Copyright
Mardock Scramble
© 2003 Tow Ubukata
All rights reserved.
Originally published in Japan by Hayakawa Publishing Inc.
English translation © 2011 VIZ Media, LLC
Cover and interior design by Sam Elzway
No portion of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission from the copyright holders.
HAIKASORU
Published by
VIZ Media, LLC
295 Bay Street
San Francisco, CA 94133
www.haikasoru.com
ISBN: 978-1-4215-4093-1
Haikasoru eBook Edition
Contents
Copyright
Book I: THE FIRST COMPRESSION
Chapter 1: INTAKE
Chapter 2: MIXTURE
Chapter 3: CRANK-UP
Chapter 4: SPARK
Book II: THE SECOND COMBUSTION
Chapter 5: PISTON
Chapter 6: INJECTION
Chapter 7: ROTOR
Chapter 8: EXPLOSION
Book III: THE THIRD EXHAUST
Chapter 9: CRANK SHAFT
Chapter 10: MANIFOLD
Chapter 11: CONNECTING ROD
Chapter 12: NAVIGATION
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
HAIKASORU
Book I:
THE FIRST COMPRESSION
Chapter 1
INTAKE
01
A girl murmured, in a voice that could barely be called a voice, “I’d be better off dead.”
It was the half-hearted sound of words that weren’t real, words not meant for the man next to her.
It was a sound that she thought could just be heard above the bustle of the pleasure quarter of Mardock City, over the noises that drifted in through the car windows.
She perked up a bit after speaking the words, as if a jazz singer had cast a spell with a song.
She was floating along in a four-ton black jewel. It was the highest class of AirCar there was, its body kept silently afloat by the Gravity Device Engine. All the door windows were Magic Mirrors—you couldn’t see anything on the inside when looking in from outside. You needed special dispensation to have this sort of window—Hunter Killers, they’re called, windows to keep the cops away. And of course, to get that special dispensation, the city needed to consider you a person of suitable standing.
Usually there was a chauffeur assigned to the car, but now it was on complete autopilot, gliding through the city unconcerned.
Perhaps the car wasn’t so much the jewel as it was the jewel box. Perhaps it was the girl inside that was the jewel. Certainly, that was what her appearance suggested. The shimmering lights of the city lent her cheeks a lustrous sheen, illuminating her innocent face. It was beguiling, seductive. Her slim body, her piercing ebony pupils and her fawnlike eyes, her shoulder-length black hair: all there to give the client the pleasure of an encounter with an exotic doll.
Doll was just about right. That was her status in life. She might be treated better—well, she was considerably more expensive—than the likes of those you found in the sleazy Internet classifieds: Seduction by Precocious Nymphette. Milk-Colored Lollipop Girl. But human desires are what they are, wherever you were on the social scale. Needs are needs. And anyway, she was already in a colorful uniform of her own: gaudy striped tights that showed off her not-quite-yet-developed thighs and calves, her skinny little ass wrapped tight in white hot pants. She might as well have been advertised as Sexual Innocence Available Here in one of those creepy ads.
Over her outfit she wore a trench coat that came down to her ankles. The type so beloved of the Senorita class of girls. It was spread open, and both her hands were stuffed deep in her coat pockets. She was the very picture of a cute, alluring young thing who’d been transported into an adult wonderland.
It was just then, as she was thinking about herself, reacting to the bright lights of the city, that the words were born:
“I’d be better off dead…”
She spoke the words. The spell was cast. Her thick red lipstick, heavy on her mouth, felt just that little bit lighter.
“What is it, Balot? Did you say something?” asked the man sitting next to her in the back seat. He was a weaselly figure, with his smooth, swarthy skin and black hair slicked back in a ponytail. He was enrobed in a white coat and was facing the girl. His photochromatic Chameleon Sunglasses, with their shifting colors, settled on a sharp crimson tint.
“Nothing, Shell. I was just thinking about you at the Show earlier tonight.”
When the young girl replied, the man curled his handsome lips into a smile and stretched out his hand toward her.
“It went well today. The deal at the Show. And it’s going to go well from now on.” As he spoke he caressed her cheeks, rejoicing in her soft lines.
There were a number of diamond rings on the gambler’s hands. All platinum with Blue Diamonds. They were taken off during the Shows, and one of the girl’s jobs was to look after them while he was gambling. One of the diamonds was conspicuous, brighter than the rest, and the man called this one Fat Mama, because, as he said, “I called in a favor from an acquaintance who works in processing to have my dead mother’s ashes turned into a diamond.” Motherly love was eternal, so he reckoned, and brought him good luck to this day.
The man had a great many other rings, and the girl didn’t know whether the diamonds on them were made from the ashes of people other than his mother.
“Open the fridge and make me my usual drink, will you?” In response to his request, the girl gave a little murmur of assent, opened the door to the car refrigerator, and made a gin cocktail. She squeezed the lime, dribbling its juices into the drink. The surface of the beverage was absolutely still thanks to the smooth ride that the AirCar provided, and all the while, right up until the moment that she proffered the drink to him, the man’s hand continued stroking her chin.
“There’s a good girl.” The man took the drink, lifted up the girl’s chin, kissed it, and put the drink to his lips.
The man, an upstart from the slums, was now one of the city’s leading Show Gamblers and also the proprietor of many of the city’s legal casinos. The girl was an underage prostitute—a Teen Harlot—whom he’d bought, and (for the time being) she was exclusive to him, not required to service any other customers. On the contrary, the little runaway was treated as a valuable commodity—she’d even been given a new identity, namely a fake citizen’s ID card.
“Everything that you’ve lost, I’m going to give back to you.” That was what he’d said to her when the brothel that she worked in was rumbled and she had nowhere to go. The girl had often heard stories of the authorities granting guarantees of safety—a new identity, name, and address—to informers who had given important information that resulted in the indictment of certain people from the city’s crime gangs. But the girl was hardly looking for that.
“Does this mean that…you love me?” The girl asked this question, and the man narrowed his eyes and smiled. His eyes were shining as he gazed upon her, his irises said to have been turned Emperor Green, a color he selected when he put himself through the operation. And this was what the man said: