Chapter 6

INJECTION

01

–It’s a hit! There are about a hundred Sh.e.l.ls in Mardock City, but this is definitely our man.

There’s a casino called Eggnog Blue owned by one of OctoberCorp’s holding companies. He’s the

director in charge there.

Tweedledumspoke and Balot nodded as she retrieved data fromthe pool.

Bubbles leaked fromBalot’s mouth, heading to the surface.

She was swimming in the computer terminal pool, breathing through a set of EasyGills.

The EasyGills were made in Paradise, of course.

The Doctor, Faceman, and Tweedledee all watched from the side of the pool, keeping a lookout for

Balot.

–Good stuf —you’ve got the gist, now try accessing a little deeper. Try not to get distracted by all

the electronic noise. Think semantics—you need to commune with the computer, not just connect.

Underwater, eyes closed, stark naked, Balot stretched out her arms and legs and used her entire being

to converse with the computer. Millions of data channels opened up, and she focused on the semantics—

the nuances of how everything interrelated, how the channels developed, and what this all meant. This

then led her on to search for data directly, floating through the various data systems of the city. What did

Sh.e.l.l do, when, where? What did Sh.e.l.l touch, what did he buy, who was he with, what sort of activity

was he involved in—all was being calculated at cutthroat velocity.

–What an amazing machine…

Balot was full of wonder as she swamin the pool of data. It was like when she had looked up her own

citizen’s ID with Oeufcoque—only incomparably faster and vaster in scope.

It was as if she were excavating, like they were fossils, the footprints of a man called Sh.e.l.l, scouring

the whole of Mardock City, discarding the ephemera like so much dirt and gradually piecing together the

skeletal remains of a giant dinosaur.

The computer was constantly calculating the patterns of information, piecing together the implications

of Sh.e.l.l’s various actions in order to try and work out what he was doing, discarding the impossibilities

one by one in order to establish what the most likely—or least improbable—implications were.

–So much of the data is contradictory or inconsistent. It looks like they’ve been constantly updated

—or rather better to say falsified. It’s a bit like a half-a.s.sed software update rushed to market far

sooner than it should have been with nowhere near enough time to iron out the bugs just to save a few

bucks.

Tweedledumwas happy to comment and advise but wasn’t lending a hand himself.

Neither did Balot try and force him to help her. Only one of them needed to violate Commonwealth

law.

–He has all these memory defects listed. That’s a common thread; it’s coming up again and

again. And someone seems to have fiddled around with the university hospital’s neuroscience

department. Its research data has been manipulated by outside sources.

–They’re probably trying to hide something by erasing it. But erased data always leaves a hole,

babe. Why not have a poke around to see just how deep that hole is?

–Sure.

The countless streams of data whirling around her looked like rays of sunlight, pouring in and piling

on top of each other. Balot used her arms and legs to push herself farther underwater and then turned, face

up, to caress the rays of information one by one.

≡

“Amazing…to be able to bend all that information to her will…” Faceman’s voice dripped with pure

admiration.

–She’s dancing. Looks like fun.

Tweedledee held his knees together at the side of the pool, looking somewhat bored.

The Doctor stared at the pool with a tense expression fixed on his face.

Just then, Faceman’s expression changed suddenly.

“Phew,” he sighed, staring into s.p.a.ce in apparent wonderment.

“What is it, Professor?” asked the Doctor.

“Ho hum. Looks like someone’s come in search of Paradise. The checkpoint at the bottom of the hill

confirmed that there’s a vehicle drawing near. Two pa.s.sengers, one of them a PI and Trustee of a case.

He’s lodged a request through official Broilerhouse channels to be allowed to pay a visit to Paradise.”

The Doctor’s face turned blue. “Not Boiled?”

Faceman watched the Doctor, amused. “Looks like the Rusty Gun has come to spread some fire

around. What to do…?”

“It’d be deeply disadvantageous to Paradise if it’s revealed that Rune-Balot is here,” the Doctor

responded hastily, desperately, but Faceman’s only response was to laugh.

“Dr. Easter, you seem to be a little too familiar with society’s squabbles for my liking. But yes, you

are indeed right. And I have no intention of allowing our data collection efforts on Rune-Balot to be

interrupted before we’ve finished harvesting what we need. Very well—I take personal responsibility for

the reception of callers to the gates of Paradise. Tweedledee.”

Tweedledee, summoned without warning, turned to Faceman with a jolt.

“It looks like some rough customers are on their way here. Will you help me welcome them?”

–Does that mean I have permission to interact with outsiders?

“Indeed. A rare opportunity.”

“Professor…are you planning on leaving it to Tweedledee?” asked the Doctor.

The Tweedledee in question answered.

–No worries. I’ve read up on what to do when contact is made with outsiders. I’m looking forward

to it.

“Dr. Easter. Why don’t you use this opportunity to prepare your next course of action. It looks like

Rune-Balot’s activities down there are going to take a little while yet.”

The Doctor nodded calmly, but his countenance betrayed his nerves as he hurried back into the jungle,

taking the same route he’d taken to get there.

–What do you think Dr. Easter plans to do?

“He’ll take Oeufcoque into the Humpty-Dumpty that he has standing by on the roof. Then, as soon as

Balot finishes her work here, they’ll all be heading off.”

–Oh, they’re leaving?

Tweedledee’s mouth went a little sour.

–Will they be back anytime soon?

“Let’s just say that I pray that one day the girl—and indeed all of society—will understand just how

positive an influence our work can be.” Faceman spoke in an uncharacteristically subdued tone as he

made his cage float up into the air. “Now, let’s go and see to our visitors.”

≡

Boiled stared out the window with half-closed, emotionless eyes, taking in the night lights.

–The contract’s confirmed.

Sh.e.l.l’s voice—along with a trace of static—on Boiled’s cell phone.

–Well, we’ve only just published the marriage banns, but as soon as my transaction is complete

we’ll move on to the actual nuptial contract.

Boiled listened to his employer’s report without seeming particularly interested.

Next to him Medium’s shoulders were shaking. He was struggling to suppress laughter.

–It’s all going smoothly now. Whatever happens at the Broilerhouse, it’s going to be too late to

af ect anything.

“Do you have a fixed time and date for the contract yet?”

–It’ll all be sorted out within the hour. There’s a mound of of icial paperwork the height of a thick

steak still to get through. Steak is right, actually—you could say we’re all playing for high stakes.

Except that I’m going to be helping myself to the best pickings. After it’s all over I’m comping the

girl’s father in my hotel. I’ll pile him high with zero-interest chips and make sure he enjoys himself

good and proper, on the house.

“This is a personal matter for him, then?”

–He’s on the board of OctoberCorp, so… I’m sure he’ll have a dozen wine-swilling legal advisors

lined up in a limo somewhere, but it doesn’t bother me. Her family name is about as prestigious as it

comes, and it’s going to be my lucky star. You know her dad, right? Cleanwill John October.

Sh.e.l.l enunciated every syllable of the name.

–And he lives up to his name—he’s a clean-living john. A john as in a sucker, mark, or maybe even

a john who likes his wh.o.r.es. Either way, John’s a john, pure and simple.

“What about the girl?”

–I’ll leave her in the hotel for now. Sooner or later she’ll become my of icial property, of course,

so I’ll need to start thinking about a storage s.p.a.ce for her. I’ll keep her locked away in a pretty little

jewel box of a place, somewhere.

“I’ll proceed according to schedule. I’ll send you a report on the outcome sometime between midnight

and dawn.”

–Night mail, then. I’m counting on you. Make sure that your night mail is good enough to banish

my nightmares forever. Make the girl, the one that should have already disappeared a long time ago,

disappear for good.

“Understood.” Boiled cut the phone line. Next to him, Mediumburst out laughing.

“I have no idea what you were just talking about, but there’s one thing that I’m sure of.” Medium

pushed his sungla.s.ses up and glanced at Boiled. “Your client’s totally crazy.”

“None of your business.”

“Hey, I don’t mean it in a bad way. He’s about as crazy as us, I mean. A good client to have. A true

fetishist’s a.s.signment. That makes me happy.”

Boiled didn’t answer. He slipped the cell phone back in his jacket pocket before changing the subject.

“Earlier this morning I put in a request for a coworker on this case, as a witness. That’s you.”

“Ha…so I’ma PI, now?”

“A PI’s a.s.sistant. The target, the girl, has a similar request in.”

Medium’s face twisted into an ugly sneer. “I get it. So we can kill her fair and square now, right? All

above board and within the law. Brilliant. I’ll kill her all right. I’ll kill her good and use up all her parts.

Until I’msatisfied. That’s the agreement, right?”

Boiled nodded.

“I can’t wait.” Medium’s face lit up in an instant, and he stared out at the long, meandering road in

front of him.

Greenery was all around them—a result of the plant farms that had been set up in the area, the loam

impregnated with concrete-dissolving enzymes. All kinds of trees were there, and in the gaps, buildings

that hadn’t yet been completely destroyed—a sort of graveyard for a city.

“The reforestation program for the area bombed out by the war—a Band-Aid for a city, don’t you

think? About as much good as a couple of Band-Aids after you’ve been shot up by a machine gun, I

mean…” Medium’s eyes glinted red, and a twisted smile flittered across his mouth. “If I remember

rightly, a number of unmanned fighter planes were shot down in this area. The ones that the militarycapitalist

Continentals started sending over toward the end of the war, remote-controlled to cross the sea

automatically and release their payload. According to rumor, there was some sort of military facility here.

Why would our little kitty-cat be in a place like this?”

“She’s already on another road leading into the grounds.”

“Grounds? Of what?” Mediumasked.

“The experimental facility. There was a time when the army and the government poured funding into

it.”

And then it emerged. A structure made of bright metal and gla.s.s—very different from all the

abandoned buildings in the vicinity—could be seen in between the darkness of the forest nightscape. It

was so large that it was hard to tell at first glance what sort of construction it was. Something vast and

white, almost like an endless wall, surrounded it.

“All the mountains…” Medium was struck dumb for a moment, then slapped his knees like a child

enthralled by the television. “And here’s Noah’s Ark! What a surprise. So, this is where she’s hiding out.

The little kitten’s rolled up in a ball, purring away as she sleeps? I’ll purr you, my little kitty-cat. I’ll

purr you all right.”

Boiled’s sleepy eyes were trained on the rolling hills in front of him.

Mardock City was originally a trade port and an engineer’s city.

The city developed, went high-tech, survived a war, and its prosperity was now firmly secured on the

holy trinity of the industrial district, research inst.i.tutions, and the harbor.

Now, farther into the city, there was also an inverted triangle—an unholy trinity—of the city council,

the pleasure district, and the media center.

Each of the two triangles were in turn subdivided into smaller sections, like a dart board, where

wealth, poverty, glory, depravity, and fame all sat jostling cheek by jowl.

Boiled parked his car at the top of the slope. Medium opened the door and said, blood rising to his

face, “Unleash me whenever you’re ready, boss,” as he looked at Boiled, who had emerged fromthe other

door.

Boiled pointed toward one of the slopes. “Head in from the west. There should be security firm

personnel stationed there. Gather any intelligence on the facility you can.”

“Shall I report back to you with my location?” asked Medium.

“If possible then do. I’ll be heading to the main entrance and gain access based on official

procedures.”

“You mean they’ll try and keep her hidden? Say that she’s not in and never has been, that sort of

thing?”

“Exactly.”

“In other words, then…” Medium spread his arms out, no longer able to contain his joy. “I can do

whatever I like to the girl, seeing that she’s not supposed to be there anyway.”

