Mardock Scramble

“I suppose you’d call it the flow of time. Seven years after the war ended, I was stripped of my doctorate. Well, not only that, I was also held responsible for experiments on live human subjects and was almost thrown in jail. It was kind of the fashion at that time to play the blame game, throw about accusations of the odd war crime here and there. And I was dragged into that game. And, uh, the thing that saved me is our old friend, Scramble 09. We have to prove our usefulness as specialists responsible for overseeing 09 cases. For example, I don’t know, saving your life. And if we don’t do so, our fate is to be disposed of from this world—that’s how it goes.”

At this point the Doctor grinned and pointed at Balot.

“So, for example, the skin you’re wearing—we invented it, and it was one of the inventions banned at the end of the war. And, uh, if you accept it, we can then submit it to the Broilerhouse—the Ministry of Justice—as part of your Life Preservation Program.”

Balot tilted her head. She was alive here and now, and she wondered why they needed a program to preserve her life, to protect her.

“There are people who will try to kill you the moment they learn that you’re still alive. The reason I gave you this technology wasn’t just to bring you back from the brink of death. It was also to give you enough strength to freely defend yourself afterward.”

In other words, Balot’s crisis was the Doctor’s salvation.

The Doctor was the sort who was very good at tying loose ends together, making virtue out of necessity. Some of her clients had been like that. There was a job he needed to take care of, and someone like Balot needed to be engineered, so why not link the two together? Needs must, a client would tell Balot as he embraced her. You can’t make an omelet without breaking eggs, but if you had to break eggs then why not cook them sunny-side up?

But, of course, there was a flip side to sunny-side up—dark, blackened. There were plenty of eggs that could be broken in this world. And this city broke many of them, too many.

“The reason you get to live on for is up to you. If you want revenge, get revenge. If you want to start your life over, you’re free to do as you like. We’ve got plenty of money…or perhaps I should say we’re going to make it. But that’s after you’ve cooperated with us. Do you think you understand?”

She understood well. And that was what a nod was for at times like this. Then the other person would tell you what they wanted from you.

Balot lowered her eyes and gave a small nod.

Breathing an obvious sigh of relief, the Doctor:

“We’re PIs—private investigators, or rather special investigators, specializing in Scramble 09s. On request we solve unofficial cases, acting as Trustees, taking responsibility for Concerned Parties—that’s victims such as you—and making sure that things move smoothly and fairly. In return we’re rewarded by the Broilerhouse, with money and a warranty of our usefulness. It’s even possible that, as a result of this case, the technology that I’ve given you will be made legal.”

Balot considered this, keeping her eyes downcast. And when had the Doctor started referring to himself as we? It was I up until a moment ago, wasn’t it?

And that word, case, again. The sharp cog spinning around in the space between choice and right. All she’d done was make a choice. But what on earth had she chosen? Sure, the Doctor had explained how Balot’s strange abilities worked. But what was their purpose?

What on earth should I do now? As she was thinking this—

“So, what we want you to do is this. First, go to the Broilerhouse and request that you—as the Concerned Party in this case—be given the opportunity to solve it. Next, nominate us as Trustees, as we’ve been in charge of the case so far.”

–Case?

A sudden voice. The Doctor was visibly taken aback.

Balot too was taken by surprise. She’d done it completely unconsciously.

–Whose case?

A voice like static. It was coming from the portable radio. Or, more accurately, Balot was interfering with the speakers, snarcing them, changing the sound into words.

Strangely, though, it was as if the radio were doing the work for her.

As if the radio sensed what she wanted to say and offered to say the words itself.

The Doctor slowly turned his eyes back from the radio toward Balot and spoke.

“Shell-Septinos.”

The moment she heard the words Balot’s heart started pounding. She was able to sense the physical changes that her emotions were causing and could measure them as precisely as clockwork.

“He’s the man we’re after. He perpetrated the crime. We’re the ones who deal with it. Having said that, although he’s bad enough, he’s just a pawn himself, being used and manipulated.”

–In what way?