Mardock Scramble

new hideaway. I’d better go and negotiate with the Broilerhouse directly.”

Even as he spoke his fingers were tapping away at the keyboard furiously. He was evidently in communication with the DA.

There was another ping, and the Doctor’s expression brightened.

“Marvelous, our man at the Broilerhouse has given the go-ahead to open negotiations. I’d better head straight there…hope we don’t get attacked while I’m out. Mind you, even if I was here, I doubt I’d be much help in battle.”

“Well, we’ve vetted the police protection that we were assigned after the trial, and their histories all check out. We trawled through the files for all eight of them, spanning the last twenty years—spotless. They should be able to protect us for long enough for you to have your Life Preservation Program discussions, at least,” said Oeufcoque.

“Let’s hope so. Still, let’s not discount the possibility that the enemy will see my absence as a window of opportunity to attack. Be careful.” The Doctor flicked a switch on the machine, pulled the cord out, and headed over to the red convertible in giant, lanky strides.

“Right, I’m off. Make sure you lock all the doors. And listen to what Oeufcoque tells you.” He called out to Balot and the car left the parking lot, letting in the crimson light of the evening sun from beyond the shutters.

Balot snarced the shutters closed, and then made the pitching machines set themselves up to fire automatically. She was about to recommence her training.

“Best not tire yourself out,” Oeufcoque advised.

–Let me go on a little while longer, please? It takes the edge off my mood.

“Fine, but don’t overexert yourself.”

–Just a bit of stationary target practice, then.

Balot stepped back on top of the silver platform and gripped the gun with both hands. She fired in time with the balls as they flew toward her.

She fired with her right, she fired with her left.

As she did so, she snarced Oeufcoque to ask him some questions.

–Who’s going to attack us? Your former partner?

“I don’t know. And we don’t know for sure that anyone’s going to attack us.”

–Did Shell have those surgeons rubbed out? Why?

“Something to do with the business deal he’s involved in at the moment, no doubt. It’s probably safe for us to assume that Shell’s memories are being recorded and preserved in physical form somehow. That’s given us a useful clue, anyway.”

–Who do you think actually killed the surgeons?

“A gang of professionals, I imagine. The sort who work as a team, kidnappers-for-hire.”

–Do you think they’ll come and attack us?

“It’s highly probable.”

–And if they do attack?

“Then our police protection should send them packing.”

–But what if the kidnappers get them too?

“Then it’ll be up to us to finish the job.”

–We kill them? Balot asked as she pulled the trigger.

–I should shoot the people who attack me, like this, is that what you want? Like I shoot that ball over there?

“If it becomes necessary then yes, you shoot your assailant in self-defense. But that’s not the same thing as shooting them in order to kill them.” Oeufcoque was in full-blown lecture mode now.

–Okay.

“Let’s take a rest now.”

–No, I’m still good. Just a little longer, please?

Balot was firing away on complete autopilot now, mind completely blank and free from obstructive thoughts.

Slowly, at the back of her mind, the question posed by the counsel for the defense re-emerged.

Why didn’t you resist?

That was what the attorney had asked her. Just as so many men had asked her before.

The answer was silence.

There had never been any answer other than silence.

Ever.

Except that now there was sound to rip apart that silence—the sound of gunfire.

Balot continued firing the gun.

06

The gasoline-powered van cruised around the neighborhood, the airline logo on the front and Meet and Greet plastered in large lettering on the window.

By and by it arrived at its destination. It parked, and two tall men emerged from it.

Both men wore sunglasses and thick coats.

“Five minutes, Medium. Let’s secure the area,” one said.

The other nodded. “Roger that, Welldone. Moving into position now.” As he spoke he walked directly toward the entrance of the residence.

Left hand in his jacket, he pressed the intercom buzzer with his right hand and whispered, “I’ll tidy up here as Well prepares the radar. You’ve finished hacking the telephone line?” Medium pressed his forehead with his hand, tilting his head, listening to a voice meant only for him.

A noise came from inside the house, and he smiled.

And so it was that Boiled’s hounds—the Bandersnatch Gang—were released.

A sound over the intercom:

–What do you want?

“This is your transport shuttle from the airline company, sir. Sorry to have kept you waiting.”

–We never ordered any…

But the hand that had been inside Medium’s coat was out now. It held a card-shaped device.

He stuck the card into the electronic lock on the door.

An electromagnetic Hutchinson Knife appeared from his other sleeve, as if by magic.

It all happened in an instant.

The door opened with a click. A thick security chain dangled across the door, but the knife sliced through it like butter, its magnetized blade causing a link in the chain to fuse and shatter.

The door opened and Medium entered. The man who had been speaking into the intercom was standing there in the entrance hall, his face blank with astonishment and terror.

Yo—he started to say, but Medium threw a knife at him, and it plunged into his open mouth. The magnetized blade sliced through the back of his head, causing all the moisture in his mouth to evaporate in an instant.

Medium caught the already-dead man by his lapel and propped him up to stop his fall. He pulled the knife out and carefully laid the man’s body down. Not a drop of blood was spilled, but instead the whole area was filled with the pungent smell of burnt flesh.

There was the tinkle of a bell, and a red light glinted off his eyes behind his sunglasses.

“What is it? What’s that car? And that smell…” A voice.

Medium’s eyes, now vermilion, glanced at the wall and saw another figure emerge.

Left hand still gripping the knife, Medium let his right arm hang loose by his hips.

“I wonder which one of us is the faster draw,” Medium said aloud. He smirked and stood deliberately in the middle of the corridor. The other man appeared from beyond the door and was immediately taken aback by the figure confronting him—and the two red eyes behind the sunglasses.

The man, frenetic, reached for the gun at his side. He was too slow.

Medium unsheathed his gun and fired a shot that left the barrel almost noiselessly. A hole opened in the