Mardock Scramble

Chapter 3

CRANK-UP

01

The Stairway to Heaven shone, dazzling, beautiful in the morning sun. The spiral stairway—the unofficial symbol of Mardock City—wound round in three circles before stopping cleanly in midair, an unfinished monument that was designed to be just so.

Symbols of Jupiter—the planet of the king of gods—were carved into its outer edge, and every part of the handrail and supporting pillar was ornamented with scenes from the myths.

The monument that migrants had built long ago to express their hope and their faith.

Mardock—the Stairway to Heaven—was now seen by the steady influx of people into the city as a symbol of their own dreams and ambitions. This epitomized life in the city: to climb to the top, to arrive, was the ultimate virtue.

Under the stairway that soared up over the municipal offices of the Broilerhouse, Balot waited, Oeufcoque wrapped round her neck as a choker and the newly besuited Doctor beside her.

–Every time I look at this staircase I can almost see the phantoms of people falling from the top.

Balot snarced Oeufcoque, and he replied, “It’s the system that people devised long ago, sorting the world into winners and losers. But it doesn’t necessarily have to be that way—there’s more to mankind than that. We’re just talking about part of a system. Try not to let it get to you.”

–If I fell from the top, I’d die, wouldn’t I?

“I’d turn into whatever tool I needed in order to prevent that.” Oeufcoque’s voice may have been small, but it was wonderfully reassuring to Balot.

Balot readied herself, then entered the Broilerhouse with the Doctor.

The court hearing started at nine thirty precisely and later broke for a thirty-minute lunch recess.

After everyone was seated they waited another two minutes for the judge to return from the restroom.

Twenty minutes later Balot decided on absolute silence, and before long the time was 15:32 and the judge lowered his gavel, signifying the end of the proceedings.

The six hours of deliberations produced results that were entirely satisfactory as far as the Doctor, Oeufcoque, and the district attorney were concerned. For Balot though, it was all one long humiliation.

“The fact that you can’t speak may well turn out to work in our favor. Consider the impression it makes,” said the DA just before the discussions started.

“It might only be a grand jury, but there’s no better way of demonstrating the suffering you’ve been through,” said the senior assistant district attorney, a man in his early thirties—the DA assigned to their case. He was welcoming the Doctor and Balot who had joined the throng of court personnel congregating on the eleventh floor of the Broilerhouse on Central Street and was treating them like royalty. He wasn’t the only one—DAs who were supposed to be busy with other cases were finding reasons to drop by the waiting room to catch a glimpse of Balot.

Hey, is that the survivor that everyone’s talking about? She seems in pretty good shape to me, what’s she going to accuse them of?—they could hear these sorts of snippets of conversation from the other side of the door.

“Some of the veteran DAs like to make fun of this sort of case,” said their DA apologetically. “They still don’t think prostitution or rape is anything to get worked up about.”

Their DA seemed different, though. He said so himself, and the Doctor introduced him as a different sort of man. A man who was sympathetic toward innocent victims, women who were the victims of violence, and those of a low social standing.

“The counsel for the defense will probably follow the same line of thinking. Are you sure you’re ready for that? Just try and compose yourself as much as you can. Remember, the counsel for the defense doesn’t really care whether their client is guilty or not.”

The DA smiled brightly as he gave Balot her instructions. As if that was part of the plan to ensure that Balot would be nice and relaxed.

“Remember, the truth means nothing to these people. No matter what sort of criminal their client is, they’ll use every sort of legal trick up their sleeve to try and get them off the hook, and in return they’re rewarded in the region of sixty thousand dollars a year, a pretty damn good salary these days…” The DA shrugged his shoulders at this point, as if to say he was troubled by it, but what could you do?

“And it’s our job to face these people, specifying which of the material witnesses should be treated as suspects,” he continued with a shake of his head. “The counsel for the defense we’re up against in this case is quite a formidable opponent, I have to admit. Even as we’re bringing the lawsuit against them, there’s no sign of the defendant, Shell-Septinos—he’s not in jail, and he’s not even been named a formal suspect. He hasn’t even denied the charges—just called to have the deposition denied. Well, to make up for it we left everything right till the last minute ourselves, as well, I suppose, not letting them see the charges before we absolutely had to.”

The DA giggled, as if he’d told a particularly witty joke.

“I bet there was some discussion among the other side’s camp when it came to tactics—they would have been wondering right till the last minute what we were going to hit them with.”

Balot just sat there, still.

In the waiting room. And later, at the DA’s table in the courtroom. She sat still, making no noise or sound of movement, just enduring words such as She seems fine to me or Well, it stands to reason, I’m not surprised.

“So I’m sure the defense will be unnecessarily—well, they’ll say all sorts of things about you and won’t pull any punches. If he could get a not-guilty verdict for his client by appealing to the court’s latent misogyny, he’d do it, make no mistake. At any rate, all you need to do is stay calm—even more so this time given your injuries—and all you need to do is to press the yes, no, or no answer button.”

At this point Balot nodded for the first time. That was all it took for most men to take the lead, tell her what to do. The DA was no exception.

“Well then, let’s go,” said the DA, heading toward the courtroom with the petitioner and Concerned Party, Balot, and the Doctor, who was the Trustee in charge of the case.

In the elevator the DA spoke to the Doctor. “I have to say, you’re looking good, Mr. Easter! I wish you were always dressed like this—you’d put my mind at rest no end.”

The Doctor’s hair had been dyed back to its original black and was combed down and slick.

His suit looked good on him—it made him look gentlemanly, like a man of distinction. The Doctor gave a shrug and a little smile. The DA relaxed a little and then whispered in the Doctor’s ear.

“But for next time let’s rethink the girl’s outfit. We’re trying to show that she was a poor girl from the West Side preyed on by one of the East Side rich, and she’s a little too—elegant—for that.”

Balot could hear that too. Not the precise words, but a general sense of what they were talking about, by sensing the atmosphere. Unconsciously she folded her arms and wished for something to wrap around her tights. Her dress was dark, of course, just as the DA had specified, with the skirt hem coming down past her knees. She dealt with his request as she did with any of her clients who were fixated on her clothes.

Oeufcoque, still a choker, said nothing.

His existence was a secret to all other people, of course, but even if it hadn’t been, Balot wouldn’t have wanted him to say anything at this moment. There was still an egg-shaped crystal hanging from the choker, but this time there was a simple geometric pattern at its core, not a picture of a golden mouse.

09:25 hours. Balot sat at the plaintiff ’s desk.

On the defense side was the counsel, the accused man himself, and the Trustee for the defense.

Balot was very conscious of her own abilities. She didn’t have to look that way, but she knew where everyone was and what they were doing. The defendant was calm, composed. There was a very faint sign of fear, but it wouldn’t be this man doing the fighting in any case. And he wasn’t the one who was going to be hurt. That was the counsel and the Trustee’s job. And Balot’s job. The accused didn’t even look at Balot.

A number of reporters from the press—with their tags dangling from their necks—had firmly ensconced themselves in the front row of the spectators’ gallery, and all eyes were on Balot. They were here with a very different set of aims from Balot and the Doctor.

They were here, inevitably, to write up events as scandalously as they could.

They wanted to write about Balot as a modern-day Lolita. Someone who was all too aware of her sex appeal though still a girl, a girl who had seduced an important man from the amusements company, bringing him to ruin; that was how they were looking to make the story play out.

How had she become the lover of this important man? And how was the girl connected to the Trustee of her case? The girl must have known what she was doing, must have been well aware of her abilities.

This senior executive, Shell, was a foolish man too. Not only had he been deceived by this girl, he was now being forced to spend hours and hours in this place, time he should have been spending on important business.

Deceived. By a little girl. By anyone. Never mind what actually happened, the details were trivial—if the defense could twist the facts to this conclusion then they’d have it made, the perfect story. The best sort of copy.

The trial began, and the district attorney started off by stating in detail the injuries done to Balot. He explained how premeditated and how deliberate Shell was in inflicting these injuries. And what his aims were in doing so—what was he hiding?

At each stage the counsel for the defense interrupted with objections such as “Irrelevant!” and “Conjecture!” He rebutted the DA’s arguments, claiming that the whole story was a fabrication by the plaintiff, designed to steal Shell’s assets by improper means.

The defense counsel then pressed his case further, explaining in minute, piercing detail the track record of Balot’s dissolute and slovenly lifestyle, diligently arguing that Shell merely wanted to rescue Balot from her struggles. After all, Balot wasn’t forced to live with Shell in the first place—she’d gone there voluntarily, or would it be more accurate still to say that she’d forced herself upon him?

As he did this the DA resisted in turn with strong objections of his own: “Counsel is deliberately trying to shift the focus” or “Counsel is appealing to the emotions, not the facts!”

Now and then Balot was called on to testify, and at such times she pressed the buttons marked yes or no, or occasionally the no answer button. Whenever a more detailed answer was required of her she wrote her answer on a designated sheet of paper and handed it to the clerk.

The courtroom was not set up to be particularly sympathetic to those who couldn’t speak. Instead, everything was rather awkward, stilted. As if to say, What do you mean, someone who can’t speak is appearing at the trial? An uncomfortable atmosphere pervaded the courtroom.

And it was toward such a person—Balot—that the counsel for the defense would use phrases such as “You reap what you sow” or “The defendant can’t be held responsible for the plaintiff ’s choices.” At the same time the DA emphasized the enormity of the suffering that Balot had been subjected to.

The grand jury craned their necks from left to right following each of these exchanges, as if they were following the volleys in a tennis match. Good? Evil? Like a rally. As if they were playing a game, climbing a flight of stairs, muttering guilty, not guilty, guilty, not guilty alternately with every step, and whichever foot they ended up on at the top of the steps would be the decider.

“So, at the beginning, why didn’t you resist?” asked the defense counsel. “If Shell really manipulated details of your status, or forcefully raped you, or trapped you in a car, there must have been some point at which you actually tried to resist him?”

While the DA was objecting, Balot thought back to her time in the institute.

Back to the time when she was told, year in and year out, by the social workers what a bad girl she was.

Some of the volunteer workers weren’t like that, of course. But some were, and they were the ones who had more clout when it came to the everyday management of the children’s lives.

And so it was that when, for example, a male volunteer would rape a child on a lower bunk bed, the child on the upper bunk could only tremble in dread and pretend to be asleep. They had fear drummed into them as a way of life, each child deep in their personal hell.