“Anything goes. Now move on in,” said Boiled.

Mediumspun around.

His brutal smile seemed to linger on, like incense in the air.

The hound dog, unleashed, went running off into the woods.

Once he had disappeared completely, Boiled moved back into the driver’s seat.

“An ark…” he murmured, gripping the wheel. “An ark that waits for the deluge that never comes.”

Muttering to himself, he drove off.

02

Boiled flashed his PI’s license at the guard who appeared in the watchtower monitor in the middle of

the revolving gate.

The guard noted his license without emotion, as if he too were part of the machine.

–You will be connected to the warden shortly, sir. Kindly wait there. Your voice and image are

being recorded.

Boiled nodded. The screen on the monitor changed.

–So, the Rusty Gun has returned for maintenance, unable to cope with the poisonous rust that he

produces?

On the monitor, a man in late middle age. Only his neck upward was visible. Boiled knew all too well

what had happened below the neckline.

“Oeufcoque should be here, Professor.”

The man on the screen—Professor Faceman—laughed quietly.

–I say, this is rather of -topic from your of icial request. Is there nothing else you want to ask me?

He spoke as an indulgent teacher might gently encourage a pupil to revise his answer.

“There’s a possibility that a material witness for a case is hiding in this facility. I need you to open the

gate for me.”

–There’s no need to force your way in using a gun. Come over to the November Forest.

Even as he faded fromthe monitor, Faceman’s tone was gentle.

Boiled stopped the car and headed for the white wall of chalk, placing his hand on a small door that

was etched into the wall.

The door gave a little electronic buzzand opened inward.

He stepped into a long, dazzlingly white corridor, and the door shut behind him.

Everything around himwas a clear white, and it radiated calmness, like a first-cla.s.s airport lounge.

Boiled walked on. Calmfootfalls—this was a place he was comfortable with, at home. It was as if his

body wanted these homely, nostalgic feelings in spite of himself, in spite of his resistance and disgust

toward the very idea.

Boiled continued down the corridor and arrived at the end without pa.s.sing a soul. He came to a giant

wall again. He touched the electronic pad on the wall, and the thick walls parted to either side to reveal

trees and plants not dissimilar to the ones on the outside.

Boiled entered the forest.

There was a white table and chairs in a clearing surrounded by white birch trees. A young man stood

by the table, and he smiled as Boiled drew near. Or so it seemed, but then the young man’s expression

turned sour.

“I took my telecom out of my head a long time ago. No use in snarcing me to communicate,

Tweedledee,” Boiled said.

Tweedledee looked more disappointed than anything else. He jerked his chin toward the table.

There was a cup on the table, and the aroma of warmcoffee drifted about the glade.

Tweedledee signaled with his eyes that the coffee had been prepared specially for Boiled.

Boiled ignored it and stood in front of the table. “Professor Faceman.”

The old man’s head on the other side of the coffee—Faceman—raised his eyes from within his cage.

“This forest is where many a war-weary soldier came to recuperate—and it’s also the final resting place

for many. When you finally return, it should be to here.”

Boiled shook his head slowly. “I came here ten years ago because I was ordered to by the army. Now

that the war’s over I have no intention of becoming a victimof your experiments.”

“So that’s your postwar experience, is it? Many soldiers still drag around a victimcomplex with them.

How about you?”

“I’mneither the victimnor the perpetrator,” said Boiled.

Tweedledee looked blankly on.

The conversation was going straight over his head.

Faceman turned to Tweedledee and smiled. “We won’t be needing you here any longer, Tweedledee.

Why not head over to the West Forest?”

Tweedledee shrugged his shoulders and approached Boiled, then tapped on the man’s burly arms.

Playfully, pleading. Then he disappeared deep into the forest.

“The only care he has in the world is that there are no active subjects around, so to speak.” Faceman

watched Tweedledee’s back as he departed, then looked up at Boiled. “He was delighted about the fact

that he thought he could get to know the new girl, though.”

Without changing his expression, Boiled dipped his hand into his jacket pocket and spoke. “I have

three questions. Number one, where are Oeufcoque, his client, and Dr. Easter? If they are here, I need you

to tell me where you are sheltering them.”

“We don’t shelter anyone here. We receive themas guests,” said Faceman.

“They’re here, then?”

“I believe I have the right of refusal when it comes to answering questions?”

“The right, perhaps, but that doesn’t necessarily mean that you get to exercise that right,” said Boiled.

“Hmm. What are you suggesting?”

“I’m suggesting that this diseased facility, steeped in lies as it is, may soon be coming to terms with

the reality of your death.”

Faceman just smiled gently. “So, death is your only true reality. How like you. Not that humans are

capable of simultaneously experiencing alternative realities—but killing me isn’t going to change

anything. Nor do I think that taking my life is going to be of much use to you. Unless that’s what you’re

looking for, and it will give you closure? Is that how you feel right now?”

Boiled slowly drew his hand out of his chest pocket.

But he wasn’t wielding a gun. Instead, he let his arm flop down and started speaking again. “There’s

another person of interest in this case who has already penetrated the facility.”

“I presume you mean the oil-soaked man who’s currently trying to gain access from the loading dock

in the western ward? I see—if I don’t answer your questions then he goes off on a little destructive

rampage, is that it? And this is how you choose to make yourself useful to society?” Faceman asked with

absolute serenity.

Boiled replied, “I’m the only one endowed with the right to arrest him as a suspect and material

witness. The paperwork has all been approved by the Broilerhouse already.”

Faceman furrowed his brow as if he were troubled by something. “Does your accomplice, who’s

trying his best to invade the facility as we speak, know any of this? No, we’re talking about you. I’m sure

you’ve told himthe exact opposite.”

“Only as a means to efficiently ensure that he’s as useful as possible. A tactic used often in the army—

or this facility.”

“There are means that are justified by the ends, and there are means that aren’t,” replied Faceman.

