Mardock Scramble

case? The girl must have known what she was doing, must have been well aware of her abilities.

This senior executive, Shell, 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 Shell 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 rebutted the DA’s arguments, claiming that the whole story was a fabrication by the plaintiff, designed to steal Shell’s assets 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 Shell merely wanted to rescue Balot from her struggles. After all, Balot wasn’t forced to live with Shell 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 buttons marked yes or no, or occasionally the no answer button. 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 Shell 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 institute.

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 them as a way of life, each child deep in their personal hell.

Once, a girl from the institute 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 institute’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 Shell 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 institute 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 sexual relations with her father. Starting from when she was even younger than she is now. Isn’t that right, Miss Rune-Balot?”

The courtroom rustled. 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 assistant 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 button.

–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 courtroom held 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 passed 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.