For a moment, a glow of pride glinted in Tex's eyes. "Yeah. Damn me, but I love this airless piece o' dirt." He gave Dredd a troubled look. "But I'm caught, Joe. I'm getting too old for this and my judgement's startin' to slip. I'm like this here piece," he hefted the Colt for emphasis. "Just a damn relic."
"You're a fine lawman. Your service to the city has been exemplary. You could step down and no one would deny you a peaceful retirement."
Tex snorted with dry laughter. "C'mon, Dredd. You and me, we're too much alike to believe that quittin' ever works. We got the law in our blood. And you can't exactly go take the Long Walk on the Moon. Beside, there's no one I could trust to do the job after me... Che's a good Judge, but he's too soft on the international zoners. Heck, Joe, you're about the only other man I'd trust with this city and I'd never ask you to give up Mega-City One."
Dredd accepted this with a nod. Although in manner and personality, the laconic Tex was poles apart from Dredd's rigid disposition, the Judge-Marshal was one of the few men he knew that shared the same unswerving dedication to justice as he did. "We'll get to the root of this," Dredd told him. "Count on it."
Tex replied with a weary nod. "It's not me I'm worried about, Joe, you understand? It's my city. If I turn my back, if I give those lawless punks out there even an inch more, then Luna-1's gonna go to hell in a goddamn handbasket."
"Not while I'm here."
The Judge-Marshal forced a smile and turned to go. "Ah, listen to me! You must be thinkin' ol' Tex here is going soft in the brain! I reckon I'll get me some shut-eye."
"Good night, Chief Judge." Dredd watched his former partner amble away into the gloom, weighing his old friend's words with careful, taciturn consideration.
In the Silent Room, things were anything but quiet.
"Again I find myself forced to question the validity of this alliance!" snapped the bald man, addressing his tall superior officer but speaking as much to the old, frail man in the hoverchair and his thin, gangly assistant. "We entered into this partnership after receiving certain promises, one of which was the assurance that Luna-1's criminal fraternity would not be an issue-"
"I know what I said!" the old man said, his voice like nails down a blackboard. "I made good on that!"
"Did you?" retorted the balding man. "Did you really? A few of the, what do you call them, the 'little fish' are dealt with, but you let the big ones roam free to flap their mouths to the Judges? To Dredd?"
The thin man blew out a breath. "That was an unfortunate development. We were not aware that the information had proceeded beyond the targets we had already eliminated."
"Unfortunate," repeated the tall man. Until now, he had been content to let his subordinate speak, but now he weighed in with an exact, cold tone. "That is an extremely weak description of something that may jeopardise our entire project, especially when we are at such a critical juncture." He steepled his fingers. "Tell me, my dear friends, what masterful and completely foolproof plan do you have to deal with this blunder?"
The thin man exchanged nervous glances with his aged boss. "Well, uh, we thought we would just, you know, have him killed."
"And how do you propose to do that?"
The old man in the hoverchair recovered a little of his poise. "Like I've told you time and time again, I have loyal men in every part of this colony. The Luna Grand Hall of Justice is no exception."
The tall man raised an eyebrow. "So, what then? Some crooked Judge will simply walk into Umbra's cell and scramble his brains with a pulse blast?"
"Nothing so theatrical," the frail figure shook its head very slightly. "Our friend Vik is a big eater, but I'm afraid he'll find something in the prison food that will disagree with him. Permanently."
The bald man drummed his fingers impatiently on the obsidian table. "But this is too little too late! It is closing the barn door after the cow has bolted!"
"Horse," growled the tall man in exasperation. "After the horse has bolted. If you're going to copy their idioms, at least get it right..."
"I apologise, sir. Cow, horse; perhaps pig would be a better euphemism for that bloated sack of fat Umbra. My point stands, however. For better or worse, we must assume that because of this oversight, Dredd has moved closer to uncovering our operation."
"Indeed," his superior added. "So how shall we ensure that he is thrown off the trail? We cannot afford to have Dredd or that decrepit cowboy Tex disrupting the scheme until the grand finale is ready."
