“I don’t,” Dredd said.
The other Judge—female, mid-twenties, currently wearing only her uniform tunic and helmet—spoke for the first time since boarding the shuttle. “Why do they call it the Sweats?”
The pilot said, “Because it sticks right out into the Cursed Earth, and weather control is patchy. Sometimes in the height of summer they’ve gotta pipe in water from what’s left of Lake Erie just so’s they can spray down the old asphalt roads to stop them melting. Then you’ve got your muties on the other side of the wall. They cluster around the waste pipes and go fishin’ in the garbage for anything they can sell or trade.” She turned around to face the young Judges. “You ever smelled a mutie who’s been up to his neck in warm garbage all day long? Well, multiply that by ten thousand, and that’s a start. You feel like your eyes are gonna melt right out of their sockets. I heard of one Judge who was ambushed and torn apart by a bunch of crazies just so they could get hold of his respirator.” Another pause, then, “And it wasn’t muties who did that. They were cits.”
She adjusted the craft’s orientation in preparation for descent. “But the muties do attack, too. Every couple of weeks they’ll breach the wall somewhere. They get in, set a bunch of fires or they use their home-made bombs on a bridge or something. Then all the Judges come running and, whaddaya know, it was a decoy and the real raiding party is five klicks away and they’re plundering a supermarket or a warehouse. On your left there is the sector’s largest block, David Shires Con-Apt. Take my advice: you don’t want to get to close to that place. Two hundred thousand cits or thereabouts. No one’s sure exactly because it has the highest murder-rate in the city.”
Dredd said, “Eighth highest.”
The pilot said, “Thanks. I sure do love being corrected by a child. Whatever. Strap in. Touchdown in sixteen seconds.”
Dredd had barely clipped his seat harness before the shuttle landed with an impact that he was sure must have stretched the limits of its landing struts’ shock-absorbers.
“Get moving,” the pilot said. “Doubt I’ll be seeing either of you again. Try not to get killed on your first day.” She flicked a lever on the control panel and the craft’s starboard hatch hissed open.
A gust of warm, foetid air rushed into the shuttle like someone had just opened an enormous oven right next to them.
Dredd followed the other Judge down the shuttle’s ramp onto a wide plaza in view of the local Sector House.
As the Judges watched the shuttle rise unsteadily but swiftly, the other Judge said, “Celia Montag, tech-division, sector eighty.”
“Dredd, thirteen. What brings you here, Montag?”
“I’m a weapons specialist. There’s a lot of old pre-war munitions coming in through this sector and the Judges here need my help detecting and tracking them. You?”
“You haven’t heard?” Dredd asked her.
“No.”
He started moving toward the Sector House. “You will.”
“LET’S TALK, DREDD.”
Rico Dredd raised his head slowly. Too slowly: Judge Gillen realised he was still under sedation. That might make this interrogation more difficult than she’d like.
In the heart of the Hall of Justice, Rico’s cell was five metres by four—larger than his brother’s quarters, Gillen noted—and utterly secure. Fourteen separate layers of security, from armed guards to impervious bars to scanners capable of detecting any foreign object more substantial than a human hair, would ensure that the rogue Judge would be around long enough to face his sentence.
“Sure,” Rico said. “What do you want to talk about?”
Grud, they really are identical, Gillen thought. Except for the expression in his eyes, it could be Joe on the other side of the bars. “Your safety-net is disintegrating. Those files you gave us have proved very useful, but they won’t save you. There’s not a Judge in the Department who buys your story about infiltrating the mobs to take them down from within. Your old contacts are squealing under pressure; you really should have chosen them more carefully. We know about your part in the heist at the Kool Herc Infernodrome, about Madame Ozelle’s brothel, your endorphium stash, the Quasarano family... All of it. But I want to know when it started for you. When did you begin to see yourself as above the law?”
Rico stood on the other side of the bars, chained hand and foot, the chains only just long enough to allow him to shuffle around the cell. It was not a dignified look, but somehow it only made Rico seem even more dangerous. “The law.” He smiled. “The law is artificial. You have to understand that. You choose to believe that the city’s laws are immutable, like the laws of physics. But they’re not. They’re... customs. Traditions that we cling to because they make us feel comfortable. We all know that murder is wrong because...”
Gillen watched him for a second, wondering whether the sedatives coursing through his veins had dulled his thoughts.
“Well?” Rico asked.
“I see. You were waiting for me to supply the answer. I understand your point, Dredd. Collectively, we’ve decided that murder is wrong. In another society, it might be perfectly acceptable.”
“It’s acceptable in this one. We call it justice. You know how many people I’ve legally executed since I left the Academy?”
“I’m more interested in the ones you’ve murdered.”
“Execution and murder, right and wrong, good and evil, order and chaos... They’re just labels. Switch them around, and people will protest for a while, but pretty soon the new way will become the norm.”
“Do you see yourself as good or evil, Dredd?”
He stared at her, unblinking. “Didn’t you hear what I just said? Any label I apply to myself has no relevance; it’s just a word, and words are not absolutes.”
“You killed Virgil Livingstone.”