“I have no time for—or interest in—your moral lectures.”

Faceman sighed and spoke in a persuasive tone of voice that was also a warning. “Here at the facility

we are constantly updating, examining, and refining our technology. All we did was permit Dr. Easter a

loan of some of our facilities in exchange for the latest set of data he has on his civilian subjects.”

“So you admit to harboring a material witness?”

“It’s your choice to interpret my words however you choose,” said Faceman.

Boiled nodded. “Now, my second question.” He stared at Faceman with absolute indifference.

“Wait a moment. I’ll answer your questions, but in return I’d like you to sit down. You’re not

positioned well, and I can’t see you properly.”

Boiled moved his chin from left to right. Not to respond, but to interrupt. “I need you to answer my

question.”

“Hmm?”

“We will take custody of the data that Dr. Easter submitted to you.”

“You can’t really call that a question. In any case, what do you want that girl’s data for?”

“It could turn out to be a crucial courtroomexhibit.”

“Highly unlikely. Dear, dear. First Tweedledee, now you…” Boiled’s eyebrows tightened. Faceman

continued, “Tweedledee wants access to the girl’s data too. Of course, I’m forbidding all access to it on

the basis that I and a select group of researchers need exclusive access to it at the moment. And you’re

just like Tweedledee.”

“What are you trying to say?” asked Boiled.

“It seems like you might be looking for a partner, just as Tweedledee is.”

Boiled stared at Faceman with a sharp glint in his eye. “The technology in Paradise only begets

monsters. All that’s happened is that we have another walking, talking exhibit of this fact.”

“You’re right in that today’s society may well interpret it that way. One day, though, the technology

will become commonplace,” Faceman responded coolly. “But looking at her data isn’t going to help you.”

“It’ll be evidence that she abused Mardock Scramble 09.”

“You won’t have any luck there. From a legal standpoint, it’s already difficult to judge what’s use and

what’s abuse.”

“What—?”

“The girl is still growing up. Any current data on her is no more than material for a comparative study.

The girl is a genius.”

“A genius? In battle?”

“No, in her ability to dissolve herself into the ether. ‘Dispersing her self-consciousness,’ I’mcalling it

for now.”

“‘Dispersing’?”

“The waveforms we’ve been picking up from her brain in her consciousness-threshold tests are very

similar to those found when a person enters a trance state. I daresay it’s a form of autoimmune response,

the dispersal and negation of her senses as a self-defense mechanism—something that the girl has

developed in order to preserve a sense of psychological normalcy in the face of the atrocious conditions

that life has thrown at her.”

“In what way?” said Boiled.

“As you know, one of the most common side effects of grafting metallic fiber as replacement skin onto

a person is that their mental balance ends up shot to pieces. Just as if we were to transplant, say, a bat’s

ears onto a human head—the animal would be bewildered and its brain wouldn’t be able to cope,” said

Faceman.

“But you’re saying that this girl is coping with the technology?”

“Her Interference Rate—all her consciousness-threshold figures—are over 80 percent.”

Boiled was silent. This was a rare moment where he was actually shocked by what his opponent had

to say.

“The fibers are embedded in the whole of her skin tissue. As her subconscious receives stimuli, so the

fibers develop autonomously. The fibers we transplanted into your palm never even grew to the back of

your hand. Think on that, and you’ll realize just quite how singular a being this young lady is.”

“So she’s wrapped in a layer of skin tissue?”

“No, not ‘wrapped’—it’s a.s.similated perfectly. In time, it could extend to her mouth, the back of her

eyelids, even some of her internal organs.”

“Impossible.” Boiled’s voice rose, ever so slightly. Boiled noticed his own reaction, and it surprised

him.

“I didn’t want to believe it myself, but it’s the truth. An incredible truth born out of the confluence of

three factors: Dr. Easter’s innovative technical developments, the existence of Oeufcoque, and the girl’s

upbringing. That’s why we wanted her data at all costs, and that’s why we let themuse our labs in return.”

“It’s a fairly straightforward auxiliary function to give a brain the electronic interference abilities of a

snarc, though?”

“Yes, but the same paintbrush wielded by two different hands produces two entirely different

paintings. Some people are natural artists, others show no trace of talent despite the best tuition in the

world. This is just like that. What’s unique about this girl’s snarc is a truly astounding level of

concentration, her ability to focus her consciousness in on a narrow point, and her ability to diffuse all her

senses. Theoretically the human body has the ability to respond to its own suggestions, manipulating its

own senses at will. To feel warm when it wants to feel warm, to feel cold when it wants to feel cold, to

feel nothing when it wants to feel nothing—even extend its control over its own inner workings. Through

a deliberate program of training the subconscious, the body should be able to grasp everything that is

happening all around it, intuitively, on a subconscious level,” said Faceman.

“Theory is one thing, practice is quite another. There’s no way that such a thing could actually exist—

an ordinary person able to manipulate their senses on demand.”

This made Faceman laugh. “The origins of your own PseudoGravitational Float were fairly

innocuous at first, if you remember—it started off as technology designed to help people cope with

heights. Wasn’t it you yourself who mastered that technology so that you could walk across any surface,

including ceilings and walls, at will? When I say that her data will be useless to you, I mean that it’d be

impossible to try and extrapolate any general conclusions from it, just as it’s impossible to predict how

she is likely to develop next.”

“Still—her organic data, at least, will be of some use.”

“Even that’s completely unquantifiable at the moment,” replied Faceman.

“Are you using FES?”

Faceman nodded. “Functional Electronic Stimulus treatment is being applied to her whole body. The

original plan was to program her nervous system electronically in order to cure her of paralysis in her

limbs, but…”

“So why is that unquantifiable?”

“Her skin tissue is already in the process of a.s.similating with her cerebellum. Of course, you could

say that it’s the skin tissue that is influencing the brain, rather than the other way around.”