The frail old man gave a thin, predatory smile, his teeth emerging from behind his pallid lips like a knife being drawn from a sheath. "Oh, I have something in mind. With the technology you provided as your part of the alliance, I think we can set an incident in motion that will tie up Dredd and his little posse until we're ready to deal with them." He touched a control on the arm of his chair and the face of one of Dredd's taskforce formed in the holo-tank. "I believe you have already begun to turn the screws on this one?"
The bald man's expression was one of disdain. "I find your terminology crude. The protocol is subtle and carefully controlled, far more so than any clumsy physical torture methods."
"You Teks, you're always preening yourself over your damn hardware." The old man gave an airy wave. "The fact remains, we'll give this Judge a good, hard push and see what breaks. Dredd will be so busy scrambling over the fallout that he'll be looking the other way when we come for him."
The bald man was about to complain once again, but the tall man cut him off. "Yes, I concur. This approach makes good use of our resources. I had hoped to play this card a little later, but circumstances demand otherwise. We will proceed as you suggest."
"I'm so glad you approve," the frail man replied, with thinly veiled sarcasm.
"One more point," the bald man pressed on, ignoring the narrow-eyed look from his superior officer. "The installation of the secondary device, the reserve contingency against Judge-Marshal Tex... Was it successful?"
"Completely," said the thin man. "The unit sent a burst transmission of telemetry after activation earlier today. It should remain undetected until we need to use it, if at all."
The tall man rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Perhaps we could deploy it sooner rather than later. We may be able to combine it with our colleague's plan to disrupt Dredd's investigation."
The old man's smile grew wider. "That," he grinned, "is the best idea you've had all day! Dredd must be made to pay for his misdeeds and for the life of me, I'm damned if I can't think of a better way to do it than this!" He laughed, a dry and dusty sound like the crackling of old, dead leaves and presently, his fellow conspirators joined him in harsh, ruthless amusement at their plans.
Even the polished sheen of Kontarsky's helmet couldn't disguise the tight sneer of disdain that creased her face as she strode purposefully across the main atrium of the Green Cheese Shoplex, Judge Foster at her side and a muted, wary Rodriguez a couple of steps behind. From all sides, hard sell holo-commercials and the braying voices of advert drones were bombarding her.
"Get Ugly! Get Sump! Because you're worth it!"
"Plasti-Flakes - taste the difference! Now with flavour!"
"Mom's Robot Oil! An Oil... for Robots!"
"Wear Clothes By Qwecko... Or else you're a loser!"
The sheer, unadulterated consumerism of it all sickened her to the very core of her Soviet soul. The Shoplex was a broad, thick disc, forty storeys tall, from the outside resembling a gigantic wheel of Swiss cheese; inside, it was a loud, offensive temple to the capitalist ideal of money. Luna-citizens swarmed around her, pushing and shoving, forcing themselves into stores and vendor cubicles to snap up products they didn't need. The pure greed of the place seemed to leak into the very air itself and it made Kontarsky's guts knot. "Look at this place," she growled. "These people are like pigs at a trough."
Foster shrugged. "It's just shopping. Some people gotta have a hobby and it's better this than murdering their neighbours."
Kontarsky shook her head. She s
hould have known better than to expect a sympathetic viewpoint from the Brit-Cit Judge. His corrupt nation was just as bad as all the others. She flicked a quick glance over her shoulder at Rodriguez, who was continually scanning the crowd, watchful and tense. Kontarsky doubted that he would feel any different, either.
As they approached the main bank of turbolifts, the Sov-Judge passed through a flickering scan-beam and triggered another advert. This one was a "cred-seeker," a targeted commercial that spoke directly to potential consumers. "Hello there!" it said, as a holo-image formed in front of her. "Wouldn't you look dynamite in the new Luna collection from Kalvin Klone?" The hologram morphed into a version of Kontarsky, but dressed in a sumptuous formal gown; the only incongruous note was that the holo-version of her was still wearing her Judge's helmet. For a split-second, Nikita found herself admiring how the clothes hung on her, wondering if she could afford the dress on her pay. In the next moment she waved the image away, annoyed at herself for briefly falling for the sales pitch.
