Mardock Scramble

Tweedledum said to Balot, who was now virtually sleep-walking, or sleep-floating.

–And where is that bottle, right?

–Every time he does his money-laundering, he skims a bit off the top. He falsifies his own expenses. I think I’ve worked out a pattern. Using this I can work out roughly what his fortune is—both his official one and his black market one. Every time a girl dies, more money swirls around…

Balot felt a chill in her heart as she transmitted this, as though she had swallowed a cold knife. Her pulse was steady, and yet she felt a sharp pounding in her heart.

–Why me?

As she asked the question, the information that was swirling all around her seemed to change course.

–That’s it…

Balot stared at the silent swirls of light that surrounded her. She took a deep breath, trying to put aside the feeling of sheer hatred, the overwhelming desire to kill that had sprouted up inside her and was now rising to the fore. Trying to calm herself, she exhaled slowly.

–The answers are all in Shell’s memories.

This was Balot’s conclusion.

–For a memory transplant…you need lots of money and the right facilities. The flow of money, evidence of computer programs being used, Shell’s actions, special facilities for memory transplants, payments to certain people, the girls used at the time…

Before long, Balot could feel, through her skin, all the results of her searches. She had her moment of satori, when she knew that no matter how many more times she interrogated the information she would only arrive at one inevitable conclusion.

In her dream state, Balot felt all the cogs of the wheel slotting into place.

–Have you found it, babe?

Tweedledum’s voice was distinctly under pressure now.

–Yup—got it.

Balot slowly turned over to Tweedledum.

–The inside of our egg—rotten to the core.

?

–Mr. Boiled? Boss? Mr. Iron Man? Fuck! Why isn’t this thing connecting? Piece of shit.

Medium spoke not with his voice but through the transmitter implanted in his head. The electronic signal disappeared mournfully into space.

Medium checked how long he had now been inside this giant structure. Just over an hour. In that time he had managed to penetrate the security defenses with ease, in the process killing three guards with his two-hundred- thousand-dollar butter knife—that magnetized blade.

His knife made easy work of the three, and he cut them into pieces to store them in the lockers in the guardroom, not forgetting to first strip the uniform off the guard closest in size to him. Medium then donned the uniform himself.

After that, Medium had obtained all the information he could from the guardroom. The blueprints for the whole facility, including the plumbing and wiring. He downloaded what he could from the information circuits, copying it straight into his intracranial hardware, and took a few minutes to digest it fully.

When he had finished that operation, he covered his bald head—his glassy pate suggested more “inpatient” than “security guard”—with the regulation uniform cap, and left the room.

He had followed the patrol route carefully and had planned on contacting his new boss, the one that sent him here, but now he wasn’t able to get through. It seemed that the whole building was set up to block the transmission of most electromagnetic frequencies. He had noticed back in the guardroom that there was a particular wavelength that did seem to work, but even that was being shielded by something at the moment.

With his knife still gripped casually in his right hand, Medium continued down the corridor as if he were on a pleasant evening stroll. He passed a number of doors to either side of him, occasionally branching out into a spacious lobby or a terrace encased in glass, but there was almost nobody around. Even when he came across the occasional group of people, it was always old people attached to machines, or researchers huddled together in deep discussion. There was no sign of anyone who looked remotely like a young lady.

Eventually, the hardware in his head scored a hit. “Rune-Balot,” Medium murmured. His internal computer had managed to crack the flimsy password that protected the visitor records. He grinned. Both corners of his mouth swerved up to abnormal lengths. Behind his sunglasses his eyes glittered red, and Medium moved toward the area that the data entry pointed toward.

It wasn’t long before he arrived. There was a thick door in his way. Medium got out his Lockbuster Card and shoved it casually into the slot in the wall. He looked into the retina scan with his mechanized red eyes, which projected a fake iris for the scanner to recognize. Then he took from his pocket a human finger that he had removed from one of the security guards he’d killed and placed it onto the DNA scan, gripping tight. The fingers on his own left hand—blown off only the other day—had been replaced with electronic substitutes. His new metal fingers picked up the finger on the DNA scan and crushed it. Blood dripped out onto the machine, and the ID check was complete.

“Here, kitty, kitty, kitty! I’m coming for you!” Medium was laughing now, a high-pitched squeal. The door opened with a heavy rumble.

He took a step into the room. “Oho!”

He scanned the insides of the room.

Against the backdrop of the verdant foliage, the bright sunlight, and the warm breeze, Medium danced about with his brutal knife held in one hand. It was almost as if he were waltzing. “Man, this is hardcore! They’re not kidding when they call this place Paradise! What a blast! What a great place to play with my little kitty-cat!”

He swayed from left to right, brandishing his knife every which way. Plants and flowers fell to the ground, burnt, scorched. Silver flashed all around, and his eyes glowed bright red.

Then, in an instant, his manic spree was over. Medium had seen someone. He crouched down and approached, circling around the trees so as not to be seen.

“Who are those guys?” he murmured to himself, exhaling through his nostrils.

No one was moving. Some were in wheelchairs, others lying down in the gaps in the shrubbery. All were staring up into the sky with content expressions. It was as if a number of stationary mannequins had been dotted about the place as decoration.

Medium stayed in the thicket for a while, observing the stationary people, but then he revealed himself, walking toward them with rough, deliberate footfalls.

And yet no one seemed interested in either his gleaming red eyes or the blade in his hand. They didn’t even try and look at him.

Soon he was standing next to a woman with abnormally white skin. She was sitting in a wheelchair. He peered at her, stooping over her to take a sniff. He heard her breathing, faintly. The woman showed not the slightest movement. Medium rubbed the top of her head with his knife-wielding hand. He parted her hair, as if savoring the sensation, and noticed that there were surgery scars across the back of her scalp.

He brought his knife-wielding hand back to his own chin, deep in thought.

Then he took a step back to gauge his distance before kicking the wheelchair viciously.

“Hey, you fucking blow-up doll! What’s the matter? Look at me, why don’t you?” He kicked her repeatedly as he shouted.

The wheelchair trembled but absorbed most of the impacts, and when the woman looked as if she were about to topple over, a cushioned arm extended from the chair’s frame to catch her body, propping her up.

Medium snickered. “What a fetish someone must have. All these living sex dolls…”

He looked around with a fierce grin on his face. However much he shouted, the people just stayed absolutely still without lifting a finger, the gentle breeze blowing against their blue hospital robes.

Medium took the hair of the woman he had just kicked about and put it neatly back into place. He took her