Mardock Scramble

were born:

“I’d be better off dead…”

She spoke the words. The spell was cast. Her thick red lipstick, heavy on her mouth, felt just that little bit lighter.

“What is it, Balot? Did you say something?” asked the man sitting next to her in the back seat. He was a weaselly figure, with his smooth, swarthy skin and black hair slicked back in a ponytail. He was enrobed in a white coat and was facing the girl. His photochromatic Chameleon Sunglasses, with their shifting colors, settled on a sharp crimson tint.

“Nothing, Shell. I was just thinking about you at the Show earlier tonight.”

When the young girl replied, the man curled his handsome lips into a smile and stretched out his hand toward her.

“It went well today. The deal at the Show. And it’s going to go well from now on.” As he spoke he caressed her cheeks, rejoicing in her soft lines.

There were a number of diamond rings on the gambler’s hands. All platinum with Blue Diamonds. They were taken off during the Shows, and one of the girl’s jobs was to look after them while he was gambling. One of the diamonds was conspicuous, brighter than the rest, and the man called this one Fat Mama, because, as he said, “I called in a favor from an acquaintance who works in processing to have my dead mother’s ashes turned into a diamond.” Motherly love was eternal, so he reckoned, and brought him good luck to this day.

The man had a great many other rings, and the girl didn’t know whether the diamonds on them were made from the ashes of people other than his mother.

“Open the fridge and make me my usual drink, will you?” In response to his request, the girl gave a little murmur of assent, opened the door to the car refrigerator, and made a gin cocktail. She squeezed the lime, dribbling its juices into the drink. The surface of the beverage was absolutely still thanks to the smooth ride that the AirCar provided, and all the while, right up until the moment that she proffered the drink to him, the man’s hand continued stroking her chin.

“There’s a good girl.” The man took the drink, lifted up the girl’s chin, kissed it, and put the drink to his lips.

The man, an upstart from the slums, was now one of the city’s leading Show Gamblers and also the proprietor of many of the city’s legal casinos. The girl was an underage prostitute—a Teen Harlot—whom he’d bought, and (for the time being) she was exclusive to him, not required to service any other customers. On the contrary, the little runaway was treated as a valuable commodity—she’d even been given a new identity, namely a fake citizen’s ID card.

“Everything that you’ve lost, I’m going to give back to you.” That was what he’d said to her when the brothel that she worked in was rumbled and she had nowhere to go. The girl had often heard stories of the authorities granting guarantees of safety—a new identity, name, and address—to informers who had given important information that resulted in the indictment of certain people from the city’s crime gangs. But the girl was hardly looking for that.

“Does this mean that…you love me?” The girl asked this question, and the man narrowed his eyes and smiled. His eyes were shining as he gazed upon her, his irises said to have been turned Emperor Green, a color he selected when he put himself through the operation. And this was what the man said:

“You’ve asked the perfect question. That’s exactly right. The definition of love is to give. And there are rules. Rules that the receiver of that love has to obey. As long as you abide by those rules, you’ll continue being loved.”

The girl, in her simple way, thought that the man was kind. Sticking to the rules was nothing. She’d lived under all sorts of rule and misrule so far. Well, apart from when she ran away from the Welfare Institute, unable to endure any more sexual abuse. But in order to survive since then she had completely stuck to the rules of the adult wonderland she found herself in. She’d done anything, dressed in any way demanded of her.

Nevertheless, one lingering doubt remained: Why me?

She’d asked this question a few times—asked it of the man, asked it when no one else was around. The question of all questions. Why is it me? Why do all the customers ask for me? Why does this man want to give me all these things? Why, out of all the other girls just like me, am I living this sort of life?

The girl really just wanted a simple answer. Like the sort a parent gave a child. Because I love you. She could be loved by the man, or God, or fate. As far as she was concerned, all that mattered was to be loved, and that would be enough to answer all questions such as Why me? That was the answer she wanted from the man. But—

“Never doubt. It’s the road to ruin.”

This rule meant that the girl had to endure a different sort of ordeal from the ones she’d suffered in the past.

“The recipient of love shouldn’t have any doubts. No need to trouble yourself with questions such as Why me? You’re not permitted to have any doubts as to why you are who you are.”

In particular she was absolutely forbidden from touching on the details of the new citizen’s ID card she’d been given.

The result of all this was that she had no idea even of the name under which she’d been registered when he bought her. Not until six months had passed—in other words, not until yesterday.

?

Behind the high-class AirCar that carried the man and girl through the pleasure quarter of Mardock City was a red convertible. One glance at the convertible revealed that it came from the coastal quarter of the city—the fact that it had tires gave it away. It might have been cheaper to buy a lifetime supply of gasoline than to buy an AirCar (with its Gravity Device Engine that ran virtually for eternity without the need for charging), but at least the owners of the car were able to buy gasoline. That showed that they must’ve been at least something in the city.

“Almost at Central Park. We’re going to need to switch cars, eh?”

An easygoing voice emerged from the driver’s seat. A tall, lanky slip of a man. His hair was tie-dyed, and his charming, reddish-brown eyes were covered by a pair of Tech Glasses of the sort that was so popular with lab researchers.

“Let’s stop and take stock of the situation before we head into Central Park. If it turns out to be nothing to worry about, we should withdraw.”

A rich, booming voice answered, but there was no one else in the car besides the driver.

“No way it’s going to turn out to be nothing. I’m the one who led the profiling on him, right, Oeufcoque?” It turned out the man was speaking to the Nav, the in-car navigation system next to the steering wheel. “That man’s been ‘looking after’ six different runaway girls. Of those, four commit suicide. Two, nobody knows their whereabouts. Look at the stats from the Center for Guardianship of Minors. It just doesn’t add up.”

The man spoke with conviction, and the Nav’s lights flashed in answer.

“On top of that there’s the little fact that all the girls died or disappeared shortly after checking their own citizen’s ID for the first time, right, Doc? Well, I calculate there’s a less than two percent chance that this girl has managed to access a Citizen Records Bureau. The way I figure it, all’s well and good as long as nothing happens to the girl.”

The location, speed, and orientation of the black AirCar in front was shown in precise detail on the Nav’s screen.

“Stop being so damn wishy-washy. We’ve staked our lives on this work here. You don’t want to be treated as trash, right, Oeufcoque? If we don’t get the guys who are behind that man then where’s your usefulness? Nowhere. You’ll be useless—and the fate of useless things is to be disposed of.”