Mardock Scramble

and to taste—metaphorically and literally. The shark is able to sniff out a single drop of blood in the ocean from a distance of many kilometers—why shouldn’t it be driven by the desire to know, to taste what it has just smelled?”

Faceman gave Boiled a look to say that he was now about to speak more seriously than ever. “Shall I tell you what the true nature of violence is, Boiled? It’s curiosity. That’s what’s lurking in the shadows, behind almost every single act of violence anywhere. To know everything of your target and to exercise your own strength and will. To taste everything that there is to taste about oneself. Whatever your motive is for fighting—the feeling of victory, a sense of duty, to compensate for feelings of helplessness, as a road to self- actualization, or due to abnormal character traits—the true nature, the essence of violence remains the same.”

It was as if he were patiently explaining to Boiled why exactly it was that Boiled was pointing the gun at him.

“There’s no impulse in this world more violent than curiosity. And, paradoxically, it’s none other than curiosity that drives people, and animals, on to live. Those who understand this fact—and strive to resist it—they’re the ones who are worthy of the name human.”

Faceman finished speaking and stared at Boiled more closely than ever. “Boiled, my friend, do you really understand where your curiosity—your interests—are taking you in life?”

“The only thing that interests me these days is annihilation.” Boiled’s voice was dignified and solemn.

Without warning, he lowered his gun. At the same time the electromagnetic field surrounding his body started to fade away. “I sense someone employing powerful electronic interference somewhere in this facility.” Boiled raised his other hand into the air as he spoke.

Faceman realized that the regenerative metal fibers in Boiled’s hand were responding to a powerful snarc coming from somewhere else in the facility.

“I will now proceed to search for the person who’s causing this electronic interference. Any attempt to obstruct me will be penalized under the law,” said Boiled.

“Ah, but you do realize that the punishment doesn’t always fit the crime?” Faceman answered in a way that seemed designed to poke fun at Boiled. “What’s more, you do realize that if you try and move from this spot right now, the Cherubim will bring the down the full force of Paradise’s punishment on you.”

“They can try.” Boiled spun around.

As soon as Boiled started to walk away, one of the sharks circling the skies responded.

Boiled didn’t even look up at the shark that was now plunging down toward him with flashing teeth.

Vicious sparks erupted as the shark slammed into the PseudoGravitational Float wall that surrounded Boiled’s body, deflecting the shark completely. Even so, the shark stayed hovering above him, mouth still open, inching closer to Boiled by generating a PseudoGravitational Float of its own.

“My consciousness-threshold figure, with the magnetic devices implanted in me, is above 95 percent.” Boiled looked back at Faceman.

Faceman opened his eyes in surprise. “When you were in Paradise, the figure wasn’t even 60 percent. Are you saying that life in the pathologically disturbed society of the outside world made the machinery in your body meld with your flesh to such an extent that—”

“I’m no longer your creation. I’m a monster, a creature fallen from Paradise.” As he spoke, he pointed his gun at the shark above him.

The shark’s teeth grated against the magnetic wall, making a keening sound.

Or rather—the wall emanating from Boiled was stopping the shark from closing its mouth and getting away.

Boiled casually placed his gun-wielding arm inside the shark’s mouth.

At a stroke the shark’s PGF wall was ruptured, and the muzzle of Boiled’s gun roared to life.

There was an explosion. The single shot—bolstered by Boiled’s PGF—was all it took to rip the shark apart from the inside, causing it to splatter like a burst water balloon.

Boiled’s revolver was more like a tank gun than a pistol—certainly, it was just as powerful.

If someone like Balot had tried to fire it, her hand would probably have been ripped off by the recoil.

Boiled was able to wield such an impressive weapon not just because of his physical strength but also because he could use his PseudoGravitational Float to support it.

The other sharks were now swimming around quickly in the sky, on the alert for Boiled.

The atmosphere was pregnant with greed and deadly rage—and teeth.

“When did the sharks ask you to give them the ability to fly through the air?” Boiled asked, his dark eyes fixed on the swarm of sharks above him.

“One three-dimensional space seems to be as good as another for sharks. Water or air, it’s all the same to them. In much the same way as one place is as good as another as a battlefield for you.”

Another soft rainfall came from above their heads. The rain was no longer red. Cleaning equipment was in operation to wash the blood away.

The outlines of the sharks could still be seen speeding their way through the rain. Then, with terrifying speed, they flew at Boiled, a mass of teeth and artificial gravity: toward his head, his front, his back, his flanks.

Boiled moved. He took a step forward, readying his gun in front of him.

The noise that ensued could no longer be described as simple gunfire; it was a series of explosions. The shark that charged at Boiled head-on had its head blown into tiny fragments, with the rest of its body careening into a white birch tree behind Boiled’s back, the shark’s internal organs splattering across the clearing, giving off the stench of ammonia.

One by one the sharks were crushed by the force of Boiled’s bullets—or, in the case of those who did make it as far as his PGF field, by the force of impact as they slammed into his invisible shield, tumbling over to the ground, unable to move.

The keen smell of ammonia and shark blood pervaded the air, and the surrounding trees were now repainted anew in a bright red even more vivid than before.

Boiled sidestepped quickly from left to right, and one by one, with lethal accuracy, shot down the bundles of flying teeth as they approached him.

Before long there were ten or so sharks blown out of the sky and heaped on the floor. The remaining dozen or so sharks were now circling overhead at a safe distance, perplexed.

Boiled just stood there wordlessly in a sea of shark blood, staring at Faceman.

Not a single drop of the shark blood stained his body.

His eyes showed an utter lack of interest in continuing his conversation with Faceman.

All he was thinking about was how to smash the thick PGF field—one far beyond that of the sharks—that surrounded Faceman’s cage.

“So you choose conflict right to the bitter end, do you? Whether it’s quarrels with OctoberCorp or Trustees on Mardock Scramble 09 cases trying to prove their usefulness, it seems that all everyone on the outside does is fight. It’s as if you want to give the lawmakers yet another excuse to ban our technology, serve it up on a plate for them,” Faceman said.

Faceman pointed to Boiled’s gun with his chin. “That’s the gun that Oeufcoque used to turn into, isn’t it? An object whose only usefulness is as a tool of destruction. It’s also the empty shell of Oeufcoque—the carapace that he molted, if you will. And that’s all you have now as a substitute for a soul—a substitute for Oeufcoque.”

Boiled was about to open his mouth but said nothing. His words were swallowed up by the annihilation that he exuded, turning into so much nothingness.

“You’re nothing more than a shark who has smelled blood. A shark brimming full of curiosity, searching for the perfect weapon.”

Seeing that Boiled had nothing to say, Faceman spoke his final words quietly. “And now art thou cursed from the earth, and a fugitive and a vagabond shalt thou be… Go then, on to the East of Eden…”

Boiled did just that.

04