could now see that they
were women’s b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Hundreds of them.
Pairs of b.r.e.a.s.t.s protruded from his whole body—particularly his chest and stomach—cl.u.s.tered
together like bunches of grapes.
Flesh wasn’t wearing any clothes under the gown. But he couldn’t really be described as naked, as
there was no way of telling where his skin ended and where the stolen flesh began. His feet could just
about be seen protruding, dangling, fromunder the ma.s.s, and it seemed that he was resting on some sort of
easy chair. b.r.e.a.s.t.s ran down both sides of his thighs and calves.
“Not interested. Just give me the data,” Boiled said. Flesh gave a creased smile and put his gown back
on, nodding knowingly, glancing fleetingly at Medium.
“I like people who are honest about their tastes. To each his own, that’s what I always say,” said
Flesh.
“We’re talking about Mr. Iron Man here, Fleshie. He’s not interested in your Oedipal complex. He
likes his fetishes a little more hard-boiled, like me,” said Medium.
“So it seems.” The plug in Flesh’s back started flickering and making a chattering sound.
Flesh scanned the surrounding monitors with a quick flash of his eyes. As with b.r.e.a.s.t.s, he had
hundreds of monitors, and they too were quivering, this time with lists of seemingly randomnumbers.
“Okay. All done.” Flesh reached out to one of the monitors. A machine that was evidently designated
for writing data started whirring, and a disc popped out into Flesh’s portly fingers.
“Here you go. This is now the only copy of this data in the entire world.”
Boiled took the disc, lifted it up as if to look closer, and squeezed. Until the disc was no more than
crumbs of plastic and magnetism.
The data—once the contents of Sh.e.l.l’s memory—was now oblivion.
“And the rest is silence,” said Medium. Boiled glanced at him.
Then, for the first time since entering the harbor, Boiled nodded.
04
“You must be growing weary of carrying those heavy bags around with you, sir. Won’t you let us
lighten your load?” Medium asked Boiled as they left the room, as if he were sharing a particularly witty
joke.
“I was told that there were five members of this company. I’d like to hand it directly to your boss.
Judging by the size of the exterior of the container, there should still be other rooms here. Where are
they?” asked Boiled.
“Ah, our boss is not at home just this—”
“There’s someone else inside this container right now. In the Comms Room just now I saw a record of
the changes in ma.s.s aboard the container. There is someone I haven’t met moving around inside.”
“Well…it’s not that we’re trying to hide the boss exactly. It’s just that he’s in the middle of sorting
through his collection, you see…” But Medium had accepted the inevitable and was leading Boiled
toward another wall.
“You’ve got telecommunications equipment embedded in your heads, haven’t you?” Boiled asked, and
Medium turned around, startled. “And those eyes seem mechanized too. You’re constantly circulating
information between yourselves, are you?”
“Well, that’s how we do business,” Mediumexplained, and pressed the intercombuzzer on the wall.
–Have him enter.
The reply came immediately. There was suppressed laughter. A voice that evidently knew all about
the exchange that had just pa.s.sed between Boiled and Medium.
A section of the wall slid across, revealing the entrance to another room.
In the middle of the room was a man reclining on a leather chair, facing away from them. The chair
turned.
“You’re a proper pedigree hunting hound to have seen through our gang’s little secret, Mr. Boiled,”
the man said, flashing his white teeth that contrasted beautifully with his dark skin. He was of the same
race as Sh.e.l.l, but he had an almost inhuman air about him. He straightened up with a snap. His hair was
short and he had a tattoo on his temple. He stared at Boiled with piercing eyes that belied the usually soft
features particular to his race.
“To be able to identify the leader of a pack immediately—that’s an important quality in a hunting
hound. Looks like the Banders.n.a.t.c.h Company has found itself a worthy partner.” As he spoke, he swung
his left hand from the floor to the wall. He wore a single black glove on this hand. There was a golden
chain on the back of his hand that jingled as he moved.
It was the sort of glove that could be used in bondage. It covered the pinky and ring finger, but the
remaining fingers were exposed. These seemed to be the important fingers. He flicked themrapidly.
In response to this movement a table rose up from the floor, a sofa appeared, and a c.o.c.ktail bar folded
open from the wall. The hitherto empty room was now the very picture of a prosperous merchant’s
drawing room.
“Do sit.”
Boiled did so. The two men now sat opposite each other. Medium headed toward the bar to a.s.semble
some gla.s.ses.
“I’m Welldone. My friends call me Well. A nickname, of course. Everyone here likes his nickname.
One of the tricks for getting ahead in the underworld. By creating your own alias you make it easier to
meet other like-minded people.”
Welldone brought his hands together, the one with the glove and the one without, and grinned.
“The alias that I chose for myself is Welldone the p.u.s.s.yhand.”
“There’s one set of parts that I’ve not seen yet. What does your gang do with them?” Boiled asked
under his breath.
Still grinning, Welldone snapped his fingers. “Two dry martinis, Medi. Plen