James Swallow - Ghost in the Shell - The Official Movie Novelization

A much less pleasant interaction was taking place in Aramaki’s office at Section Nine headquarters. The chief was alone with Cutter, who wore an expensive dark green silk suit; Aramaki was dressed in a grey three-piece ensemble that made him look frailer than he was.

For the most part, Section Nine was Aramaki’s kingdom, but the reality was that Cutter pulled many of the strings that kept the unit in operation. The Hanka CEO was the living juncture where police work and public security intersected with commerce and politics. His presence in Aramaki’s office was significant.

Cutter’s words were measured, but there was no disguising the fury behind them. “Are you insufficiently funded, Mr. Aramaki? Is Section Nine missing some critical resource?”

The CEO knew exactly how well funded Section Nine was. Aramaki did not rise to the bait. He replied in Japanese, “We have everything that we require.”

“Major is our most sophisticated weapon…” Cutter allowed himself a brief smile of admiration, “only if she’s intact.” In the next instant, he became accusatory, glaring at Aramaki. “And Dr. Ouelet informed me that you let her dive into a corrupted geisha.” Cutter still couldn’t believe that something so irresponsible, so foolhardy, so potentially disastrous had been done. Aramaki could have risked anyone on the team and spared Hanka’s single most valuable asset.

She’d been connected to work, malware, viruses, trapdoors, glitches, and implants. If she was compromised, if Kuze had put code inside her, that would change everything. The Major was the prototype of the perfect soldier. If she was vulnerable to hacking and it got out, the reputation of Hanka Robotics might never recover.

Aramaki didn’t bother to point out that he had not authorized the Major’s Deep Dive. He took full responsibility for any actions undertaken by his subordinates, whether he’d sanctioned them or not. Also, it would be shameful of him to do or say anything that might cause Cutter to take it upon himself to chastise the Major directly. That was not Cutter’s place, but he would not see it that way. Men like Cutter never did.

Oblivious to what Aramaki was thinking, Cutter continued with his lecture. “You realize the supreme importance that Hanka represents to this government. Major is the future of my company. If you compromise her systems again, I will burn this section.”

Aramaki gave Cutter the formal bow that a subordinate gave to a man of greater social stature. “Yes, sir. Mr. Cutter.” He paused. “But be careful who you threaten. I answer to the prime minister, not to Hanka.”

The giant digital ads continued to rule the skies of New Port City, even at night. “Digital democracy,” one proclaimed. “Enjoy your life again.”

A male sports announcer revealed, “And in Contouren ball today, the Mangorea continue their quest for their third Contouren cup in…”

A commercial jingle, an earworm that was the bane of all who heard it, sang out, “Playpod time, Playpod time…”

In her apartment, the Major examined herself in a holographic mirror, running her fingers over her cheek and lips, trying to feel whether she could distinguish them from normal flesh, whether she could recall if the sensations she experienced now were different from those she had known before the shell. But she couldn’t remember.

The Major had been to the city’s red light district dozens of times on missions. Now, though, she was here as a civilian. She wandered through the teeming bazaars and the alleys of the night market. The activity there never ended, only changed, with one set of vendors and hawkers moving on for the day and a different crowd coming in for the hours after sunset.

A chill ran through her, and even though she knew it was only an emulation running from her biological brain to her machine-form body, it felt real . Suddenly, all that the Major wanted was to remember and to experience a connection .

The holographic ads in this neighborhood promised every kind of sexual experience possible. “No matter what your interest,” a female voice announced seductively over a billboard, “we have it all. Virtual to real, all partner robots are anatomically sound, sterile, and can be customized to your liking.”

On the ground, a human prostitute shouted obscenities at a geisha bot, trying to get her to relinquish her patch of sidewalk turf.

A male announcer promised, “Perform when the time comes—we’ll kill all your worries goodbye. New triozide bull formula gives you a natural…”

A corner prostitute noticed the Major and beckoned. “Come here! With me!”

The Major continued on, moving further into the night. Overhead, another talking holo-ad suggested, “Create your own beauty. Beauty enhanced.”

And there, in a doorway, was beauty. A particularly exotic-looking prostitute was leaning there, tall and athletic, in her early twenties. The Major could see how she was attempting to compete for clients with the synthetics by adopting the same style of clothes, the same kind of elaborate shiny make-up that recalled the circular face of a porcelain doll.

But something about her made the Major stop and walk over to her.

“You human?” the Major asked.

The prostitute was not offended. “Yeah.”

The woman’s name was Lia and she had no objection to going to the Major’s apartment. The two women sat down between the corrugated walls of the sleeping alcove, facing each other. Weak illumination played over their features. Their gestures were halting and tentative. The Major felt as if she was being carried along by a need that had long been buried in her, awakened now by something distant and bright. She understood that she was hardly the kind of client Lia catered to usually, but Lia seemed to have all the patience in the world.

“Can you take that off?” The Major indicated the decorative rounded make-up patterned over Lia’s face, the fake aspect that made her appear less human and more synthetic. “So I can see your face.”

Lia’s expression suggested that this was a request she had not heard before, but she was happy to comply. The Major watched in silent fascination as the make-up peeled from the other woman in a second, dead plastic skin. Lia detached the round, slick patch that encircled the lower portion of her face. Her glossy, over-colored lips faded back to their normal shade, looking much softer without their lipstick shield. Lia reached up and stripped away false, cartoonishly long eyelashes, self-consciously running a hand over her shorn scalp, smoky with a fuzz of hair. Moment by moment, the other woman brought herself back to her essential human nature.

Their skins were a study in contrast. Where the Major’s flesh was pale, and almost reflective, Lia’s ochre tones were wonderfully freckled and authentic.

The Major moved closer, reaching up to stroke Lia’s cheek, then ran her thumb over Lia’s lip. She saw the young woman react in surprise to her touch. “What does that feel like?”

“It feels…” Lia hesitated, “…different.”

The Major ran a finger under Lia’s eye, then stroked her cheek again. It evoked a memory, though no names or faces came with it. But there had been breath, and smell, and skin, and warmth.

Lia exhaled very softly, nervous. “What are you?” she asked. Was that fear in her eyes?

The Major did not reply.

Even though she lived in a far more elegant part of town that could only be afforded by politicians, top executives and corporate scientists, Dr. Sonia Dahlin’s apartment was not extensively furnished. Like most Hanka personnel, she didn’t spend much time in her personal dwelling. Tonight, though, she had taken her current project home with her and was up late, working. She could have remained in the lab, and protocol dictated that she should, but by the end of the regular workday, she had desperately needed a nap, a shower and a change of clothes in that order. There were places to sleep and even wash up at the Hanka Tower, of course, but she didn’t have a clean shirt with her and the thought of having to go on working with her own sweat clinging to her was more than Dahlin could take today.