“Her skin is controlling her brain? Is such a thing even possible?”

“Human beings are, fundamentally speaking, holistic ent.i.ties. Such a thing is certainly possible. It’s

safe to say that Rune-Balot is no longer human, but rather a creature formed by synthesis of human being

and metal fibers. The fibers develop autonomously, in accordance with the spatial senses of her

cerebellum, automatically creating hundreds of millions of electric patterns that allow her to apply

optimal stimuli to her muscles and internal organs. In other words, the skin operates the brain, which in

turn manipulates the rest of her body to her will: a state of affairs that we’ve never seen before.”

“Why didn’t that happen with my fibers?” asked Boiled.

“The only possible explanation I can think of is that the girl is a singularity. Dr. Easter did program a

certain level of combat data into the structure of the metal fibers beforehand, but that only goes so far—

she’s long since outgrown that, and her abilities have developed to the point that the original data is

completely redundant. No one other than this particular girl is capable of such a thing. Exactly the same

as, for example, how you’re the only one who was able to develop your PGF to the extent that you did.”

“And how can I deal with her?” asked Boiled.

“Deal with—?” Faceman stopped and nodded, as if to say It stands to reason. “We’re residents of

Paradise. We don’t share the same moralizing notions that the outside world has regarding war, weapons,

and related technology. We don’t consider themto be evil in and of themselves, and we don’t consider the

girl to be a threat in and of herself. But perhaps you feel that opposing the existence of creatures such as

this girl gives you some sort of purpose in life, a raison d’être?”

Boiled’s face revealed that not only could he not answer this question, he was looking for an answer

to it himself.

“What is conflict and killing to you, Boiled? A means to an end or an end in itself?” It was the first

time that Faceman had called himby his name since he’d arrived.

But Boiled wouldn’t answer.

“Is it your desire to kill that’s become your main driving force? Didn’t you entrust yourself to Paradise

in order to toughen you up, body and mind, ready for outer s.p.a.ce? Isn’t it rather miserable that the

outcome of all that is a boundless killing machine?”

“The killer instinct in me is just that—instinct,” Boiled said. “It’s neither a means to an end nor an end

in itself. The reasons behind my involvement in Paradise don’t concern you; they didn’t back in the day,

and they don’t now. More importantly, the person who has the right—and duty—to ask questions is not

you, it’s me.” Boiled’s tone was defiant. He continued: “And my third question is this. What are

Oeufcoque and the others trying to find out about Sh.e.l.l?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’ve already seen the official pet.i.tion to the Broilerhouse. There’s a good chance that the Doctor and

Oeufcoque are conducting their own private investigation on Sh.e.l.l.”

“Unfortunately, I’mnot in a position to divulge that—not to one whose only means of self-actualization

is through killing.”

“What are you saying?” said Boiled.

“I’m saying that giving you the information you want would be paramount to condoning murder. Ask

me again once you’ve recovered your sense of value for human life.”

All the expression disappeared from Boiled’s face. As inhuman as his face was normally, this was

one step further, hideously, oppressively blank.

“So who’s going to show me the value of life? The people whose bodies were mangled behind closed

doors in the name of science?”

Faceman dodged the question. “I’m not talking about the value of life. I’m talking about your own

personal values.”

Boiled leaned forward. “I know all about the many lives that Paradise has snuffed out. How other

soldiers came here, what happened to them, and how they ended up dying.”

“So you’re trying to say that our aim is to murder people? Like some sort of concentration camp?

That’s a foolish way to look at what goes on here, and you know it. Of course there are some researchers

here who treat their subjects as objects. But they are human beings too, and they have arrived at their own

personal, sophisticated value systems, their own conceptions of the value of human life. Without this, you

wouldn’t last long as a researcher here—it’d be too tough on the mind.”

“False value systems. Totally contrived.”

“Of course they’re contrived—what other sort of value system is there? Or are you saying that there’s

a physical, tangible object called a ‘value’ lying around somewhere, just waiting to be discovered so that

everyone can see what the truth is?”

“My heart died in this so-called Paradise. I can no longer feel that there’s any such thing as value to

life.”

“That’s because the fear of death has been removed from you. The army—and you—wanted it so. To

give a soldier a sense of immortality. There were many steps to this procedure, and you’re the only one

ever to follow it through to the end, voluntarily or otherwise.”

“I’ve also forgotten sorrow and anger.”

“At the time, our consciousness-threshold examination techniques weren’t yet perfect…”

“I’ve even been robbed of my ability to sleep.”

“Asomniatic Activity—the highest-priority research target we were given, designed to strengthen

military personnel. You know very well that it used to be a matter of course for amphetamines to be

prescribed to help soldiers stand up to the trials and tribulations of war—was that any better? If you

remember, at the point you came to this facility, you were utterly dependent on stimulants—total

addiction. All we did was try and save you, and countless other soldiers, fromsuch a fate.”

“Save me, you say?”

“That’s right. Save you. I felt so then, and I still feel I was right. I have a lot of time for people who

accept their burden and take what life throws at them.”

“Are you saying, Professor, that you’ll be able to teach me again whether life has any value?” asked

Boiled, an unusually dignified and serious tone to the words spilling forth from his lips, even for him.

“Does life have any value?”

But Faceman shook his head. He smiled placidly and continued. “That question is folly—you have it

all upside down. Value is not something that just exists. It’s a concept, a construct. And when people

neglect their duty to construct their own valuation of life, they revert back to being no more than beasts.

After all, what is society if not a peculiarly human invention that allows people to conceptualize and

propagate their own belief systems?”

Boiled remained silent, his eyes dark.

Faceman continued in his quiet voice. “It’s been observed on numerous occasions that the act of

killing other members of one’s species is not limited to human beings—it’s a trait observable in all

animals. The reason that animals are furnished with the ability to kill is so that they can kill. For animals,

the impetus to kill is always there, constantly at the ready. That’s their system of self-perpetuation, you

see. Their systemis pure and simple, just like human society.”