Once, a girl from the institute dropped a kitchen knife on her foot when she was on kitchen duty. Balot watched as the girl’s foot was skewered through her slipper. Balot remembered seeing the tip of the knife protruding from the sole of the girl’s foot. And, of course, the girl had dropped the knife—thrown it at her own foot, actually—on purpose, knowing that if she hadn’t then something even worse would have been lying in wait for her that night.

The girl was taken to the institute’s medical wing, but she had to return two days later. Hobbling on crutches. Three of the workers gang raped her on the night she came back.

“Why didn’t you resist?” the defense counsel asked Balot, bringing her back to reality. If Shell was deliberately trying to hurt Balot then surely there would have been some sign of resistance, no?

The DA objected. Speaking rapidly, in a loud voice.

Why hadn’t she resisted? Everyone tried to escape. Some of the children did manage to adapt to life in the institute the best they could. Those who’d worked themselves into positions of influence, of authority. But for the vast majority of the children, all they could think about was escape.

And after surviving under conditions that felt like you had a knife to your throat every minute of every day, after having every aspect of your life regulated by those in charge—food, drink, shelter, leisure time, friendships—at the end of it all they asked you why you didn’t resist. The same adults that never gave you the slightest chance to do so in the first place.

Balot’s reply to that question was no answer.

Eventually they arrived at the recess for lunch, and the DA conferred with the Doctor regarding the points where they were losing ground.

Balot and Oeufcoque ate lunch while the others talked in elaborate detail about possible strategies to ensure the case progressed from the provisional jury to indictment. She could barely eat anything, and he hardly spoke.

–I want you to understand that I’m doing this for your sake, Balot explained to Oeufcoque.

After a short pause Oeufcoque responded. “These are just procedural formalities. They’re not for my sake or for your sake. The real battle comes later.” He seemed somewhat apologetic on one level, but at the same time was deliberately keeping these feelings in check. In order to prevent himself from accidentally letting slip any words of apology, such as I’m sorry or This is inexcusable of me.

Balot gripped the crystal on her choker and squeezed hard.

“At this point I will need to disclose some shocking facts,” said the counsel for the defense. Brightly. As if he were relishing his duty—as, indeed, he was.

“This girl had sexual relations with her father. Starting from when she was even younger than she is now. Isn’t that right, Miss Rune-Balot?”

The courtroom rustled. A hesitant, low rumble.

The DA jumped up. “Objection! Irrelevant, a meaningless question.” But the court’s interest had been piqued. The jury was curious, and who was a mere senior assistant district attorney to stand in the way of a jury’s curiosity? He gritted his teeth and took a seat.

Balot stared right back at the counsel. Coldly. Coldly enough to freeze the poison solid in her heart. Slowly, calmly, she pressed the button.

–Yes.

The courtroom erupted. The judge banged his gavel. The counsel pressed further questions. Pointless, stupid questions.

“Was it your father who initiated this?”

–Yes.

“Did you resist him?”

–No.

The courtroom held its breath, not even daring to swallow.

“Why didn’t you resist?”

Balot scribbled an answer on the paper she was given and handed it to the clerk.

The clerk then passed the paper to the judge, who read it aloud: “Because I loved my father.”

The courtroom erupted in noise, like a kettle overflowing. The judge banged his gavel wildly, repeatedly.

“You mean, as a man?” continued the defense counsel.

–No.

“Then you loved him as a father?”

–Yes.

“You had sexual intercourse with him more than once?”

–Yes.

“Many times?”

–No.

“Can you remember precisely? The number of times?”

Balot raised her hand and lifted three fingers.

“Three times?”

–Yes.

“Your older brother attacked your father violently when he learned of your relationship, yes?”

–Yes.

“Do you know why your brother felt so angry at your father?”

–Yes.

“Why?”

Balot was given more paper. She scribbled on it again, passed it to the clerk again, and again the judge read it out: “Because he loved me.”

Further excitement in the courtroom. A number of the reporters rose from their seats, running to pass on the news.

“Did he look at you as a woman?”

–No.

“Then as a younger sister?”

–Yes.

“Now, as a result of his injuries, your father was admitted to a hospital in the capital as a severely disabled patient, yes?”

–Yes.

“Did you ever see your father again after that?”

–Yes.

“How did that make you feel?”

Balot, head bowed, didn’t answer. The DA leaped up and shouted, “Objection, an irrelevant question.” The judge banged his gavel. The counsel continued down a different line of questioning.

“Do you still love your father? As a father?”

–No answer.

“Why can’t you answer?”

Balot remained silent.

“Do you love your father as a man?”

Balot shook her head emphatically. The DA objected, screaming. As if to intercede, Balot raised her hand to call the clerk over for some paper. On it she wrote: “I don’t know how I should feel about my family anymore.”

“Not just your father?”

–No answer.

“Your brother is still in the penitentiary, isn’t he?”

–No answer.

“After that, your mother entered an ADSOM facility—that is to say a rehabilitation center for alcohol and drug addicts—and still lives there to this day? Is that right?”

–No answer.

“Did your mother know about your relations with your father?”

–No answer.

“Do you believe that what’s happened to your family is your fault?”

It was a reflex action. Balot didn’t press the button. But she did snarc it.

–Yes.

No one saw that Balot had actually not pressed the button, but then, no one was about to pay any attention to that now. Apart from the Doctor. The defense counsel then asked her a succession of additional questions. Balot just stared at the one button, fixated, snarced it, and made sure her will was unwavering.

Balot’s answers to all the additional questions were the same: No answer.

02

Balot’s father was a mild man. He had a beard but didn’t make a frightening impression. He had a healthy physique and was a sound blue-collar worker. He was somewhat rustic—burly—but had a gentle grip. Even when his motor neuron disease started taking a turn for the worse and he was down to three fingers on his right hand, he still gave off an aura of gentleness. On his left hand he only had his thumb. His four working fingers undid Balot’s uniform when she returned from school one day.

That was when she learned to project her consciousness into space. As Balot’s father’s fingers and tongue tentatively caressed her body, she felt an unknown feeling well up inside her. Desperately trying to suppress this feeling, she launched it into the air. There were the unbearable feelings of guilt, and then there was her clear, calm consciousness. With half-shut eyes she looked at the room, looked at the furniture, and tried to project her consciousness onto something else.

But she hadn’t yet perfected her technique of losing herself.

Sometimes her voice leaked out. Naturally. Like in the movies, when a woman was embraced by her lover. She fought it. Biting down on her lips, frantically averting her eyes. Trying not to look at her father’s face.

How long had she been doing this? Then, all of a sudden, a feeling to extinguish any lukewarm waves of pleasure. A red-hot scalding sense of bitterness. It was penetrating her. She heard her father’s voice, apologizing. She heard her own voice asking him to stop, please. But the pain intensified, and her father started moving his body.

She tried forcing her father back with both arms. Her father was crying. He gripped her arms tightly with his hand with three fingers. His tears dripped down onto her arms and breasts. As if he were vomiting up blood. Eventually, the waves of pain subsided into silence, and a lukewarm liquid—different from tears—trickled down her thighs.

This was the “lucky guy” that the Hunter spoke of. This was why she had no answer when the defense counsel asked her why she didn’t resist.

She could recall her father’s face from then—full of sorrow—anytime. She could barely remember him looking any other way.

She’d wanted to do something about this sadness. Balot didn’t really understand that her father had just made love to his own twelve-year-old daughter as he would a woman, and in any case she wasn’t really in a position to refuse.

After the last time they had relations, Balot was taking a shower, mind blank, when she heard shouting and screaming. And then—a burst of gunfire.

Balot wrapped a bath towel around her body and came out of the shower to look on the scene. Her older brother, screaming like a mad dog. At his feet was her father, writhing in agony from a gunshot wound.

When her brother saw his little sister, steam rising from her half-naked body, he cried out maniacally.

Her brother was a volunteer at ADSOM. The reason he worked there could be traced back to childhood, when his mother shouted at him for not properly holding the end of the tube she was using to bind her arm as she was shooting up.

Balot’s brother was as neurotic as their mother. He was trying to save her from herself, but despite his good intentions, his irritation and hatred grew violently. And her brother was pretty much the only one in the family who could do a proper day’s work to earn a living wage.

So her brother was always on the lookout for opportunities to earn money more efficiently.

Before long he got mixed up in bad company and became a gunrunner. This all came out in the investigation into his father’s shooting, and her brother was consigned to the penitentiary.

“It was all for nothing,” her brother said to her at their last meeting.

Balot wasn’t able to say a word and just watched her brother’s back as he was led away. Then she herself was put into the institute, which was just as bad as prison. For a long time she thought of the institute as her punishment. That she was the one who broke her family up, so she was the one who deserved to be punished. Words that were said to her at the institute—bad girl, you’re a bad girl—still resounded in her ears.

The counsel for the defense unceasingly pressed his line of argument: the explosion was a complete accident and Shell had absolutely no murderous intentions. Indeed, Shell had been trying to rescue her, but she wouldn’t trust him and started violently clawing at the door handle—and that had made the whole situation worse. He pointed to several scratch marks on the inside of the AirCar door as proof. As if the whole thing was Balot’s fault.

The defense counsel spared no effort in his exertions trying to persuade the jury of this.

Balot seduced her father without hesitation, wrecked her own family, plunged wildly into the uninhibited lifestyle of the dropout, and did whatever took her fancy—a Teen Harlot such as we’ve never seen.

So the counsel continued. Should we really abandon Shell-Septinos to his unfortunate circumstances, this man who had gone through trouble upon trouble to reach his position, working hard, motivated by his healthy ambition? Rather, shouldn’t we be supporting such a man, who showed such kindness toward a girl such as Balot?

Right now, Shell-Septinos is worried—frightened that he might have committed murder. Because he can’t remember the details of the day in question, due to his memory disorder. Of course, the girl knows all about his condition, and she’s trying to take advantage of it.

This was how the defense counsel argued.

The DA hit back with all he had. He summoned to the witness stand the Hunters who were investigating the case and the Doctor as an independent PI. He explained exactly how the girl had become an innocent victim, a sacrifice to one man’s vaulting ambition.

After it had all finished, the DA said to Balot’s team, “That counsel overplayed his hand, I think. However you look at it, our girl here was calm and composed, and she was obviously hurt. That’s all going to make an excellent impression on the jury. Not a single one of these jurors is a university graduate. That’s in our favor too. Because Shell has manipulated his own status records, passing himself off as a member of the elite, a university graduate. I have to admit I was a little worried at first, though—our girl is beautiful and elegantly done up, after all. There are some jurors who refuse to believe that a defendant can be guilty unless they see a victim at death’s door, shredded to pieces.”

