Mardock Scramble

“I always challenge my own values,” said Boiled.

Faceman opened his eyes, seemingly impressed. “Indeed? So, what are you, then?”

“In order to defend one set of values, humans have to annihilate opposing sets of values. I’m a being created specifically to bring about that annihilation. If it’s humans who make values, it’s also humans who break them.”

Faceman sighed a small sigh. “What a profound thought—and yet so helpless at the same time. Is this your compensation for your own sense of helplessness? Having had your own emotions denied you, with all the highs and lows that this entails, you seek to bring about nihilism in all living beings?”

“This place you call Paradise was built on the back of people’s broken values. You’re the ones who know all about toying with nihilism,” replied Boiled.

“Values come and values go. We’ve thrown out sacred cows in the past, and I’m sure we will again in the future. But as long as we remain fixed on our aim of creation, new values emerge from the detritus of the old. This is most definitely not nihilism.”

“How is this facility—which treats human beings as objects—how is it in a position to evaluate anything?”

“If we’ve treated people as objects, it’s because our observational techniques are subject to our current limited physical and mental consciousnesses. We’re still inexperienced. In the grand scheme of things, we’re still at an embryonic stage, or at most eggs in a basket. That’s why we value Oeufcoque so highly—the Golden Egg, able to sniff out the odor of souls.” Faceman stopped speaking and stared at Boiled. “And you, aren’t you the same, Rusty Gun? I recognize all too well that it takes the full extent of your considerable willpower to suppress your killer instincts. But that’s not enough—at the moment, you’re still just a human-shaped weapon. How do you ever hope to regain your soul?”

Boiled stood silent a moment. “I kill in order to protect my client’s rights and interests. I don’t kill for any other reason.”

“Human beings strive to become gods and are ever frustrated in their efforts. You try and regain your emotions—the missing ingredient to make you an omnipotent god—through using your killer instincts to try and steal them back. But that path won’t lead you anywhere other than down your own road to ruin. The proudest warriors and hunters in history come across as modest and humble in comparison to you.”

Boiled’s hand went back into his breast pocket. This time there was contact with steel. “Soldiers have their values constantly repudiated on the front lines. Call me worthless if you like—it means nothing to me. The only people who recognize my value are my enemies.”

“The only people who see value in you are people who repudiate their own values,” said Faceman.

“Deep in their hearts, all people know that there’s no such thing as real value.” Boiled withdrew his gun. Without a moment’s hesitation, he pointed it at Faceman in front of him. “I need you to answer my question. What is Oeufcoque checking up on Shell about?”

“You don’t really need me to answer, now that the poisonous rust has so thoroughly spread through your body. As things stand, you’re nothing more than a motor propelled by survival instincts and your intent to kill. Do really think that having Oeufcoque in your hand will serve as a substitute soul?”

Boiled cocked the gun. A second later, there was a ferocious roar, and the white table flew apart in all directions, clods of earth flying through the air.

There was a sudden gust of wind that blew away the lingering acrid smell of burnt gunpowder. The cage that had been on the table was now floating in midair, protected by an invisible shield, and from within the cage the Professor stared out at Boiled with a serious expression. “The technology you use to deflect bullets was developed right here.”

Boiled fired. The bullet was deflected, smashing to pieces a tree stump in the background. Such incredible destructive force—and yet it was unable to influence the state of affairs in the slightest.

Boiled grunted. The Professor’s eyes narrowed. The trigger was pulled again.

This time his bullet grazed the cage, sending sparks flying into the air.

The gravitational field had been breached, and the bullets could now brush past the cage.

Yet—that was as far as it went. Even so, Boiled kept his gun pointed right at Faceman.

“Why don’t you ask your own client?” the Professor asked quietly. “Why would we know the details of what Oeufcoque or Dr. Easter or Rune-Balot are looking for? This case is between yourselves. Why doesn’t your client share this information with you?”

Boiled stared at the Professor, gun still pointed at him.

But Boiled pulled the trigger no more.

“Do you really think that Oeufcoque would ever return to you—you who have cast aside all emotions, even trust?” asked Faceman. His voice was terribly, terribly sad.

03

–This is a…what do you call it?

Tweedledum was in the water, taken aback.

–That’s it…a storm. I’ve never seen one before, but this is definitely a storm.

A storm was what Tweedledum called the swirls of information that were flying about Balot. He was shocked.

–I’ve worked out how to trace a program back to its origin, I think.

From the outside, Balot looked as if she were swimming gently underwater.

The information that Balot’s words referred to flew violently around the water, turbulent currents forming themselves into liquid electronic circuits that could be expressed and understood semantically, so that Balot could effortlessly read and communicate the information.

Brain—this word, with all its meanings and nuances, became the foundation of the information now. Compiled around the image of Shell, she collected every piece of information that was conceivably related to her search before filtering them out for relevance.

Balot’s state was now such that all she had to do was bring something to mind, open up her heart, and it was done. Whatever image she sought. This would then pass through the artificial Lightite skin that covered her whole body, transforming into electronic signals, snarcing through the swirls of information with great vigor.

–There’s a copy…definitely…a trace…

A large bubble—a long sigh—escaped from the artificial respiratory organ that was appended to her mouth. She continued with half-open eyes.

–Eighteen years’ worth of his memories have all been transformed into recorded data…

She looked up at the light above her with her eyes half-asleep. Her eyes then closed further.

–It’s all coming together.

When he heard Balot’s words, Tweedledum gave a short shrill chirp of surprise.

–Amazing stuff, babe…

And then, at that instant, all the information was sorted; the irrelevancies and the dead-ends discarded, only the cold, hard facts remained.

–I’ve managed to analyze a specialist computer program used by Shell to transfer his memories onto writable media. There are traces of evidence suggesting that the program has been implemented. What happens is that all his memories relating to his five senses are selected and isolated, leaving the parts of his memory relating to his imagination and his desires intact. So, when it’s all turned into recorded data, the gestalt of his brain’s memory form is destroyed and he loses all his physical memories.

The information was now pouring out automatically, as if Balot was no longer speaking of her own accord.

–There’s a particular type of storage file he needs to use in order to save all eighteen years’ worth of audiovisual memories… It’s a particularly complicated storage file that requires a very specific type of metalwork to make. That’s how we determine our route—traces of that metalworking.

–Aha! So there’s your magic bottle that holds eighteen years’ worth of brains, huh?