The waiting shoppers parted before her stern gaze and the three Judges took the first lift to arrive. "M-Haul Incorporated," Kontarsky told the vox-control.
"Level thirty-six," said the lift and the capsule jetted upward.
"So," Rodriguez said suddenly. "What's the plan? We go in, rough a few of these spugs up, lean on them?" His fingers were drumming on the side of his helmet in a rapid tempo.
"We secure the company records," said Kontarsky, "and keep a look out for anyone who might have more information than they're letting on."
Foster nodded. "We got the better assignment, I reckon. Dredd and J'aele have got two whole warehouse domes to check out by the shipping docks."
Kontarsky nodded but said nothing. Before they had set out this morning, Dredd had given them a briefing on his interrogation of the criminal pervert Vik Umbra and the M-Haul connection to the weapons. She had her doubts that the MoonieCorp clue was anything more than a false lead - Kontarsky suspected that Umbra had used the name to play on Dredd's suspicions - but rousting the staff at the M-Haul offices might still have some value to the investigation.
The lift chimed and the doors opened to their destination floor. The moment they stepped out, the cacophony of commercial jingles and invasive advertising hit them squarely in the face. A robot bearing a tray of mock-meat patties began to follow them. "Hey there, citizens! How about a free sample of the new Flame-Grilled Fungi-Snack from Burger Me?"
"Go away," Kontarsky snapped.
"It's fungus-tastic!" continued the machine. "Fortified with extra synth for that char-broiled taste! Mmm-mmm!"
Without warning, Rodriguez rounded on the machine and knocked the tray out of its grippers. "You got mushrooms in your audio pickup, you tin-head clicker? She said get lost!" To underline his point, the SouthAm Judge gave the robot a bad-tempered shove that sent it squealing away on its castors.
Kontarsky let that slide for a moment and pushed open the doors to M-Haul's small office. "Justice Department," she said, her voice clear and hard. "Crime sweep."
The receptionist was a human - a rarity, Kontarsky noted - and she visibly paled as the Judges approached her. "C-can I help you?"
"The manager. Right now," said Foster. Kontarsky was impressed at the Brit-Judge's control and tone. The right amount of force and authority in a Judge's commands often spelled the difference between a pliant citizen and an obstructive one. The receptionist was already on her way into the office proper, a cluster of desk cubicles further back into the building and the trio of Judges advanced.
"Foster, watch the doors," Kontarsky said, sotto voce. "In case we get any runners."
The manager returned with the receptionist. He was a portly man, florid and sweaty with surprise. Kontarsky automatically tagged him as someone hiding something. She held out a hand computer to him. "I want all your office files downloaded to this unit."
"What's this all about?" he asked. "We've done nothing wrong. We've only just taken over this business." He dabbed at his forehead with handkerchief. "Perhaps your concerns were with the previous owners-"
"I won't ask again," said Kontarsky. "Unless you'd like me to believe you are obstructing a Justice Department investigation?"
That was enough. The manager took the computer and she watched him link it to the M-Haul mainframe. In a matter of seconds, the dense memory core in the portable unit had flash-copied the office's entire file store, simultaneously broadcasting it back to a team of data analysts in Tek-Division.
"Now perhaps you can tell us something about the salvage stored in M-Haul's warehouses. What happened to the last consignments?"
The manager blinked. "What consignments?"
Rodriguez made a spitting noise and closed the distance to the overweight man in two long strides. "Do we look like we have time to waste with you, idiota?" he barked, his fists balling. "Spill it, you worm!"
"I-I don't-"
"What?" His colour rising, Rodriguez shouted in the manager's face. "Are you going to lie to me again?"
Foster and Kontarsky exchanged glances and the Sov-Judge made a small halting gesture with her hand. If the Pan Andes lawman wanted to play up the role of bad cop, then let him. It would make things move quicker.
"There was no salvage in the company inventory when we took it over!" the sweaty man spluttered. "The storage domes were empty!"
Kontarsky studied her portable lie detector, the East-Meg version of the device the Mega-City Judges called a "Birdie". The needle was buried in the "Nyet" end of the scale.
"You're lying to me!" Rodriguez bellowed.
"He's telling the truth," began the Sov-Judge, but Rodriguez didn't seem to hear her.