Ultimately, though, there was one word that emerged from the proceedings that interested Balot above anything else: ambition.

A regular man, motivated by his healthy ambition.

No: he was a pathetic man, who had found a way of climbing up society’s greasy pole—or stairway—and was prepared to discard everything else in order to achieve this, just so he could lord it over other men and women, as if he were some sort of a hero.

Balot could see this clearly now. I’ve been a fool, she thought, and at the very same moment she felt a burden—the cursed voice that told her that she was a bad girl—lift cleanly from her shoulders.

That was the one ray of sunshine that she’d gleaned from the whole experience—the silver lining to the gray clouds of humiliation.

If she quit now there was nothing left. This was now a matter of life or death.

She understood this clearly. That was why she could stay so calm.

Why me?—she imagined yet another answer to this question.

Beyond that answer lay Balot’s personal stairway, the one that she was destined to climb.

Balot left the courtroom with the Doctor.

The DA was in an excellent mood. He said that the next time they returned to the court it would definitely be in the form of an official trial—he was so enthusiastic that it wouldn’t have been surprising if he’d broken out into a cheerleading routine for Balot. The DA bid farewell to the pair for the time being, and Balot and the Doctor were just at the Broilerhouse entrance and about to leave when they noticed a man silently approaching them. A man so solidly built that even the shadow that he cast seemed enough to swallow them up.

“Boiled…” Taken aback, the Doctor spoke his name out loud without meaning to. The man who had sat at the table on the defendant’s side. The man who had threatened Balot. The Trustee supervising the case on Shell’s side—Dimsdale-Boiled.

For the first time Balot was within spitting distance of the man and faced him directly.

He seemed even more humorless, even more lacking in emotion, than ever. Violent, dusky eyes stared out from under his wide brow, gaze fixed on Balot. Or at the choker that Balot was wearing.

“The full details of the lawsuit will be made available to the defense from now on. It’ll mean that I get to start my operations in earnest.” Boiled, heartless as ever, clearly directed his words toward his former partner Oeufcoque. The former partner he had fallen out with spectacularly over some obscure incident.

Balot stared right back at him, head-on.

“I’ll find it. Withdraw your case.” Boiled was undoubtedly talking about their hideaway. His voice was light and indifferent, but it carried the impact of a thunderbolt.

Balot’s knees quivered. Acid rose in her stomach.

The man looked at Balot. As if he had noticed her existence for the first time.

“When you have the time, be sure to ask Oeufcoque about my MO for solving cases,” Boiled said, then turned his back. His footfalls made almost no sound at all as he glided away. In the distance they saw Shell-Septinos appear, and the two men climbed into a car.

Balot stood glaring at them from the entrance of the building. She watched where they were going. And the building, and all the people around her.

The fear inside her was being pushed aside by a feeling she had never experienced before: fury.

It was the first time this had ever happened. When she came to, she noticed that her knees were no longer shaking.

She breathed out quietly. It was like blue fire pouring from her lips.

It was live or die. And now her whole body was making its choice.

Still glaring at the world, she put her fingers on the crystal hanging down from her choker.

–Show me your way of doing battle.

03

“That was a weird scene we just witnessed. And I’m experiencing weird emotions too,” Shell muttered. His Chameleon Sunglasses gave off a dull glint the color of zinc. “I don’t have a single recollection of ever being nervous or frightened. All that vanishes whenever I have my Clapping, my memory preservation operation. But…it’s weird.”

At this point he looked at Boiled. “I’m frightened,” Shell said, shivering. He wore a forced smile.

Boiled gave no answer. He just nodded ever so slightly and drove on in silence.

“I can understand that I’m experiencing fear. I can even understand why this situation is making me afraid. What I don’t get is, why her?” Shell stretched his neck forward as if he were looking for an answer from the sky beyond the window. “We’re talking about a girl that I, in my current state, have never met—never even heard of her. A puny, powerless little girl. And yet I’m afraid of this. Just thinking about the fact that the girl is still alive makes me choke on my breath.”

He loosened his tie as if he were indeed having trouble breathing and took a flask from his pocket.

“Business is business. Sacrifices need to be made—things, people. And the most important sacrifices have the honor of shining on as precious jewels on my fingers. Nevertheless, this time I’m surprised. I’m afraid from the bottom of my heart. Because that girl isn’t on my finger yet. Why is that? Why?” he moaned as he opened the flask with trembling hands, taking a violent gulp of its contents.

“What on earth was it that made me want to kill that girl?” He was speaking to himself now, between gasps. Behind his sunglasses his eyes were bloodshot. Alongside the scotch he downed a large handful of the Heroic Pills that he’d bought cheaply at insider rates.

He stared pointedly at Boiled with his eyes that were now bright red and inflamed. “Tell me now, when exactly did you say this girl was going to disappear forever from the face of this earth?”

“Soon enough…” Boiled spoke quietly, and this was all he would say. He controlled the steering wheel without the slightest hint of wavering and directed the AirCar toward the foot of the high-class Senorita district in the east.

Shell’s lips suddenly twisted into a crooked smile, and he laughed an unsteady laugh. “That man who was at the trial today—he seemed very flaky for a former partner of yours.”

“That was the maintenance staff.”

“What?”

“In other words, that one’s a tricky enough customer all right, but he’s not the one we really need to worry about.”

“He’s not this Oeufcoque you keep talking about, then?” Shell’s lips were again distorted. He was frantically trying to conquer his gnawing fear, turn it into hatred and murderous intent.

“No, Oeufcoque never shows himself in public. He’s always teamed up with someone else.” Boiled spoke in a low voice, cold and machinelike.

“But you’ve got his number, right? You know his MO, his special skills,” Shell insisted, staring unblinkingly at Boiled from behind his lead-colored sunglasses.

“And the same goes for him. He knows me well—my MO, and my special skills.”

“In short…” Shell started. Silence reigned, then eventually he found the words to continue. “He’s going to be a tough nut to crack.”

Boiled nodded.

“But who are you saying he’s partnered with? That lanky guy we saw today? What’s he hoping to achieve by standing behind someone like that?”

“Perhaps it’s not that man,” said Boiled.

“Then who?”

“That’s what we’re going to find out. That’s why I need to hire some people. Starting tonight—from a place that you don’t know about.”

“Well, feel free to use the hidden stash of money as you need. Do as you please. Just be thorough and show no mercy,” said Shell.

“As you say.”

“I’m…terrified. Even though I’ve never once been frightened gambling at a Show, even with hundreds of thousands of dollars at stake. No job is supposed to faze me. And yet…” Shell’s teeth had suddenly begun chattering, and his limbs were shaking.

The truth was that Shell was wavering. From a place so deep within himself that even he didn’t know what was happening right at that moment. Accordingly he was panicking about all sorts of things.

“Flashbacks!” Shell spat the word out under his breath. Then he shook his head stubbornly. “That’s absurd. There’s no way I could be having such things. How can my past be coming back to haunt me…”

He trailed off into a faint moan—this man who was always wiping his mind’s slate clean—and then he leaned over toward the driver’s seat.

“So, what are we talking about? What sort of people are you planning on using, for example?” Shell asked like a rabid dog, drooling and baring his teeth.

“The sort of person who works not just for the money but also for the satisfaction they get out of their target.” Boiled’s voice was low and calm. “I’m talking about the type who enjoy treating people like objects, slicing them to pieces and using their remains as ornaments.”

The meaning of these words gradually dawned on Shell.

Behind his sunglasses his eyes narrowed before gradually widening.

“That’s…fine,” he said with a smile. A gruesome smile that twisted across his face. “That’s excellent. And while you’re doing that, I’ll continue with my business. My deal, a huge deal, a deal for my benefit. That’s what I’m going to use to run farther up the stairway. The stairway to heaven—Mardock. I’ll run far enough, high enough, higher, higher still, that my past will never be able to reach me. Far enough that my past will vanish forever.”

Shell continued his feverish mutterings as if he were speaking in a nightmare.

Boiled dropped Shell off at his luxury apartment and sped off in another direction.

He headed toward the riverbank, stopping at a car park in a mall along the way.

There he switched cars. From the AirCar to a normal gasoline-powered car. A car that he had left there beforehand.

Before setting off again he opened the trunk of the new car. There were two attaché cases within.

He checked their contents, first one, then the other. Then he got into the car and headed straight for the harbor.

The evening sun was painting the sea a bright scarlet as he reached the gates that marked the checkpoint to the harbor.

Boiled handed over his ID card at the gatehouse.

The security guard, a young man, stuck the card into his machine to confirm that Boiled’s jurisdiction was active and asked with a whistle, “An incident at the harbor, eh?”

Boiled took the card as it was returned to him, shaking his head. “Not a big one.”

The young security guard was clearly thrilled as he opened the gate. “Call me if it looks like anything’s about to go down. I train every day at the shooting range, you know.”

“Guns won’t be needed.” Boiled cut him down instantly, but this only impressed the young security guard even more.

“Just as I thought—a true PI.” He nodded in agreement.

The car entered the harbor, where heavy machinery was lined up all around. He drove past a giant mechanical crane that looked like a mutant crab, which was unloading a multicolored convoy. He passed the part of the convoy that had been stripped of its load before turning around and returning, skeletal now, via the overland route from which it had come.

Boiled parked his car in the car park where the trailers were lined up, took the attaché cases from the trunk, and carried one in either hand as he walked toward the boats. He soon spotted the crane that he was looking for.

BANDERSNATCH: ANIMAL HUSBANDRY EXPORT AND IMPORT

The billboard was written in large letters above the crane house. Boiled looked up at the person in the cockpit. He slowly approached the workplace videophone and pressed the call button.

–Whassup?

A crude-sounding voice answered. Then an image. A man in fatigues.

He had a broad face partially hidden under a mass of dread-locks. His skin was brown like a scorpion.

“Where’s the company?”

–You gotta say which company you talkin’ about.

The man maneuvered his body uncomfortably in the tight cockpit so that his ear was on the earpiece.

“I’m bringing payment. For the company that’s said to be involved in animal husbandry import and export,” Boiled informed him, and in return received a shrill laugh from the video phone.

–What’s your name?

“Dimsdale-Boiled.”

