Mardock Scramble

“So we go in fully expecting that they’ll have other means of persuasion at their disposal,” said Oeufcoque.

–Are we going to be using guns?

“Hmm… If it comes to it, I’ll leave that side of things to you and Oeufcoque, if that’s okay. My speciality is really the negotiating part. If the going gets tough, I hope you won’t mind if I’m first out the door?”

The Doctor looked so serious that Balot nodded without even thinking.

“Right, then, let’s go!” With these words the Doctor hopped out of the car and walked toward the quiet bar on the quiet street. Balot followed, and soon they had reached the main entrance of the pub.

There were two sets of doors, and Balot realized that something was up the moment they passed through the first set.

Someone was watching them. The Doctor had noticed it too.

They opened the second set of doors and went in. The clientele seemed at first glance to be a surprisingly refined lot—some were smoking cigars or drinking brandy from large goblets, others were reading newspapers or discussing the latest stock market fluctuations.

It was a veritable pocket of resistance against the recent all-pervasive trend of smoking bans.

Balot and the Doctor went up to the center of the bar and took a seat. Had they not been in the clothes they wore for court, they would have felt terribly out of place. No one else sat at the bar; patrons lounged on plush leather sofas or in boxes lined with red velvet curtains.

The Doctor pointed to a bottle on the counter, then went into a detailed spiel as to how exactly the bartender was to prepare it.

The bartender—middle-aged, receding hairline—took his order with a nod, and then looked at Balot. Balot didn’t really need anything, but she thought back to a Western she had seen in her childhood and recalled what the hero ordered when he was in a bar.

–A glass of milk, please.

She spoke through the crystal on her choker. A funny look flickered across the bartender’s face.

Balot didn’t know whether it was her order that was at fault or whether he was just surprised by her voice. Or it could have been that he was surprised by the very fact that someone like Balot was in this place.

If he felt something was odd, the bartender certainly hid it well. “Would you like ice with that, miss?” he asked.

This part wasn’t in the Western.

Balot thought for a moment, then nodded meekly.

The bartender prepared the two drinks with a precision that could only come from years of practice. He put the bottle the Doctor pointed to on the bar so that the Doctor could check the label. Balot thought for a moment that the bartender might do the same for her with the carton of milk, but it wasn’t to be—it went straight back in the refrigerator.

The bartender placed the glasses on the bar, then retreated to one side.

“Hmm, maybe I should have ordered the same as you,” said the Doctor, who could barely keep the laughter out of his voice. Balot looked at him.

“This is just some token hospitality before negotiations begin in earnest, by the way. They could well be here already, of course, just making us wait…” The Doctor took his glass in his hand.

Suddenly, Balot’s left hand jumped up to rest on the Doctor’s shoulder—without Balot controlling it. “There’s a fast-working sleeping draught in yours, Doc. Balot’s is clear,” whispered Oeufcoque.

The Doctor seemed more nonplussed than surprised. “So it’s Balot they’re after, is it? They’re still hoping for the Trustees to slip up, I guess. They sure don’t give up easily.”

“All seven people in the room, including the bartender, are armed with handguns of one sort or another,” continued Oeufcoque, before his hand moved off the Doctor’s shoulder.

The Doctor shrugged. “Not much I can do to help, then. Looks like you two are on your own, sorry about that!” He clinked his glass with Balot’s and downed his drink. “Urgh…and I’d only taken an antidote just before I came in too. I think I’m going to be sick…” The Doctor pulled a sour face, and Balot looked on at him with wide eyes.

The very next moment the pub entrance opened wide, and in came a well-built man, smiling broadly. “Dr. Easter? I’m Skyscraper. I trust you received my messages?”

“You’re OctoberCorp’s legal representative?” The Doctor’s eyes were already starting to sag. Balot couldn’t tell whether it was an act or not.

Skyscraper smiled again. “I’m one of the legal team, yes. I mainly handle criminal cases and compensation claims. I do apologize for having kept you so long. Please, do come and take a seat over here where it’s more comfortable.”

“Thank you,” said the Doctor, walking over to the chairs as if he were floating on clouds. Balot followed him.

The man who called himself Skyscraper sat down last, squeezing his generous frame into the chair.

“I’ll have the same as she’s having,” Skyscraper said to the bartender when he came to bring over Balot’s glass on a tray. “What about you, sir, are you not drinking?”

“No, I’m fine, thankshh…” The Doctor’s speech was growing suspiciously slurred.

It was pretty clear by now that the Doctor really was getting tired. Balot nudged his shoulder gently. She was trying to tell him that he could fall asleep safely and that she had everything under control, but Skyscraper evidently interpreted this move as concern on Balot’s part.

“You do seem to be tired, sir. We’d better get this over with as quickly as possible, then. Not to worry about your return—we have a chauffeured car on hand to take you both back to wherever you need to go.”

“You put in your request for a pretrial settlement just this afternoon?” The Doctor yawned.

“Yes, although we’ve had all the relevant paperwork prepared for some time.”

“That’s very considerate of you.”

“Ah, yes, well, we may be on different sides, but we do have certain issues in common. Our jobs are to safeguard the long-term interests of our respective businesses by ensuring that our people are protected and that our businesses are allowed to develop progressively.”

“Is that right? Well, uh, I suppose that’s so, isn’t it?” said the Doctor.

“Yes, and we at OctoberCorp are most concerned about the man you brought to trial, Shell-Septinos. We feel that his future prospects are most lamentable,” said Skyscraper.

“Well, you would, wouldn’t you, given that he seems to know everything about everything. And?”

Skyscraper’s beaming face was unflinching in the face of the Doctor’s flippant riposte. Then he shrugged his shoulders and smiled at Balot with a concerned expression.

Balot knew all too well how quickly the smiles of these sorts of men changed.

“The crimes that the man committed are terrible, of course. There’s no denying that. But to refuse him any possibility of rehabilitation is to refute the significance of the law. OctoberCorp’s position is that we would like to give him the opportunity to reflect on his crimes and thereby gradually redeem himself. We will of course, Ms. Rune-Balot, foot the bill for any portion of the compensation that you are awarded and that he is unable to pay you out of his own assets.”

Skyscraper smiled at Balot in anticipation of her answer. This is how much I’ll pay, now will you give me what I want? Balot had seen that inane grin too many times.

It was the Doctor who spoke next, though. “And so it came to pass that Shell lived out his days peacefully under the thumb of his corporate masters… That’s how the story goes, is it? Presumably we get our brown envelope under the table if—and only if—we don’t touch on any, uh, inconvenient truths during the next trial?”

“Dear, dear, Dr. Easter! I do hope you don’t speak quite so bluntly when you’re in court!”

“Maybe not out loud, but I certainly think it. As for your answer, well, I’ll make sure that a reply is sent to you by email through the official Broilerhouse channels. It’ll be a short reply, though. Shorter than the password you’ll need to get into it.”

“And what sort of reply might that be?”

“‘Dear Balloon-face. Eat shit.’ ”

Skyscraper’s smile seemed to stretch even farther.