“Are you calling me an animal?”

“All human beings are animals, of course. But you, having lost your sense of values, are trying to fill

that gaping hole with a particular set of instincts—that’s why you’re an animal. When animals cannibalize

each other or persecute outsiders or create outcasts or commit suicide, or patricide, or infanticide, or

fratricide—all these apparently abnormal acts are nothing more than a regression to a base animal

instinct, when you think about it. Animals learn from their environment and their circ.u.mstances and pa.s.s

their learned behaviors on to their children, who inherit what they can from their parents. But when

environments and circ.u.mstances change so that they appear to contradict what we have learned—well,

that’s when learning goes out the window, and animal instinct kicks in to produce these behaviors that we

call ‘abnormal.’ Whenever there’s an outbreak of killing within a species, this is usually the primary

factor.”

“Are you saying that it’s abnormal for me to have a gun?” Boiled asked.

Suddenly, Faceman’s eyes narrowed, and he threw the question back at Boiled. “So, when I said

‘abnormal,’ you immediately a.s.sociated the word with your gun, did you?”

Boiled didn’t answer.

Faceman smiled and continued. “Abnormal behavior could be, for example, the ill-treatment of other

members of your own species. There are some animals, for example, which, for various reasons, toy with

weaker beings before killing them. Even their own children. There are some cases where they rape their

own children repeatedly, or eat their children. Besides that, there are countless cases in which animals

engage in group suicide, or end up eating each other or killing their own parents.”

Faceman uttered this entire speech with his usual, apparently disinterested, tone. Boiled stood and

listened without emotion.

“Let me give you another example. In the savannas of a protected nature reserve, when the numbers in

a herd of herbivores grow beyond a certain level, the herd engages in conduct that can only be described

as provocative. Namely, they find a carnivore and deliberately pa.s.s close by, encouraging the carnivore

to chase them. When, eventually, one of the herd falls by the wayside at the end of the chase and falls

victim to the predator, the others in the herd stop and watch as their fellow gets ripped to pieces.

Scientists have a.n.a.lyzed brain wave patterns that, in these situations, indicate that the surviving herd

members are not just excited, but also enjoying the spectacle.”

It was as if Faceman was methodically retrieving the data stored in his mind, selecting the best piece

of information to impart next. “And what about the lowly insect that’s organized into the most regimented

sort of society. Take the bee—in every hive, there’s always a particular bee that isn’t a.s.signed any role. It

isn’t allowed to do anything, and it just gets ignored by the other bees and dies. The existence of such a

pitiful creature is usually explained as being a necessary measure to keep the population fluctuating, but

essentially what’s happening is that the majority are finding an outlet for stress by creating an outcast. It’s

a type of amus.e.m.e.nt. Then, there are the activities that are supposedly unique to human beings—take war,

for example. Your former line of work.”

Boiled said nothing. He stared at Faceman, a dark glint br.i.m.m.i.n.g up in his eyes.

“You think that human beings are the only animals to wage war? Think again. It’s actually fair to say

that pretty much any animal with a herd instinct will wage war one way or another. From insects to

herbivores—all living creatures wage war. Ants, for example, will attack a rival anthill and raid its food

supplies. They even occupy the other’s territory, enslaving the surviving ants. This sort of action is an

exceedingly common animal impulse, in fact. So, you see how it is? Human beings are a long way from

escaping their animal instincts, as I’m sure you understand clearly. In which case, what exactly is the

difference between man and animal?”

Faceman took a breath here to better enunciate his next phrase. “The creation of values,” he said. “On

one hand, animals have come up with all sorts of reasons—besides simple predation—to kill each other.

On the other hand, over time human beings have come up with a notion of valuing life and death. It’s not

that life has any value in and of itself. It’s that human beings have come up with a notion of value and

applied that in various ways to the idea of life. In doing so, man started to resist total domination by his

baser instincts and managed to give birth to a society overwhelmingly stronger and more complex than

any other, surpa.s.sing all other creatures and ascending the pinnacle of life on earth as master of all he

surveys.”

Here, Faceman opened his eyes wide and tilted his head, that is, his whole self, forward. “What is the

definition of a human being? It’s based on whether a creature understands the concept of a value system.

Human infants are very much like animals in that they don’t understand the idea of values, but then they

study them, and in doing so arrive at their own sense of self-worth, as well as the value of other objects,

recognizing the value of other people, and in learning how to heighten their own sense of values they

finally begin to partic.i.p.ate in society as a human being. Although, on the other hand, there is a certain type

of person who seems to have found his niche in society without a fully developed value system—and they

exist as little more than animals.”

Then Faceman grinned mischievously, although Boiled didn’t respond. “Oeufcoque knows what

values are,” Faceman said, his eyes gentle and narrow, but in a tone of voice clearly designed to elicit a

response fromBoiled. But it did not work.

“Originally he was just selected as a Living Unit because a mouse’s metabolic system seemed

extremely compatible with what we were trying to achieve, and he happened to be selected as that

mouse. But as he had his intelligence amplified, he gained a personality. He understood the concept of

values, and so he changed fromjust another lab animal to a creature called Oeufcoque. Oeufcoque made a

conscious effort to ama.s.s his own value systemand tried to recognize value in others. He did this because

he recognized that this was the main reason human society has managed to develop to the extent that it has.

Surmounting crisis after crisis, human will has always striven to rebuild society anew, to develop it to the

highest level possible. The reason Oeufcoque has elected to concern himself with all of society’s ills is

precisely because he recognized and understood all of this.”

The Professor continued in earnest. “You’re the exact opposite—the very definition of folly. Even as

you try to erode your own sense of values, regressing back into an animal state, you still desperately cling

to human society. If you’re looking for the opportunity to kill, pure and simple, then why not head to a

jungle in a nature reserve and kill all the animals and fish—bugs and germs, even—that you want?