–Heard aboutcha from the boss. That’s us. Import and export of livestock. Wait a sec, I’ll just get everythin’ sorted. Come on to the weir. Yeah, come inside the white line.

Boiled did as he was told. Before long a giant shipping container was lowered down from the sky. A rectangular box big enough to fit a whole house. It was an impressive sight to behold as it hit the ground with a thump.

The electronic lock on the door lifted, and the door slid open sideways. Boiled entered the container, and as he stepped in, the door closed behind his back automatically.

It was dark inside, but not for long. Pale fluorescent lights illuminated a number of workspaces divided by partitions as well as filing cabinets and sofas. There were even monitors on the desks. It was like being in an office somewhere.

An unexpectedly high-pitched giggle emerged from behind one of the partitions.

“Are you surprised at the contents of our trailer? Welcome to our offices.”

Judging by voice alone, it was a young girl who spoke. But when the speaker emerged from behind the partition he was clearly a man, probably in his late thirties. He had evidently had an operation of some sort on his vocal cords. He was very small—short—and had long hair. His hair was all one length, with parts of it blond, others streaked red, all of it random.

Boiled took one look at the little man, then continued to scour his surroundings.

“It seems we’re moving.”

There was a sensation of gradual elevation. The whole container was being lifted up again.

“Don’t you worry. Little Minty is a veteran crane operator.” “The man in the cockpit?”

“The very same. Mincemeat the Wink. Used to be a bomber helicopter pilot. A famous pilot in the Commonwealth Forces, he was a proper macho little angel of death, raining down his showers of fire on the Continent.”

“Where are you planning on taking me?” asked Boiled.

“We’re just taking you aboard our ship. That’s our home base, you see.”

Boiled didn’t ask any more questions. He made no move to put down the attaché cases in his hands but just stood there in silence, facing the little man.

“You’re a real hunk, Mr. Boiled. Little Minty is quite the tough guy, but you’re not bad yourself.” The little man seemed fascinated by him. “I’m Rare the Hair, by the way. That’s my registered trademark within the company.”

He combed his hair upward with a flourish. His multicolored hair flowed like water through his fingers.

“Isn’t my hair lovely?” Rare asked, tilting his thirty-odd-year-old face toward Boiled. His skin was abnormally smooth. It was white and appeared slippery, and when you looked closely it seemed to be composed of various different types. You couldn’t quite see the patchwork, but there was no doubt that Rare was a modern-day Frankenstein’s monster, born of the latest technology.

Boiled looked at Rare’s eccentric person with an expression devoid of emotion.

“We’re almost there. While we’re waiting, I think I’m just going to go ahead and keep on gazing at your cute little poker face,” Rare said in the clear voice of a little girl. The giant box they were in was slowly being lowered. There was almost no swaying now, but Boiled could tell that they were now atop a much bigger object.

“Oopsie, here we are. What a shame! I could have stared at your face all day long.”

The door opened and another man entered. Blond hair, blue eyes, and gave the appearance of a successful businessman.

“I am sorry about this. Having to go through this rather elaborate charade. Do please take a seat, make yourself comfortable,” the blond-haired man said.

“Ooh! And I’ll sit next to him! That’s okay, isn’t it, Medi?” asked Rare.

The blond-haired man shooed Rare out of the way with a wave of his hand, as you would a dog.

Rare gave a cackle and leaped around the sofa in a circle like a little child at play.

“Welcome, Mr. Boiled. Given our respective professions, shall we dispense with the formalities of a handshake?”

The man went to sit on the sofa opposite Boiled, fluttering his hands as if to show them off. His fingers were unusually pristine. Each finger was prepared meticulously, nails well-manicured so that they were squeaky clean and sparkling, and then covered with a blue nail polish. But when you looked at them as a whole they seemed oddly mismatched.

“Medium the Fingernail is how I’m commonly known in this line of work. It’s a nickname. Like the aliases university students use when they’re looking for playmates online.”

“I need confirmation of the results before I tender your remuneration,” Boiled said. His hands were resting casually on the attaché cases.

Medium dropped his banter and undid his tie before unbuttoning his dress shirt.

Rare, now standing diagonally behind Boiled, gave an affected yelp and then mock-shyly covered his face with his hands.

Despite his squirming he was looking through his fingers, getting a good peek at Medium’s rippling torso.

Boiled watched the scene play out, expressionless as ever. He looked at the pendants that adorned Medium’s chest. Medium took these off and placed them on the table. Carefully, one by one, so that they didn’t rest atop one another.

“Still alive,” Medium said. “The metal cylinders used as the basis were for exchanging bodily fluids, and the metabolism is still there—they still regenerate. You can use them as decorations straight away. Even the nails grow properly and the skin flakes off as it should.”

“From how many people?”

“Five right thumbs—Uncle Toms, I call them. If you take their prints you should find they fit exactly. Five brain surgeons—three male, two female. Just like you ordered, right?” Medium laughed amiably. Like a black marketeer boasting how scrupulously fair he was in his business dealings.

“Doctors’ fingers are pretty rare and valuable, as far as they go. So I’ve taken the liberty of keeping one for myself. See—the pinky from this left hand. From one of the two female doctors’ hands. Absolutely beautiful.”

“Just the fingers?” asked Boiled disinterestedly. Medium laughed and shook his head.

Just then the man who had been operating the crane entered the container.

“Hey, Medi, I’ve finished loading the crates. The other guys hit our container and damaged it again, so I’ve sent the idiots a demand for compensation while I was at it.”

He was suddenly at the side of the sofa. He was both bigger and taller than Boiled.

“Thanks for your hard work, Mincemeat. This is Mr. Boiled,” said Medium.

“Yeah, we just met. How was my driving, not bad, eh?”

“Mincemeat, Rare, you two show Mr. Boiled your shares of the loot too,” continued Medium.

“Ooh, even mine?” asked Rare.

“So, uh, you’re interested in our collections, are you?”

Boiled stared at them quietly and said, “Just for confirmation.”

“You mean from those doctors, don’t you? Wait a sec, I’ll fetch them for you right away.” Rare slipped by Mincemeat and hopped away.

Mincemeat stood still and unzipped his fatigues. “Kayleigh and Linda. Girls should be kept close to your heart, don’t you think? And on my right breast, Daniel. Last, these guys on my left arm are Rick and Steve. These two seemed to be good buddies, so I planted them together. See, they’re looking at each other.”

It was as he said. The two eyes embedded in his left arm started blinking, as if they were staring at each other.

“I thought that doctors’ eyes might have been cold and unfeeling, but as it turns out they’re quite romantic. In particular this Linda—she seems to have taken quite a shine to this guy in my stomach, Rock, a big-shot lawyer.”

“Ah, little Minty, that’s just because of how your muscles developed after the transplants,” said Medium.

“Don’t be a spoilsport, Medi. Here, everyone, let me introduce you all to Mr. Boiled.” Mincemeat flexed his muscles, squeezing tightly. The eyes, which had been winking away all over his body, opened their lids as one and turned to look at Boiled simultaneously.

Boiled stared back grimly. The eyes were neatly lined up in pairs, complete with lids, eyelashes, and tear ducts. A number of the eyes were red and swollen, as if they were crying for someone to release them.

“Sorry for keeping you all waiting—Gosh, little Minty! What a naughty boy you are!” Rare had bounded back into the room and was blushing bright red. “Here you go, here’s mine! Five people’s worth.” Rare showed Boiled some pieces of skin and hair pressed between plates of glass, folded up neatly and soaked in liquid.

“None of them really take my fancy, to tell you the truth. The hectic lives they lived meant they didn’t have much time to look after their hair, I suppose,” continued Rare.

Boiled ignored him and turned to Medium. “And are there any of their parts that you discarded?”

“When they catch a whale on the continent they use up all the parts. I mean all—skin, bones, nothing goes to waste. The only part they discard is the nothingness left after the whale is gone, so to speak.”

“And what do you use the parts for?” asked Boiled.

“The flesh is used for transplants, scientific research, as decoration—or as a delicacy,” said Medium.

Rare giggled. “We sell them to people who really get off on the idea of eating human flesh.”

Medium pointed at Rare as if to silence him. Pointing with a finger that could have come from anybody. “We get a good price for the bones, for marrow transplants, or to medical students. And the internal organs have long since been reserved. Even parts like appendixes,” said Medium.

“And the parts that you’ve taken for personal use?” asked Boiled.

“We’d agreed that these were to be part of our payment…”

“That’s fine, I just need confirmation.”

“Well, it’s all safe, everything’s okay. They’ve all vanished. Not a single drop of blood left. Transplant technology advanced in leaps and bounds as a result of the war. There aren’t going to be any leftovers. Three cheers all round,” said Medium.

“And the data the doctors were working on?”

“We’ll show you to our analysis department straightaway. Follow me, sir,” Medium beckoned.

Boiled stood up and followed Medium deeper into the container, an attaché case in either hand.

“Ooh, that back—manly, but in a very different way than yours. And what smooth skin for a man!” Rare whispered to Mincemeat as they followed behind.

It was a giant container with a series of joints where it could be dismantled. Medium unlocked the electric lock on a door that divided two of these joints and headed in.

“Please do come in. This is the information HQ for our company. One of our members is a specialist in data management. In the war he was a distinguished Comms soldier—hey, Flesh! We have a guest!”

Inside were various computing and communication devices strewn all over the place. They walked through the gaps, tracing a route to a place surrounded by even more equipment, when some flabby mass wobbled round at them.

“Hey,” said a sweet voice. His eyes were black and wet.

He had no hair and gave the impression of a young boy’s head protruding from a mass of flesh.

“I’ve been watching you since you entered the port. Using the harbor cameras. Now that’s probably the man we’ve been waiting for, I thought to myself. He’s that sort of person, I thought,” the mass of flesh croaked. He sounded like a precocious schoolboy.

“Indeed, Flesh. This is the iron man himself, Mr. Boiled. Be sure to treat our valued client with all the respect he deserves,” said Medium.

“Welcome, sir. I’m Flesh the Pike. In charge of information ops.” He pointed at himself with his right hand as he spoke. His hand was like a pale baby’s hand that had been grotesquely overinflated. Boiled watched Flesh—and his hand—in silence.

Flesh was wearing something that at first glance looked like a gown, but on closer inspection turned out to be more like a giant sheet that covered his fleshy mass. There was an incredible amount of fat there—the word obese wasn’t enough to describe it accurately.