Rico nodded. “That’s true. Though that was not murder. It was unintentional. I was distracted.”
“By your brother.”
Another nod.
“Joe wanted a slice of the action, is that it? He saw that your life was better than his, and he wanted in. Things got out of control and Livingstone died.”
“This is what you really want to know, isn’t it? Whether Little Joe has started to see the light. You won’t get that answer from me, Gillen. Walk away. Interrogate my contacts, pick over every second of my life. I’m sure you’ll find something—an event, a decision—that you’ll conclude is what made me the way I am. Perhaps you’ll even be right. You’ll understand the reasons behind every decision, every action. Go ahead. Learn to see the world through my eyes. Come back and tell me whether you think I’m good or evil.”
“I already know the answer to that,” Gillen said. “Every sociopath has their own justifications for their actions. In your view, you’re right and anyone who opposes you is wrong.”
“That’s not an attitude exclusive to sociopaths,” Rico said. “Everyone thinks like that.”
“True. But you, Dredd... Standing there with that smug expression, trying to tell yourself that everything is going to work out in your favour, that you can take whatever punishment we decide to throw at you, that you’re content with how things are and you’re not boiling with concealed fury... Well, I know what’s at the core of this facade. The nameless rage that constantly gnaws at your soul. It’s the same rage that drove you to become the highest-scoring cadet to ever graduate from the Academy of Law. The rage that allowed you to justify every cruelty, every selfish act.”
“And what is that?”
“It’s jealousy. You despise your brother because you know that in every way—every way—he is better than you.”
Rico smirked. “Oh, please. That’s beneath you.”
“Funny, Joe said the same thing. But my point is that he has no ego. That kills you, doesn’t it? In the Academy tests, any time you scored higher than him he was happy for you. Even proud of you, in his way. But whenever he beat your scores, you worked your butt off to make sure you surpassed
him next time. Joe didn’t care about that. Still doesn’t. He doesn’t want anything for himself. I’ve seen the apartment you’ve been living in, Dredd. It’s packed with luxury items, the most expensive food, all the latest high-tech entertainments. The only thing your brother owns is a set of law-books. That’s all he needs, and all he wants.”
“You believe that, Gillen, then you’re not digging deep enough. Joe has his secrets, trust me on that.”
“Save me some legwork, then. Tell me.”
“Why should I do your job for you?”
Gillen looked around the cell. “What else are you going to do here? Just tell me this, Dredd... What was your ultimate goal? Suppose Joe hadn’t been there this morning. Livingstone wouldn’t have died, no one would know what you’ve been doing. So what was your plan? Accumulate a few million credits and retire from the Department?”
Rico didn’t respond to that.
“You don’t know,” Gillen said. She moved back toward the door. “You can’t answer that because you had no goal. You spent the past year corrupting the system and you don’t even know why. You know what that tells me about you?”
“That I’m rudderless,” Rico said. “That I just submit to my whims and can’t see the big picture.”
“No. It tells me you’re incompetent. With your skills, you could have been a senior Judge within four years, heading a division within ten, Chief Judge by the end of the century. Instead, you traded all that for a top-of-the-range Taneasy lounger and drinks by the pool.” Gillen placed her palm on the door’s hand-plate. As it slid open she turned back to face him. “You’re a drokkin’ idiot.”
Four
THE DOORS TO the public area of Sector House 198 hissed open as Dredd and Montag approached, but the left door stuck halfway.
Dredd said, “Hmph,” and shoved the door the rest of the way.
“Yeah, that’s not a good sign,” Montag said.
Dredd glanced back at the clusters of dishevelled citizens waiting on the Sector House steps, then strode ahead of Montag into the building. The stench here was even worse than outside. Fifty citizens—at least—waited in broken lines against the side walls, most of them sitting on the floor because there was only enough seating for twenty. One woman was dozing, stretched out across four seats.
None of the citizens looked up to see who had entered. That told Dredd more about this sector than any report he’d read.
At the front desk, a Judge—female, mid-fifties, long grey hair tied into a pony-tail, badge-name Eisenhower—nodded at Dredd and Montag as they approached. “You made it, then.” She slid a battered computer-tablet toward them. “Sign in.”
Dredd pulled off his right glove and placed his hand on the tablet, and the desk Judge read his details from her own monitor. “Joseph Dredd, formerly assigned to Sector Thirteen. Reassigned to 198 for supervised duties pending the outcome of an investigation...” The woman sighed. “And so on. Thirteen, huh? Well, we work for a living out here, Dredd. We’ve got the same budget as any other sector of this size, and that’s got to cover defending the wall and battling the weather and keeping the outposts safe. So all this”—she spread her arms—“might not be as clean and fancy as you’re used to, but it’s all we’ve got.”
Dredd looked around. “Unwashed floor, cracked windows, aircon’s not working, place is overcrowded... This is how you run the House, Eisenhower? What are those cits waiting for?”
“Most are waiting to be processed. Some are here because it’s safer than being outside. The gangs can’t get to them in here.”
Dredd nodded. “Understood.” He turned back to Eisenhower. “Am I logged in?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. I want a full set of equipment and a Lawmaster. I’m hitting the streets in ten minutes.”