"You stinkin' bastardo!" The SouthAm Judge gave the manager a vicious backhanded slap that sent him staggering. "You're in it with those other pendejos, right? Making me look like a fool!"
"Rodriguez!" she snapped. "Back off!"
"No, no, no," he growled and with one swift movement pulled the manager into a headlock and pressed the barrel of his pulse gun to the back of his skull. Judge Rodriguez flicked the power dial to level four and the pistol hummed with power. "He talks or he loses his head!"
"Rodriguez, you're out of line!" said Foster. "Let him go!"
"Shut up, Brit-boy! And you too, chica. You let me do this my way!"
"Rodriguez, put away that weapon."
"I don't think so!" he said, his face crimson red with barely restrained anger. "Talk, you fat slug! Talk!"
The manager whimpered, his synthi-wool slacks darkening as his bladder loosened. "Please! I don't know any-"
The pulse blast cut through the air like a thunderclap. At point-blank range, the manager's entire head vaporised into a mess of hot goo that blew out across the room in a spray. Kontarsky flinched as bits of brain matter pattered over her helmet. Then she was diving for cover as Rodriguez fired wildly, sending particle bursts into computer terminals, walls, the receptionist and other screaming workers.
Judge Foster stood his ground and tried to bracket the outlaw Judge with a brace of stun-level discharges but Rodriguez was too fast, fuelled by adrenaline and anger and sent a high-energy bolt into the Brit-Judge's chest. Kontarsky saw him go spinning away behind a charred desk.
She took a breath of heat-seared air and spoke into her helmet mike. "All units, we have a rogue officer at the Green Cheese Shoplex, level thirty-six! Foster is down. Judge Miguel Rodriguez has gone rogue!"
Broadcast over the general frequency to all Judges within a sector-wide radius, Kontarsky's urgent message crackled over Dredd's helmet speakers. His jaw hardened when he heard the name of the Pan Andes Judge.
I should have sent him home when I had the chance.
A few metres away, at the storage dome entrance, he saw Tek-Judge J'aele freeze, hearing the same call for help. Neither man said a word; they both turned and sprinted for their zipper bikes.
Dredd reached the Shoplex as the first H-wagons arrived, a few moments ahead of J'aele thanks
to the superior speed and handling of the Krait 3000 he rode. Without stopping, he piloted the nimble grav-cycle through the main doors of the shopping mall, sounding the whooping sirens to scatter the droves of frightened civilians coming the other way. Inside, fire alarms were blaring and a soothing female voice asked politely for everyone to exit in a calm, orderly fashion.
No one was listening and people were falling over one another to get out. Dredd caught the sound of pulse-fire from the upper levels and the smashing of glasseen. As he swooped around, the Judge saw a juve using the confusion to steal a Tri-D projector from an electronics store. Dredd knocked him to his knees with a kick as he passed the opportunist thief. "Control, gotta kid in a blue radorak down outside the Gizmonics store, level one. Have someone pick him up. Looting, two years mandatory." Twisting the Krait's throttle, Dredd guided the bike up in a spiral climb. "Am in pursuit of Rodriguez."
"Copy, Dredd," came the voice of the dispatcher. "J'aele's on the way from the roof. He'll meet you there."
On the thirty-sixth floor, Dredd set the zipper to hover mode and dismounted, weaving through burnt planters and the heat-scorched corpses of citizens. He found the M-Haul offices a smoking ruin. Kontarsky was at the doorway, fumbling at a medpack. Foster lay nearby, groaning weakly.
"He'll live," the Sov-Judge said. "The shot just grazed him." She nodded in the direction of a large kneepad boutique. "Rodriguez went in there. He's got hostages."
"What the drokk happened?"
Kontarsky gave a weak shrug. "He was fine one second and the next..."
J'aele approached from the stairwell with a trio of Special Judicial Service Judges. The Justice Department's internal affairs division, the SJS were notorious for their ruthless nature and the zeal with which they pursued errant Judges. The silver skull designs on their uniforms earned them the nickname "Reapers" from street officers. "We'll take it from here," said one of them. "SJS Chief Kessler's orders."
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