The sheet was swollen into a bizarre shape. From the outside it was impossible to tell even whether he was sitting on a chair or was just sprawled out on the floor. He could have been standing.

Boiled put his attaché cases down and took a step toward Flesh. He stood in a position so that he could see a number of monitors all at once, then spoke.

“Show me the data. The neurotreatment reports that the five doctors were collaborating on.”

“Just a moment.” Flesh’s whole body started trembling under the gown. As he stared at the screen his fat hands plugged something into the port that was embedded in the back of his neck at the top of his spinal column, his fingers moving with surprising agility. It didn’t seem to be the sort of device that plugged into his brain tissue directly—rather it was a simple output device from his brain.

“It’ll be a little while. We’re covering our tracks as we go, you see, falsifying the University Hospital’s data at the other end as we download them for ourselves. Wanna have some fun while we wait?” asked Flesh.

Boiled didn’t say yes and he didn’t say no.

Still, Flesh continued, looking up at Boiled with a drowsy expression. “I don’t mind this man touching them. This man knows about our little hobbies, right, Medi?”

“Mr. Iron Man didn’t seem to find anything too objectionable when I showed him mine—or when Rare or Mincemeat did,” said Medium.

“That’s what I thought, most probably.” Flesh grinned. He fiddled around for a while loosening his gown with his chunky fingers. The gown fell to the floor, slowly, nonchalantly.

“Go on then, just a little. I don’t mind if you feel up my collection.” Flesh’s voice cracked as he made his mound of flesh wobble. A mountain of white meat swayed as one. Boiled could now see that they were women’s breasts. Hundreds of them.

Pairs of breasts protruded from his whole body—particularly his chest and stomach—clustered together like bunches of grapes.

Flesh wasn’t wearing any clothes under the gown. But he couldn’t really be described as naked, as there was no way of telling where his skin ended and where the stolen flesh began. His feet could just about be seen protruding, dangling, from under the mass, and it seemed that he was resting on some sort of easy chair. Breasts ran down both sides of his thighs and calves.

“Not interested. Just give me the data,” Boiled said. Flesh gave a creased smile and put his gown back on, nodding knowingly, glancing fleetingly at Medium.

“I like people who are honest about their tastes. To each his own, that’s what I always say,” said Flesh.

“We’re talking about Mr. Iron Man here, Fleshie. He’s not interested in your Oedipal complex. He likes his fetishes a little more hard-boiled, like me,” said Medium.

“So it seems.” The plug in Flesh’s back started flickering and making a chattering sound.

Flesh scanned the surrounding monitors with a quick flash of his eyes. As with breasts, he had hundreds of monitors, and they too were quivering, this time with lists of seemingly random numbers.

“Okay. All done.” Flesh reached out to one of the monitors. A machine that was evidently designated for writing data started whirring, and a disc popped out into Flesh’s portly fingers.

“Here you go. This is now the only copy of this data in the entire world.”

Boiled took the disc, lifted it up as if to look closer, and squeezed. Until the disc was no more than crumbs of plastic and magnetism.

The data—once the contents of Shell’s memory—was now oblivion.

“And the rest is silence,” said Medium. Boiled glanced at him.

Then, for the first time since entering the harbor, Boiled nodded.

04

“You must be growing weary of carrying those heavy bags around with you, sir. Won’t you let us lighten your load?” Medium asked Boiled as they left the room, as if he were sharing a particularly witty joke.

“I was told that there were five members of this company. I’d like to hand it directly to your boss. Judging by the size of the exterior of the container, there should still be other rooms here. Where are they?” asked Boiled.

“Ah, our boss is not at home just this—”

“There’s someone else inside this container right now. In the Comms Room just now I saw a record of the changes in mass aboard the container. There is someone I haven’t met moving around inside.”

“Well…it’s not that we’re trying to hide the boss exactly. It’s just that he’s in the middle of sorting through his collection, you see…” But Medium had accepted the inevitable and was leading Boiled toward another wall.

“You’ve got telecommunications equipment embedded in your heads, haven’t you?” Boiled asked, and Medium turned around, startled. “And those eyes seem mechanized too. You’re constantly circulating information between yourselves, are you?”

“Well, that’s how we do business,” Medium explained, and pressed the intercom buzzer on the wall.

–Have him enter.

The reply came immediately. There was suppressed laughter. A voice that evidently knew all about the exchange that had just passed between Boiled and Medium.

A section of the wall slid across, revealing the entrance to another room.

In the middle of the room was a man reclining on a leather chair, facing away from them. The chair turned.

“You’re a proper pedigree hunting hound to have seen through our gang’s little secret, Mr. Boiled,” the man said, flashing his white teeth that contrasted beautifully with his dark skin. He was of the same race as Shell, but he had an almost inhuman air about him. He straightened up with a snap. His hair was short and he had a tattoo on his temple. He stared at Boiled with piercing eyes that belied the usually soft features particular to his race.

“To be able to identify the leader of a pack immediately—that’s an important quality in a hunting hound. Looks like the Bandersnatch Company has found itself a worthy partner.” As he spoke, he swung his left hand from the floor to the wall. He wore a single black glove on this hand. There was a golden chain on the back of his hand that jingled as he moved.

It was the sort of glove that could be used in bondage. It covered the pinky and ring finger, but the remaining fingers were exposed. These seemed to be the important fingers. He flicked them rapidly.

In response to this movement a table rose up from the floor, a sofa appeared, and a cocktail bar folded open from the wall. The hitherto empty room was now the very picture of a prosperous merchant’s drawing room.

“Do sit.”

Boiled did so. The two men now sat opposite each other. Medium headed toward the bar to assemble some glasses.

“I’m Welldone. My friends call me Well. A nickname, of course. Everyone here likes his nickname. One of the tricks for getting ahead in the underworld. By creating your own alias you make it easier to meet other like-minded people.”

Welldone brought his hands together, the one with the glove and the one without, and grinned.

“The alias that I chose for myself is Welldone the Pussyhand.”

“There’s one set of parts that I’ve not seen yet. What does your gang do with them?” Boiled asked under his breath.

Still grinning, Welldone snapped his fingers. “Two dry martinis, Medi. Plenty of kick.”

Then he showed Boiled the palm of his gloved hand. “I collect them all for myself. Male and female. But I sometimes sell them. I don’t often transplant my collection onto myself. Reason being that I’m only looking for the one, and it’s only the rare and exquisite pearl that interests me.”

There was a silver zipper on the palm of his glove, and he unzipped it slowly.

Boiled watched with his unflinching poker face.

Behind the zipper, splitting his palm from top to bottom, was a vulva, lips ever-so-slightly apart. It was pink, and no pubic hair seemed to have been transplanted along with it.

Welldone took a finger from his right hand and slid it down the slippery crease, opening it up. Like another zipper.

A clitoris emerged from the top.

He tickled the red slit some more and it started giving off a shiny liquid.

“I’ve even got a proper vagina grafted into a crack in my flesh, so to speak. The urethra is, sadly, just for decoration. The owner—now, that’s a secret, but suffice it to say that everything about her was like a rare jewel. I traveled around the world for her, to obtain her, and the technology needed to transplant her. And now I have her in my hands. Or should that be in my hand?” He grinned.

The sort of grin a ferocious beast might grin, one that concealed a razor-sharp bite.

“My pretty little pussy cat, so tight and so sensitive.”

Welldone zipped his glove up again and received a cocktail from Medium, beckoning to Boiled to do the same. Boiled too took a glass in his hand, and looked back at Welldone.

“We don’t shake hands in our line of work. Nevertheless, we can raise a glass and drink to the demise of our mutual enemies,” Welldone said, and clinked glasses with Boiled before downing his drink in one gulp and placing his glass on the table. “Let’s take this opportunity to seal a deal—we’ll make your future contracts a priority from now on.”

Boiled finished his drink in silence. He then placed one of the attaché cases on the table. “Your reward.”

Medium collected it stealthily and took a step back from the table. He checked its contents and glanced at Welldone’s back. Welldone nodded without turning. Welldone went on to explain that all five of the company members, not just he and Medium, were linked by communication devices planted in their heads. “We’re each other’s eyes, ears, and weapons. That’s what gives us our strength.”

Boiled placed the other case on the table and opened it himself. “An advance payment and to cover your costs for your next target.”

Welldone leaned forward to sniff the case like a dog. “How many people?”

“One—although there are two PIs as Trustees, and the civilian police force will do their bit to interfere,” said Boiled.

“So why are you offering us so little?”

“Because you’ll find the target to your taste. Dispose of the target’s body as you like.”

Welldone lifted a disc out of the case between two fingers, suspiciously.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“A video featuring the target.” Boiled stared at Welldone, unflinching.

Medium moved to his side and received the video. “We’ll check now, all five of us.” He snapped his fingers. This time a different wall opened up, revealing a large TV screen.

Rare and Mincemeat entered the room and sat down on the sofa as Medium stuck the disc into the player. Flesh was able to watch the same video from his own room.

Nobody spoke, but the sense of excitement was palpable. They were about to acquire a new target.

Soon the video began. The picture was noticeably grainy; it was obviously a cheap flick. As a movie it was barely watchable, but when the girl appeared the gang were glued to their seats.

They watched the girl as she lay still and was used every which way, and suddenly the room was full of the most unbearable tension.

“Nice fingers she has on her.” Medium was the first to speak once the first scene was over. “Innocent and yet…supple. I’ve wanted a better pinky on my right hand for some time…”

Rare was next to speak. “Magnificent hair. Her skin looks wonderful too. I want her. I want her badly.” His voice was shrill.

“Want her eyes for my arm. Such sharp, clear pupils. Like an angel,” Mincemeat said. He was breathing heavily. “I’ll say good morning to them every day when I wake. Then I’ll kiss those eyelids.”

Cute, aren’t they? came Flesh’s voice over some hidden speakers. A wonderful pair. I’d like them on my inner thighs. I’d give them a little shot of hormones every day, so that they press up more and more against my bits…

“Hmm…” Welldone surveyed the rest of the gang, but he too was drawn back into the video when the second man clambered on top of the girl to enter her.

“See here…can we get a closeup? That’s it, right there. Now let’s see what she’s like inside. This pussycat might even be good enough to be part of my right hand. I’ve been looking for a scissor sister for my left hand for some time now, she needs her sweet loving… What’s this? I see, I see…”

This was how they all spoke to each other for some time. Admiring their new target and talking in graphic detail about what they wanted to do with her. They were all incredibly excited.