There’s no reason that you have to be around humans.”

Boiled responded for the first time, almost as a reflex reaction. “I was a soldier. I defended one set of

lives and I studied warcraft in order to fight more effectively against another set of lives. It’s an existence

designed for a high level of defense and attack. Even now, I protect lives even as I take them.”

“Is that the thing you’re most proud of in your life? What a bundle of contradictions human beings are.

On one occasion they will devise a killing machine called an army in order to better defend themselves.

At other times they’ll go on a looting spree as a means to increase prosperity—even though doing so

makes their victims think of them in turn as a collective object worth attacking in the future, rather than

one worth cherishing. And these are your values, are they?”

“What would a person who has deliberately isolated himself in a manufactured paradise know of

society’s values?” asked Boiled.

“It’s precisely because we understand society’s values that we founded Paradise here. This is my

challenge to my own values.”

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

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

“In order to defend one set of values, humans have to annihilate opposing sets of values. I’m a being

created specifically to bring about that annihilation. If it’s humans who make values, it’s also humans who

break them.”

Faceman sighed a small sigh. “What a profound thought—and yet so helpless at the same time. Is this

your compensation for your own sense of helplessness? Having had your own emotions denied you, with

all the highs and lows that this entails, you seek to bring about nihilismin all living beings?”

“This place you call Paradise was built on the back of people’s broken values. You’re the ones who

know all about toying with nihilism,” replied Boiled.

“Values come and values go. We’ve thrown out sacred cows in the past, and I’msure we will again in

the future. But as long as we remain fixed on our aim of creation, new values emerge from the detritus of

the old. This is most definitely not nihilism.”

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

anything?”

“If we’ve treated people as objects, it’s because our observational techniques are subject to our

current limited physical and mental consciousnesses. We’re still inexperienced. In the grand scheme of

things, we’re still at an embryonic stage, or at most eggs in a basket. That’s why we value Oeufcoque so

highly—the Golden Egg, able to sniff out the odor of souls.” Faceman stopped speaking and stared at

Boiled. “And you, aren’t you the same, Rusty Gun? I recognize all too well that it takes the full extent of

your considerable willpower to suppress your killer instincts. But that’s not enough—at the moment,

you’re still just a human-shaped weapon. How do you ever hope to regain your soul?”

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

any other reason.”

“Human beings strive to become G.o.ds and are ever frustrated in their efforts. You try and regain your

emotions—the missing ingredient to make you an omnipotent G.o.d—through using your killer instincts to

try and steal them back. But that path won’t lead you anywhere other than down your own road to ruin.

The proudest warriors and hunters in history come across as modest and humble in comparison to you.”

Boiled’s hand went back into his breast pocket. This time there was contact with steel. “Soldiers have

their values constantly repudiated on the front lines. Call me worthless if you like—it means nothing to

me. The only people who recognize my value are my enemies.”

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

“Deep in their hearts, all people know that there’s no such thing as real value.” Boiled withdrew his

gun. Without a moment’s hesitation, he pointed it at Faceman in front of him. “I need you to answer my

question. What is Oeufcoque checking up on Sh.e.l.l about?”

“You don’t really need me to answer, now that the poisonous rust has so thoroughly spread through

your body. As things stand, you’re nothing more than a motor propelled by survival instincts and your

intent to kill. Do really think that having Oeufcoque in your hand will serve as a subst.i.tute soul?”

Boiled c.o.c.ked the gun. A second later, there was a ferocious roar, and the white table flew apart in all

directions, clods of earth flying through the air.

There was a sudden gust of wind that blew away the lingering acrid smell of burnt gunpowder. The

cage that had been on the table was now floating in midair, protected by an invisible shield, and from

within the cage the Professor stared out at Boiled with a serious expression. “The technology you use to

deflect bullets was developed right here.”

Boiled fired. The bullet was deflected, smashing to pieces a tree stump in the background. Such

incredible destructive force—and yet it was unable to influence the state of affairs in the slightest.

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

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

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

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

“Why don’t you ask your own client?” the Professor asked quietly. “Why would we know the details

of what Oeufcoque or Dr. Easter or Rune-Balot are looking for? This case is between yourselves. Why

doesn’t your client share this information with you?”

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

But Boiled pulled the trigger no more.

“Do you really think that Oeufcoque would ever return to you—you who have cast aside all emotions,

even trust?” asked Faceman. His voice was terribly, terribly sad.

03

–This is a…what do you call it?

Tweedledumwas in the water, taken aback.

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

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

shocked.

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

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

The information that Balot’s words referred to flew violently around the water, turbulent currents

forming themselves into liquid electronic circuits that could be expressed and understood semantically, so

that Balot could effortlessly read and communicate the information.

Brain—this word, with all its meanings and nuances, became the foundation of the information now.

Compiled around the image of Sh.e.l.l, she collected every piece of information that was conceivably

related to her search before filtering themout for relevance.

Balot’s state was now such that all she had to do was bring something to mind, open up her heart, and

it was done. Whatever image she sought. This would then pa.s.s through the artificial Light.i.te skin that

covered her whole body, transforming into electronic signals, snarcing through the swirls of information

with great vigor.

–There’s a copy…definitely…a trace…

A large bubble—a long sigh—escaped from the artificial respiratory organ that was appended to her

mouth. She continued with half-open eyes.

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

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

–It’s all coming together.

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

–Amazing stuf , babe…

And then, at that instant, all the information was sorted; the irrelevancies and the dead-ends discarded,

only the cold, hard facts remained.

–I’ve managed to a.n.a.lyze a specialist computer program used by Sh.e.l.l to transfer his memories

onto writable media. There are traces of evidence suggesting that the program has been

implemented. What happens is that all his memories relating to his five senses are selected and

isolated, leaving the parts of his memoryrelating to his imagination and his desires intact. So, when

it’s all turned into recorded data, the gestalt of his brain’s memory form is destroyed and he loses all

his physical memories.