“You have to wait for your supervising Judge.”
“That’s what the ten minutes are for.” Dredd strode over to the dozing woman, and nudged her in the side with his boot. “You. Get up.”
She pushed herself to a sitting position and glared at him through bloodshot eyes. “What?” She had scabs on her knuckles and old bruises on her arms and throat.
“How long have you been waiting here?”
“What’s it to you?”
“Your answer will determine whether I throw you back out onto the streets. How long, and why?”
She stood up and sneered at Dredd. “Three days. I’m here ’cos the women’s refuge won’t take me in no more, which is ’cos of a fight that happened last time. And the time before.”
“Fight a lot, do you?”
Another sneer. “I defend myself a lot. Not the same thing.”
Dredd placed his hand on the woman’s chin. She flinched briefly, then allowed him to turn her head to the side. “You make a formal charge against whoever gave you those scars?”
From the desk, Judge Eisenhower called out, “Her boyfriend. It’s in the system. We’ll get to it.”
Still looking at the scarred woman, Dredd said, “Montag, you logged in yet?”
“I am.”
“You’re with me today.”
Montag walked over to Dredd, stopped by his side. Softly, she said, “Dredd, I’m a Tech. I don’t—”
“You do now. Take this woman somewhere quiet, get a fresh statement, check the records. I want everything there is in the files about her alleged assailant. Then you and I will go and pay him a visit.”
As Montag led the woman away, a young man sitting cross-legged on the ground muttered something to his neighbour.
Dredd turned to him. “What was that?”
The man paled. “I, uh, I was just saying that some of us have been waiting longer than she has, but she gets seen first because everyone’s scared of her. We’ve heard the stories about what she’s like.”
“I picked her first because she was taking up four seats,” Dredd said. “Figured more of you might want to get off the floor. What are you here for?”
“I’m innocent. I was—”
In two steps Dredd was standing in front of the young man. “Didn’t catch that. You might want to tell me again. Maybe choose your words more carefully this time.”
“Caught shoplifting.”
“What’d you try to take?”
“A pocket Tri-D set.”
Dredd nodded. “Been sentenced?”
“Not yet. The Judge said—”
Dredd pointed over his shoulder. “Talk to Judge Eisenhower. She’ll tell you where to find a mop and bucket. Your sentence is to clean every floor in the Sector House. Once that’s done, you can go. Try shoplifting again if you’re tired of not living in an iso-cube.” He took a step back and looked at the rest of the waiting citizens. “Any of you creeps know how to repair an air-conditioning unit?”
A young woman tentatively raised her hand. “I used to fix the one at home all the time.”
“Why are you here?”
“I got nowhere else to go. My mother threw me out, said that I have to find my own place or start paying my way now that I’m eighteen. And I can’t pay my way without a job.”
“Give Judge Eisenhower your details. You get the aircon in here working, the department will pay you the standard rate. I’ll talk to your mother and make sure she understands her responsibilities.”
Behind him, Judge Eisenhower said, “Dredd, you can’t do this. We have a system. It’s not perfect but it works.”
“Clearly it doesn’t.” Dredd pointed to another waiting citizen, an older man wearing a torn, sweat-stained shirt. “You?”
The man looked down at his feet. “I owe money to a shark—her men chased me, I managed to get away and came in here.”
“Three men, early thirties, fake-fur jackets with cut-off sleeves?”
He nodded. “Oh, Grud, they’re still out there, aren’t they?”
Dredd walked toward the entrance. As before, one of the doors only opened part of the way. “Eisenhower, see if any of those cits knows how to fix a door.”
The man nodded gratefully. “Thank you, Judge! You’ve saved my life.”
“Glad to hear it,” Dredd said. “One year in the cubes for dealing with an unauthorised money-lender.”
A deep voice from behind Dredd said, “Who the drokk do you think you are?”
Dredd turned to see another Judge approaching him. She was female, in her late thirties, almost as tall as he was, with a wiry build.
From the side, Eisenhower said, “Dredd, this is Senior Judge Izobel Ramini. She’s your supervisor.”
Ramini stopped in front of Dredd. “I read the reports. Joseph Dredd. Brother’s a killer, no one’s sure about you. So they sent you to me for baby-sitting duties.” She looked around for a moment. “Not here ten minutes and already you’re upsetting the apple-cart. And I’m told you intend to take my new Tech out onto the streets. Montag has almost no combat experience. She won’t last a day—”
“She will if she’s with me.”
Ramini leaned closer. “Don’t interrupt me, son. Don’t ever interrupt me. I don’t give a dripping drokk if you were a hot-shot at the Academy. Here in my sector, you’re just another rookie until I decide otherwise.”
“Understood.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I hope so. Let’s see how good you are. What’s the plan?”
Dredd nodded toward the waiting citizens. “Start clearing the backlog.”
“We’ve got a lot bigger problems than that in this sector.”
“Have to start somewhere,” Dredd said.
“All right,” Ramini said. “I’m your back-up for the night shift. If I’m not impressed, you’ll spend the rest of your time here working out duty rosters and indexing the evidence lockers.”
Judge Dredd: Year Two Page 3