After some time, Welldone turned to Boiled. “When did you say this video was taken?”

“About half a year ago.”

“What do we have on her at the moment?”

“We have footage from the courtroom and photos,” said Boiled. Welldone took out a pile of photos from the case and passed them around.

“Wonderful! So—what is it exactly that you want?” asked Welldone. Boiled didn’t answer, and Welldone looked back at him silently.

“This was the real target all along, wasn’t it? The five doctors were just the amuse-bouche, and this is the main course. So what is it that you want with this girl?”

“Nothing. To have the target annihilated completely. Give me the nothingness that’s left after her life has disappeared.”

When Welldone heard these words his face turned into a broad smile. “Thus spake the ultimate fetishist! It looks like in Mr. Boiled we’ve happened across our ideal partner.”

“The time limit is three days. We can’t wait any longer than that. The moment it looks like you’re not going to complete your mission in time, we’ll terminate the contract on the spot.”

“Don’t you worry, Mr. Boiled. The pack of hounds that you’ve chosen—Bandersnatch—are the best hunting dogs in the business.” Welldone was now a bundle of pure desire.

Boiled rose from his seat.

When he left the ship he headed straight for the car park without looking back.

The new moon was sharp as a razor, shining down its blue light over the gatehouse.

“Any luck, sir?” It was still the same young security guard on duty. He ran Boiled’s card through the system again. “Anyhow, good luck with the case, sir.”

Boiled nodded in silence.

He set a course for the East Side.

05

“It’s completely unacceptable! Beyond the pale!” Oeufcoque was pointing his finger and—unusually for him—yelling furiously. “An absolute ‘no way’! No questions asked. Have you got that, Balot?”

–I’m sorry, don’t get mad at me! I’ll never lift you up by your tail again.

“I don’t even like discussing it! It’s like my whole person is being judged and found wanting. Just leave my tail alone in every way, please.”

–I’m sorry. I’ll do that. So please stop being so angry?

Oeufcoque lowered the finger he was pointing at her, and eventually his hips followed suit with a thump.

He was on the palm of Balot’s hand. She was using her other hand to hold a bath towel to her chest.

“As long as you understand, it’s okay.”

–I didn’t realize it would upset you so much.

“I don’t know why I got so angry myself.”

–You’re still angry.

“Yes, but it’s fine. I’ll stop taking it out on you.”

–Why don’t you just keep it hidden in your pants? Why do you have a hole on purpose so that you can stick your tail out?

“I think I just asked you to drop it!”

–You also said you’d stop taking it out on me.

“You need a full account, is that it? Very well, then. Out of the many designs of pants that there are, my favorite design happens to have a hole in the—” Oeufcoque cut himself off for a second, throwing his arms in the air out of frustration. “That bloody Doctor, saying things like Don’t you think those pants make your backside look big, or Be careful where you park that thing, it needs warning lights—he’s given me such a complex about my magnificent tail!”

Balot did her best to stop herself, but in the end she couldn’t help bursting out into silent laughter.

“Don’t laugh at me, I’m begging you…” Oeufcoque pleaded with a pathetic expression.

This only made her laugh even more. She doubled over, holding her towel to her stomach now.

“Anyway, shouldn’t you be thinking about your own clothes rather than worrying about my pants? Unlike me you don’t even have any proper hair on your body. You’ll catch a cold if all you wear is a single towel.”

Balot’s whole body was shaking along with her laughter, but she managed a small nod.

“And the Doctor’s waiting for us too.”

–Can you wait for me, though? I’m in pain. I’m laughing too much.

“Still laughing? Well, I’m so delighted that I could be of service in this way—I’m glad I amuse you.”

–Stop sulking.

“I’m not sulking!”

–Of course you aren’t. Sorry.

Balot wiped the tears of laughter from her eyes and kissed Oeufcoque on his tail.

“Was that a peace offering? Very well, I accept. Now, considering the real and present danger facing your health, let’s move on to a mission to acquire appropriate clothing for you.”

–Thank you.

Balot stood up and let her towel fall to the floor. She lifted Oeufcoque up carefully with both hands and snarced him with feeling. Oeufcoque, with his usual squelch, melted in Balot’s hand and widened and slithered to cover her whole body.

Oeufcoque wrapped the stark naked Balot from top to toe. A black bodysuit covered her from her fingertips to the ends of her toes. Both of her palms were stuck together, as Oeufcoque couldn’t turn into two things at once.

Balot peeled her hands apart with the gentlest of motions. Savoring the sensation of the bodysuit—comfortable, flexible, tight—she went to take a peek at herself in the mirror.

She was a little disappointed.

–It’s not very stylish.

“Maybe not, but it is heatproof, coldproof, shockproof, pressure-resistant—and can magnify your snarc. Oh, and there’s a zipper at the back, so please use that to take me off when I’m turned out.”

–Doesn’t it come in any other designs?

“You can modify the design as you like, all you have to do is think about it—but let’s not get bogged down with the trivial stuff just now.”

–You get bogged down with trivial stuff like your pants, Balot answered back as she put on her boots.

She left her room and headed toward the elevator. The giant building, the former mortuary, was in fact full of rooms that were formerly used as morgues—and, therefore, despite the size of the place, not much of it was serviceable as living quarters.

Balot used the elevator used for goods arrivals to head down and got off at the underground garage, where she noticed a number of gasoline-fueled cars.

The red convertible was there too.

–Did you make these cars yourself, Oeufcoque?

“Yup, apart from the license plates, the gas, and a couple specialist patented parts. Took me the best part of the month to make a single vehicle. I’m very meticulous about my designs—it’s the artist in me.”

–I wish the artist in you was meticulous about the designs for my clothes.

“Uh…sure, well, let’s focus on our training for now, that’s our first priority.”

They entered into the garage proper, and by one of the walls they saw the Doctor, piling up some complicated-looking machinery.

He smiled as he saw Balot come toward him.

“Isn’t it great? Using the funds we requested for your Life Preservation Program I was able to source some first-class diagnostic equipment, tinker around with it, and polish it up into these. These beauties knock the training equipment used in the Major Leagues right out of the water!”

Balot snarced the throat of her suit, producing a crystalline sound.

–Looks like everyone’s an artist.

She looked around at the machinery, somewhat nonplussed.

“It’s important to be artistic now and then if you’re going to enjoy your life—the trick is to stop just before you end up on the wrong side of autistic.” The Doctor was in his element, able to fiddle with his machines to his heart’s content. “Are those clothes Oeufcoque?”

“That’s right, Doc. And I was told off by Balot for not being artistic enough in my own designs,” said Oeufcoque.

The Doctor nodded in agreement. “Get her to teach you some style, then. Now, Balot, I’m going to stick these on you, okay?”

The Doctor showed her some circular stickers. Balot nodded, and the Doctor started placing them all over her—knees, elbows, back.

–What are these things?

“Designed to send your biorhythmic data straight to this machine. They’ll capture your movements with a margin of error of less than 0.1 millimeters. Now, could you move around a bit? Do some stretches, that sort of thing.”

The Doctor took a seat in a pipe chair and balanced a laptop on his knees. Multicolored cords extended from the back of the monitor and plugged into the sprawling machinery.

Balot moved as requested. Some warm-ups. She snarced the suit here and there as she limbered up. A few patterns started appearing on the suit and eventually formed themselves into what could be described as a rough design, complete with colors.

Balot still didn’t seem satisfied, exactly, but at least she was getting there.

“You’re pretty limber,” Oeufcoque said as Balot performed a split, backside now on the floor. He seemed impressed.

Balot smiled and, from the same position on the floor, leaned forward until her chest touched the ground. From that position she spread her arms toward her feet, deftly touching the tips of her toes.

“Well, that’s one skill I don’t have. We have ourselves a bona fide gymnast!”

–I just like physical activity. It makes me feel like I’m in charge of my body.

She spoke without the electronic voice box, communicating with Oeufcoque directly.

“The Doctor calls me unfit because I can’t run twenty meters in less than a minute.”

Balot chuckled as she got back up.

–Would you like me to keep moving around?

The Doctor shook his head as he pounded on the keys, relentlessly entering new data. “No, we’re okay. Now, could you just stand on that platform there? Yeah, the one in front of those contraptions.”

Balot did as she was asked and stepped up onto the silver platform.

It too had a number of wires running from it. It turned out it was some sort of scale. A small display on one of the corners of the platform revealed some numbers, with the numerals to the right of the decimal blinking and changing rapidly.

A number of other displays could be seen, each flashing up different sets of numerals.

Balot looked somewhat sullen and turned to the Doctor with a puzzled scowl.

“I’ve taken some scales that they use to weigh baggage in an airport and modified them so that they can display biorhythmic indices as well. This thing’s accurate down to the last milligram and can pick up everything from your circulation to body fat percentages.”

–That’s the sort of thing you should have told me before I got on!

“Huh?”

–It’s indecent.

The Doctor looked suitably chastened.

Oeufcoque’s laughter could be heard emanating from Balot’s left hand.

“Don’t be like that, please. Any sort of proper training needs an observer on the sidelines to measure the progress.”

–In that case, Doctor, I’ll just have to think of you as part of the furniture.

“That’s not much better…” the Doctor grumbled.

–Very nice furniture, of course.

Balot was teasing him now.

–I’ll let you tell me whatever you need to say.

The Doctor shrugged his shoulders, but Balot could tell he was playing along now. She laughed and looked at the numbers on the indices.

The numbers to the right of the decimals whirled around when she shifted her balance from foot to foot. When she stabilized, the numbers started changing much more slowly, but she still couldn’t get them to stand completely still.

“Ahem,” the Doctor coughed, ready to start. “Your skin was originally developed to withstand the weightlessness of space vacuum, to allow you to move freely without losing your equilibrioception.”

Balot nodded and watched the figures on the displays.

“Parts of your brain—in particular your cerebellum—work by receiving these electronic impulses, which are constantly processed and updated. Your sensory nerves act as neural pathways, as in a normal person, but as a result of your new abilities the time it takes to transfer this information is drastically reduced—or, to put it another way, your brain is accelerated many times over. So, theoretically you can use your snarc both outwardly and from the outside in.”

Balot nodded. She was keen to know the as-yet-undiscovered areas of the abilities she had acquired.

“Should be a piece of cake, considering the incredible aptitude you’ve shown so far.”

–What should be?