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

accord.

–There’s a particular type of storage file he needs to use in order to save all eighteen years’

worth of audiovisual memories… It’s a particularly complicated storage file that requires a very

specific type of metalwork to make. That’s how we determine our route—traces of that

metalworking.

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

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

–And where is that bottle, right?

–Every time he does his money-laundering, he skims a bit off the top. He falsifies his own

expenses. I think I’ve worked out a pattern. Using this I can work out roughly what his fortune is—

both his official one and his black market one. Everytime a girl dies, more moneyswirls around…

Balot felt a chill in her heart as she transmitted this, as though she had swallowed a cold knife. Her

pulse was steady, and yet she felt a sharp pounding in her heart.

–Whyme?

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

–That’s it…

Balot stared at the silent swirls of light that surrounded her. She took a deep breath, trying to put aside

the feeling of sheer hatred, the overwhelming desire to kill that had sprouted up inside her and was now

rising to the fore. Trying to calmherself, she exhaled slowly.

–The answers are all in Sh.e.l.l’s memories.

This was Balot’s conclusion.

–For a memory transplant…you need lots of money and the right facilities. The flow of money,

evidence of computer programs being used, Sh.e.l.l’s actions, special facilities for memory

transplants, payments to certain people, the girls used at the time…

Before long, Balot could feel, through her skin, all the results of her searches. She had her moment of

satori, when she knew that no matter how many more times she interrogated the information she would

only arrive at one inevitable conclusion.

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

–Have you found it, babe?

Tweedledum’s voice was distinctly under pressure now.

–Yup—got it.

Balot slowly turned over to Tweedledum.

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

≡

–Mr. Boiled? Boss? Mr. Iron Man? f.u.c.k! Why isn’t this thing connecting? Piece of s.h.i.t.

Medium spoke not with his voice but through the transmitter implanted in his head. The electronic

signal disappeared mournfully into s.p.a.ce.

Medium checked how long he had now been inside this giant structure. Just over an hour. In that time

he had managed to penetrate the security defenses with ease, in the process killing three guards with his

two-hundred-thousand-dollar b.u.t.ter knife—that magnetized blade.

His knife made easy work of the three, and he cut them into pieces to store them in the lockers in the

guardroom, not forgetting to first strip the uniform off the guard closest in size to him. Medium then

donned the uniformhimself.

After that, Medium had obtained all the information he could from the guardroom. The blueprints for

the whole facility, including the plumbing and wiring. He downloaded what he could fromthe information

circuits, copying it straight into his intracranial hardware, and took a few minutes to digest it fully.

When he had finished that operation, he covered his bald head—his gla.s.sy pate suggested more

“inpatient” than “security guard”—with the regulation uniformcap, and left the room.

He had followed the patrol route carefully and had planned on contacting his new boss, the one that

sent himhere, but now he wasn’t able to get through. It seemed that the whole building was set up to block

the transmission of most electromagnetic frequencies. He had noticed back in the guardroom that there

was a particular wavelength that did seem to work, but even that was being shielded by something at the

moment.

With his knife still gripped casually in his right hand, Medium continued down the corridor as if he

were on a pleasant evening stroll. He pa.s.sed a number of doors to either side of him, occasionally

branching out into a s.p.a.cious lobby or a terrace encased in gla.s.s, but there was almost n.o.body around.

Even when he came across the occasional group of people, it was always old people attached to

machines, or researchers huddled together in deep discussion. There was no sign of anyone who looked

remotely like a young lady.

Eventually, the hardware in his head scored a hit. “Rune-Balot,” Medium murmured. His internal

computer had managed to crack the flimsy pa.s.sword that protected the visitor records. He grinned. Both

corners of his mouth swerved up to abnormal lengths. Behind his sungla.s.ses his eyes glittered red, and

Mediummoved toward the area that the data entry pointed toward.

It wasn’t long before he arrived. There was a thick door in his way. Medium got out his Lockbuster

Card and shoved it casually into the slot in the wall. He looked into the retina scan with his mechanized

red eyes, which projected a fake iris for the scanner to recognize. Then he took from his pocket a human

finger that he had removed from one of the security guards he’d killed and placed it onto the DNA scan,

gripping tight. The fingers on his own left hand—blown off only the other day—had been replaced with

electronic subst.i.tutes. His new metal fingers picked up the finger on the DNA scan and crushed it. Blood

dripped out onto the machine, and the ID check was complete.

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

door opened with a heavy rumble.

He took a step into the room. “Oho!”

He scanned the insides of the room.

Against the backdrop of the verdant foliage, the bright sunlight, and the warm breeze, Medium danced

about with his brutal knife held in one hand. It was almost as if he were waltzing. “Man, this is hardcore!

They’re not kidding when they call this place Paradise! What a blast! What a great place to play with my

little kitty-cat!”

He swayed from left to right, brandishing his knife every which way. Plants and flowers fell to the

ground, burnt, scorched. Silver flashed all around, and his eyes glowed bright red.

Then, in an instant, his manic spree was over. Medium had seen someone. He crouched down and

approached, circling around the trees so as not to be seen.

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

No one was moving. Some were in wheelchairs, others lying down in the gaps in the shrubbery. All

were staring up into the sky with content expressions. It was as if a number of stationary mannequins had

been dotted about the place as decoration.

Medium stayed in the thicket for a while, observing the stationary people, but then he revealed

himself, walking toward themwith rough, deliberate footfalls.

And yet no one seemed interested in either his gleaming red eyes or the blade in his hand. They didn’t

even try and look at him.

Soon he was standing next to a woman with abnormally white skin. She was sitting in a wheelchair.

He peered at her, stooping over her to take a sniff. He heard her breathing, f