“Achieving equilibrium. You need to be able to grasp—precisely and evenly—the details of your interior workings, just as much as what’s going on outside your body. In other words, the definition of ‘training’ for you is not so much a case of building up your muscles but instead to cultivate your sense of internal balance.”

–So what is it exactly you want me to do?

“Make those scales stop still on a single number.”

Balot looked at the digits again. The numbers that were spinning round and round.

She could easily snarc them in order to give the Doctor what he asked for.

But that wasn’t quite what the Doctor was after.

“You need to let go in order to get go,” Oeufcoque interrupted. “Try and get a grasp of how your body ought to be in the context of its environment. You should be able to feel exactly what your body needs to do in order to adapt to its maximum effectiveness.”

–Is that what you do when you turn?

“Exactly. Your genetic makeup is very different from mine, but the basic principles are the same.”

–Genetic makeup?

“Look, you don’t need to think too hard about it. All you need to do is feel it.”

Balot looked away from the numbers on the scales and stared into space.

She thought about how she felt when she first woke up inside this building. How she could sleep without feeling uneasy about her surroundings for the first time ever. How that was what she wanted—what she needed—with all her heart.

Balot closed her eyes.

She focused on her consciousness—until now only ever used to explore her surroundings—and turned part of it inward.

She felt her own rhythm, the pulse running through her whole body. She felt the sensation of understanding her inner workings at the most fundamental level. This was something that didn’t belong to anyone else—it was hers.

The external and internal gently connected in her consciousness. She could feel changes in her body and changes on the weighing scales with equal precision. Through Oeufcoque she could feel the flow of the air, and she grasped the layout of the entire garage. She could feel the shapes of the parked cars, the thickness of the supporting pillars and the walls, and even the electricity in the air as it flowed through her body.

She grasped her own tiniest movements, fractions of a millimeter.

Behind Balot’s back the Doctor kept his eyes glued to the screen—and she could sense him growing more and more excited. The Doctor was astonished and delighted in equal measure.

“Amazing—how wonderful to have my own inventions brought properly to life by a genius such as you!” But even as the Doctor spoke, she sensed a faint echo of remorse.

It suddenly occurred to Balot that she had never really given much thought to the question of what all these inventions were originally intended for.

–Don’t you like wars, Doctor?

She spoke with her eyes still closed.

Behind her the Doctor lifted his head.

“Well, no, of course not… Although, ironically, we’re talking about technology that was originally developed under a remit from high command in order to help soldiers fight in space more effectively, so that they could engage in hand-to-hand combat even when they were wearing their bulky space suits.”

–So why did you make all this?

“You know, I really had convinced myself that I was contributing to human progress, even to world peace. Although my wife and relatives all just thought I was a nut job obsessed with my quest to restructure the human body…”

–But you’re going to save me.

Balot’s eyes were still shut.

The Doctor chuckled. “Let’s hope so. Now, on to the next step!”

Balot opened her eyes.

The numbers were no longer moving, not even slightly.

She could now see exactly how they did move, and what she needed to do with her body to make them move—or stay still.

She spread her legs apart.

Still the numbers stayed the same.

Balot felt confident now—if the scales were fifty meters long and she was told to run from one end to the other, she knew she’d be able to do so and the numbers would barely flicker.

“Are you right-handed?” Oeufcoque asked.

–I am now, although I was born left-handed.

And then, after answering, she snarced just to Oeufcoque:

–I was told I needed to make myself right-handed, as some customers might feel uncomfortable around a southpaw.

“So, is it safe to say you could be ambidextrous when it came to handling weapons?”

–I guess I could get used to it, after a little practice.

“Then let’s start with the left. Let’s get a gun in your hand.”

Balot snarced Oeufcoque via her left hand.

Even though she’d never handled a gun before, she could tell that Oeufcoque was turning into the ideal model for her, the one that suited her grip the best out of all the models he had programmed into him.

The fabric on her palm turned with a squelch and she felt cold steel—and gripped it.

It was heavier than she’d expected—but her body soon adjusted to the extra weight.

Oeufcoque gave her some tips. “Parts of this are made from vulcanized plastic and some electronics, but basically this is just an automatic pistol. You pull the trigger, the gunpowder explodes, and the bullet goes flying out the end at high velocity.”

Balot nodded and leveled the gun. The grip was fused into the palm of her suit.

She tried letting go, twiddling her fingers, and it still didn’t fall. It felt like it was almost a part of her.

“The target’s set up over on that wall.” The Doctor pointed at it. A black cardboard cutout, the shape of a man, about 170 centimeters in height.

“We have pressure sensors set up all around the target, so we’ll be able to tell immediately where your shots land. You watched the video on how to fire a gun? Well, go ahead and try it for yourself.”

The gun was empty of bullets. Balot snarced it. She felt a click, and she knew that the steel chamber was now loaded with a bullet. She could grasp the addition of the extra weight in the chamber, down to the last milligram.

Click, click, and one by one the magazine filled with bullets.

Eleven shots total—with an extra one in the chamber for good measure.

She thrust her left arm forward, used her right arm to steady it, and readied her gun.

She leaned in to compensate for the force, maneuvering herself into prime firing position, just as she had seen in the instructional video.

She brought her finger to rest on the trigger.

A little electronic gimmick on the trigger saw to it that all she needed to do was to grip gently rather than pull the trigger hard—she hardly needed to put any strength into it at all.

Bang, a hollow explosive sound.

A bullet flew out of the muzzle, and a spent casing flew sideways out of the chamber. A piercing sound could be heard on the other side of the wall. A metallic clang on the floor followed.

She fired more shots.

One shot, two shots, three shots.

She could have pushed the sound of the gunshots inside Oeufcoque, silencing them completely, but that would have dulled the visceral sensations of the whole experience.

Yes, for the real marksmanship experience, you really needed to have noise echoing all around you.

She fired six shots to gain her bearings. The next five she fired with her eyes completely closed. The car park reverberated with the sound of gunfire, and the empty cartridge shells played a merry jangling tune as they clattered across the ground.

She could even feel the sensation that the bullets themselves felt, that of being shot out of the barrel of the gun. Wrenched out of place, jumping out of the barrel, rotating with tremendous speed.

The numbers on the scales that Balot was standing on twitched slightly, but in a moment they settled and became virtually still.

Balot had finished firing her first load. The breechblock slid back and stopped in place.

“Don’t reload it right away—drop the magazine to release some of the heat that’s built up.”

Balot did as Oeufcoque said and snarced the grip of the gun into ejecting the magazine.

Balot relaxed as the magazine hit the scales. The subtlest of movements. The spent magazine hit the silver platform and rolled across it.

The numbers on the display didn’t change in the slightest.

Balot snarced the gun again.

A new magazine appeared inside the grip, a perfect fit.

The gun loaded with bullets as she moved herself back into position, and at the same time the breechblock snapped back into place.

She relaxed her shoulders and fired again. Settling into a regular rhythm. From the first to the last shot, like a pulse.

She felt the incandescent bullets piercing the air.

After she had fired all the bullets she ejected the magazine again and turned around to look at the Doctor.

The Doctor was glued to the monitor.

His fingers covered his mouth as if he were in deep thought, and then he suddenly exhaled, letting out the huge breath that he had been holding in.

“Perfect. You’ve really studied the videos closely, haven’t you?”

–Yes, both the ones where you stand still and where you fire while moving. Also the ones with moving targets, as well as stationary ones.

“Great. Moving targets next, then. Some balls will start flying across randomly from beyond that pillar over there. A bit like a pitching machine, the sort kids use for baseball practice. Shoot those balls down. Same distance as before.”

–Got it.

Balot quickly—and smoothly—equipped herself with a new magazine and bullets and got into position.

The Doctor started tapping his keyboard.

Balot realized that these actions controlled the machine on the other side of the pillar.

Boing, and a rubber ball flew out.

Balot shot it.

In a little less than four seconds, that one ball had taken all twelve of the bullets.

The rubber ball performed a whirling dance in midair, and the fragments flew off every which way.

The scales barely flickered, and the golden cartridges gleamed as they scattered across the floor.

Again Balot dropped the magazine and turned to the Doctor. His eyes were like saucers as he watched the distant particles from the ball fragment further.

“Er…the idea was that you try to shoot down each ball—that’s to say shoot, singular, just the once.” Yet again the Doctor was dumfounded.

Just then another ball bounced out of the machine.

Balot’s attention was still half focused on the Doctor as she raised her hand. Just her left this time—her right hand dangling by her side.

She snarced Oeufcoque in an instant, re-equipping herself with a magazine and bullets.

She fired a single shot, just as she was told.

The ball bounced against the wall and came bounding back toward them, then rolled another twenty meters or so before stopping at the Doctor’s shoes.

There were eight balls total, including the one that Balot had obliterated earlier.

Before long seven of those balls rolled into position right at the Doctor’s feet. Balls that had been shot through their cores with deadly accuracy.

The Doctor picked one of them up and looked at it, jaws trembling. “We’re talking about spherical targets here. To pierce the cores with one hundred percent accuracy, and from this distance too…”

He sounded as if he were ready to raise the white flag of surrender, but then laughed and said at a high pitch, “How absolutely thrilling !”

He shut his mouth as soon as he opened it, very aware that he was getting carried away.

Balot frowned.

–I thought you didn’t like war?

“Yes, but this is something completely different,” Oeufcoque interjected.

The Doctor nodded. “I’ve never actually been at the front lines, you see. I might seem a little warlike, but in my heart I know I’m not about to go to war anytime soon.”

Balot pursed her lips. An expression that was somewhere between sympathy and disapproval.

“Right, let’s have you moving now. Try walking toward that target. There are some more pitching machines positioned behind those pillars. They’ll sense your movements and fire balls directly at you—shoot them down. Consider the balls to be an attack on your person.”

–Got it.

Balot stepped off the silver scale. Without missing a beat she walked toward the wall at the far end.

She perceived the machines operating to her left and right. Her concentration levels were rising. She looked inside herself to manipulate her internal workings—so that her pulse wouldn’t start racing—all the while keeping a close check on her surroundings.

The moment she sensed movement in the shadows Balot pointed her gun in that direction without looking. By the time the ball had left the machine Balot had already fired.

The ball hurtled toward the flight path of the bullet as if it were being sucked in and was skewered perfectly.

Balot felt the other machines firing up but walked on steadily. A volley of balls converged on her from all directions. She shot them all down, having found her target before the balls even left the pitching machines.

The Doctor cranked up the speed. Balot held her steady pace, unabated. She took her right hand off the gun and snarced that hand too.

Another gun appeared, just like the one in her left hand. She used this to fire at the balls too. Left and right. Whichever she could use to aim—and fire—the quicker.

She arrived at the far wall, turned around, and began her return.

The sound of gunfire echoed all around, balls and spent cartridges littered the floor, and the acrid smell of gunpowder filled the air. Her vision was clouded by the gun smoke.

Balot closed her eyes. She looked as if she were about to go into a trance. She fired her gun, playfully now, almost as if she were dancing.

Balot’s eyes were closed, and she never missed a shot.

The Doctor, on the other hand, grew paler and paler, the blood draining from his face.

“I know what ought to be done, I just don’t know what the right thing to do is… I never imagined in a million years that the girl would mesh so well with the abilities we gave her…” A shiver ran down his spine as he spoke, and his voice was drowned out by the echoing gunfire.

The Doctor gulped, and as he did so there was a ping—a message had arrived.

“We’ve just had a newsflash from the DA. I set him to gather information on Shell—anything on the net or from internal police reports,” the Doctor said.

Balot took a seat, listening. She had already detached both guns from her sleeves and handed them over to the Doctor, and when she did so his expression lifted ever so slightly in relief.

“He’s come up with something, has he?” Oeufcoque asked, sticking his torso out of one of Balot’s hands.

“The five neurosurgeons who were looking after Shell have all disappeared. Every single one of them, simultaneously. One of the surgeons had even just prepared dinner. No signs of a struggle. And no witnesses…” The Doctor’s eyes flicked over to Balot.

She understood the significance of this glance straightaway.

–Don’t worry. I won’t be afraid. Carry on.

“Okay. Well, it’s strange. All five of them have these large sums of money deposited into their accounts by an unidentified source. But considering the salaries they’re on from the state, it’d hardly be worthwhile for any of them to abscond with the sorts of sums we’re talking about—not with all they have to lose.”

“The deposits are obviously a red herring, Doc. Boiled doesn’t do things by halves. Once his mind is set on an effective course of action, he carries it through to the bitter end. I imagine he hired professionals to do the job. Whenever we find something that looks like a lead, it’s safe to assume that it’s more likely to be a decoy, or a deliberate bluff,” said Oeufcoque.

“I think you’re right. Well, I’m going to use these mysterious disappearances to press our case further, try and crank up the Life Preservation Program to the highest level. We strike a blow inside the courtroom, they go on the offensive on the outside. We’ll need to shore up our escape routes—and we may need to start scouting for a 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 man’s chest. The electric charge from the bullet fried his wound—and his lungs—and he collapsed in a heap before a sound could pass his lips.

Again, no blood, and again the smell of fried flesh hung in the air.

“That’ll be me, then.” Medium leaned over the corpse and lectured the dead body in jest, waggling his index finger.

Medium put his gun away and lifted up the man’s wrist, staring fixedly at it. “Tough, professional fingers,” he said, taking his sunglasses off with his knife-wielding hand. “Just not really sexy enough. Let’s sell them off, Well.”

He was speaking now to Welldone, who emerged from the opposite end of the corridor.

Well was dragging yet another dead body by the scruff of its neck.

He took his sunglasses off, exposing his computerized red pupils, and spoke. “Three people exactly. We’ve cleaned up over here. How’s it going over there, Rare, Mincemeat?” Welldone spoke out loud, hand to his temple. The reply came:

–All done. Easy peasy! I’m just brewing myself some nice coffee in the kitchen. Rare’s girly voice sounded in Welldone’s and Medium’s ears and continued:

–It was a little boring, actually. The pigs were stationed exactly where we knew they’d be when we hacked their Ham & Egg system.

“Good…standby on alert.”

–All finished over here too. Looks like our tracking system’s working. When should I bring this pig out?

It was Mincemeat’s voice that now arrived on the scene, and Welldone responded. “Wait for darkness. We’re going to scramble all the Ham & Egg circuits in the area, along with all communications to and from the target house.”

–Am I good to soil them a bit, then?

“Why,

what’s happened, little Minty?” Medium asked, amused.

–There was a woman here too. They were trying to pass themselves off as a couple, but they’re both Ham & Eggers. Still, might have been a real-life couple, I suppose.

“Are they still alive, Mincemeat?” asked Welldone. He left the house and moved toward the car.

–Er…should they be?

“Not really. Do as you please. Just be sure you factor in enough time to tidy up afterwards.”

“Twenty minutes till sunset, little Minty. The sun’s almost down. Time for dinner.” Medium spoke now, standing in the hallway. He heard Mincemeat’s laughter echoing deep in his ear.

–More of a snack. I’ll leave the front parts for Well. Can’t imagine they’ll be to your taste, though. I’m going to do the rear parts myself, now, husband and wife in turn.

Mincemeat carried on cheerfully, and Medium burst out laughing. “Rare’s going to be all jealous…”

–Ooh, Medi, no, you know how loud I get! I just can’t keep it in. If I did anything now our target would know we were coming! I don’t like it unless I can scream real loud.

“Just don’t forget we need some time to load the pigs,” Welldone said as he returned with a suitcase in either hand. “Consume the prey without leaving a single drop of blood. That’s the secret of our success, after all.”

“That’s right, business is business, Rare, little Minty. Don’t let the pigs rot.” Medium took a suitcase from Welldone and knelt down by one of the corpses.

Welldone extracted the Lockbuster Card from the door and reset the lock. “Just don’t forget that you’re on the battlefield, Rare and Mincemeat.”

–That’s what makes it feel so good, though! Isn’t that right, little Minty?

–Yeah, it’s good. It’s really good!

Medium shook his head, laughing, and cut off his transmission from Mincemeat. “Looks like being on the battlefield just increases the thrill factor for them. Give us a hand, will you, Well? Let’s slice this pig up with our two-hundred-thousand-dollar butter knives.”

Welldone kneeled beside the corpse and took his Hutchinson Knife out, applying it to the corpse’s wrists. Flesh, skin, and bone were all sliced off together, but not a single drop of blood escaped.

“Easy does it. You know that red convertible we just passed—do you think he’s one of the PIs too?” Medium spoke cheerfully, and Well grinned back.

“He is. I had Flesh confirm it. So all we’ve got to do now is give the other PI a little scratch with our butter knives and then put the girl to sleep and bring her back with us.”

“My chest is pounding. It’s been a while. I’m almost as excited as that first time we ever set out as a gang.”

Welldone laughed. The two men cheerfully dissected the body and packed it away in the suitcases.

≡

“Looks like the operation will commence in twenty minutes.” Inside the container on the trailer, Flesh wobbled his gelatinous body around toward Boiled as he spoke to him.

“Perfect timing.”

Boiled nodded his approval.

The container was full of machinery. Mincemeat was the trailer’s driver, and it was currently parked some distance away from the residential district.

“I’ll finish my work on the Ham & Egg circuits in a couple of minutes. Each of the three residences are set up so that if they don’t successfully send and receive a transmission from each of the others every forty-five minutes, the emergency alarm is sounded automatically. So I’ve had to fix it so that each one relays a message on to the next one every fifteen minutes.”

Boiled nodded again. His eyes were fixed on a monitor that showed a detailed image of the neighborhood. A number of flashing lights showed where Welldone and the rest of the gang were at that precise moment.

The next monitor along showed a building in 3-D. With perfect marking—radar devices set in three places around the building—they were able to triangulate and get a precise scan of its contents.

“It’s built just as it says on the blueprints. Have you ever been inside the building yourself?”

Boiled glanced at Flesh, unspeaking.

“We ran some background checks on you ourselves, you know. You’re amazing. All those cases you solved with that other PI called Oeufcoque, and every single one of them designated an Official License. You’re a real celebrity within the industry, aren’t you? And I hear you’ve got a lot of clout with the DA’s office too.”

“That’s all stuff that my former partner engineered after he dissolved our partnership.”

“Hmm…I would have thought you were the sort of person who didn’t worry too much about history, what someone might or might not have done. I was hoping you wouldn’t mind discussing the past?” Flesh asked.

Boiled continued staring at the monitor, but nodded slightly.

“We were all in the Forces. Well, Medi and I were all in the Experimental Mechanized Division of the Marine Corps—the Guinea Pigs, we were known as—and we met Rare and Mincemeat at the front when we were all thrown together in the same company of the Southern Division on the Continent. I was up for military discharge after getting shell-shocked and developing paranoia, but then loads of enemies came and surrounded us. We had to hole up in the forest for over ninety days before the helicopters were finally dispatched to evacuate us. Even today, whenever I see an oak tree it takes me back, brings back vivid memories.”

Boiled ignored Flesh, but he carried on speaking. “Everyone looked after me, a mere comm specialist. A lot of soldiers ended up regressing to a childlike state, though. Some grew paranoid, or started developing abnormally aggressive tendencies. Some units had a lot of these sorts of soldiers concentrated in one place, and I somehow found myself in one of them. At first we were the exception, but before we knew it our sort of unit became quite common, especially on the front lines. Then, as the battle intensified, it became completely normal. These are the only sorts of people who can really adapt to the front lines, after all. We fought hard and received plenty of medals. We killed a lot of people. A lot of enemies, a lot of allies. Guns, gas, bombs, electricity—we used all sorts of weapons. All day long I survived on tranquilizers washed down with scotch, firing away from inside my armored vehicle. Eating and shitting where I sat firing my guns. In a vehicle not unlike this one, actually, for three months, with no sunlight, in a place like a subway toilet. As a result of that I started suffering from white wax disease in my legs…”

Flesh stopped talking at this point and smiled at Boiled. “And what about you, sir? Have you been involved in experimental warfare?”

“I was in the P7 Experimental Corps.”

“P7…oh, so an Airborne Division? I know about all of them up to P6, in charge of the twenty- to sixty-thousand-meter altitude zones, right? I didn’t realize there was anything higher than that.”

“Strategic Space Corps. There were three of us, including me, who enlisted—volunteers from the Airborne Division.”

Flesh clapped his pudgy hands together. “Amazing! Just like a sci-fi movie!”

Boiled’s eyes caught Flesh’s again. After a second he nodded silently, facial expression immutable as ever. A movement like the cylinder of a revolver spinning in place.

Then a murmur. “The whole unit was a sham, a concoction. Objectives and results, all fabricated. It was only there as a smokescreen to develop pointless technology.”

And with that, he turned his eyes—devoid of sentiment as ever—back to the monitor.