Judge Dredd: Year Two

by Michael Carroll

“Wilco. We’ll both head back now.”

  She date-stamped the transcript and forwarded it for Davidson’s attention, red flag and all. Let them know their prodigal son whatever-the-hell-he-was was alive and well.

  11.26 am

  RAWLINGS WAVED THE gun barrel slowly between Collins’ eyes as he finished speaking into his mic, then he snatched the Judge’s helmet away and tossed it in a corner. The badge eyed him and the others in the room nervously, sweat beading his face. Strapped to the chair, missing one hand—severed to aid co-operation—he looked helpless, stripped of all authority. Take away the uniforms and their daysticks and they were all just scared little runts, Rawlings thought, beatin’ on the folk beneath them.

  “Bye-bye, Mr Bluejay,” he said, putting the gun to Collins’ forehead and pulling the trigger. “Fly away home.”

  He turned to his Furies. “Dispose of that. Then find me the other one. Now.”

  Four

  11.47 am

  THE STREETS OF Eminence were alive with creeps. Joe squeezed his trigger as he advanced, picking his targets carefully, his Academy-trained brain forcing itself to stay calm, controlled. It was all too easy to panic when faced with multiple hostiles, to set the Lawgiver to rapid fire and spray; it was the mark of a badge on top of the situation that every bullet was economically and precisely spent. Buckshot blasts punched holes in the warehouse wall behind him, kicked up the dirt at his feet, but he didn’t flinch or falter. He sighted on the nearest mutie that was trying to get a bead on him and drilled an SE round between his eyes—one set, at least—before assessing the next threat.

  He glanced over at Rico, several feet ahead of him on the other side of the street, and knew he was guided by the same by-the-book tactical thinking. They were in synch, a well-oiled, two-headed justice-dispensing weapon; few were their match when it came to combat, whether in classroom simulations or real-world exercises like this Hotdog Run. They were in their element: the odds against them, the last twelve years of schooling finally put to the test. Beyond the Academy walls—indeed, beyond the city—their lives were at risk. It was as much a fight for survival as a performance review. But the Judges they’d been shaped to be were now emerging, born in fire. This town was the kiln that would make them.

  They’d all heard the rumours, the locker-room scuttlebutt, about the high failure rate of Hot Dog Runs. Deaths were rare, but many cadets were put back a year or put through the process again or—worst-case scenario—dismissed from the Academy entirely. Joe and Rico never believed that would be an option: too much was at stake, there was a bloodline to honour. It was unthinkable that they wouldn’t be Judges; it was in their DNA. They’d rather take a fatal bullet than return to the metropolis in disgrace.

  But that wasn’t going to happen.

  Their self-assurance probably rankled amongst their peers, but to the Dredd clones it was immaterial: these kind of personal feelings were an irrelevance, anyway.

  Still, clockwork precision was required; they weren’t out of the woods yet. Faulder had been taken out, bringing the scam to an end, but the gun runners didn’t care about details. Joe watched Rico duck beneath the swing of a homemade mace and jammed his gun barrel under the mutant’s chin, his round detonating the creep’s skull. It was perfectly fluid, almost effortless, and a move he could’ve anticipated as if it was happening to him. They were bonded on a cellular level, connected to a far greater degree than any regular sibling; but neither felt fear for the other. He knew that his twin was up to the challenge.

  The bodies were piling up, Eminence’s main drag turned into a charnel pit. None of them—Joe, Rico, Gibson—were offering their foes much of a chance of surrender. Termination was what was required now, to show the townsfolk that the perps had been judged, that the law was as resolute out here as it was back in the Big Meg. By the time the shooting tailed to a halt, nearly two dozen corpses littered the ground, and hazy smoke drifted across the scene. Joe joined Rico, who had his boot on a struggling mutie’s chest and was training his gun on him, snapping off a headshot.

  “Made good time,” he said.

  Rico turned to face him. For a moment, Joe thought he saw something like disdain etched on his twin’s face; then he realised he was studying his arm. “You’re bleeding,” he remarked.

  Joe looked down and saw shrapnel had carved through his bicep. In the midst of an adrenaline surge, he hadn’t even felt it. Now, the ache was beginning to spread, and the blood was starting to soak the uniform. “Need a med-pack,” he muttered, glancing around. Suddenly the town felt very quiet and empty. His brother was turning away from him and walking up the street, cadavers crunching beneath his feet.

  His arm was aflame. “Rico, help me,” he said. A crimson gauze was curtaining his vision, blurring the sight of his clone.

  “It’s too late, little brother,” Rico said, pausing, turning his head to the side but not looking at him, not moving to assist. “You failed.”

  11.48 am

  DREDD’S EYES SNAPPED open. It took a moment to reorient himself; he adjusted to the gloom and realised he was in a maintenance antechamber, little more than a couple of metres square. It was mostly filled by a large junction box, but had also been used as a walk-in storage cupboard; various items of cleaning equipment were stacked against the wall. He’d used the hose of a deactivated robo-cleaner to tie the door handle shut so it couldn’t be opened from the other side. He’d had enough of his wits about him to realise his attackers may well be looking to finish the job.

  He must’ve passed out; for how long, he didn’t know. The cold rockcrete floor had numbed his legs, and as he tried to shift himself into a more comfortable position, he had to battle a wave of cramp. He hissed as he sat up, massaging feeling back into his limbs, and with that returned attendant aches from all over his body. He was in a bad way, there was no disguising it: weak, feverish, in constant pain. He’d been suffering enough before he’d taken the slug, but now that compounded matters—although it seemed to have passed through his midriff without striking anything vital, his attempts at patching up the wound using the basic personal med-kit he had on him had been cursory at best. He was no doctor. The sutures would hold, he hoped, but he couldn’t help but be reminded of the poor saps under Mama Carrington’s care and the half-hearted treatment they’d received. The tissue damage was no doubt playing havoc on his system.

  He shook his head to clear it, the dream still vivid. Fever had jumbled some of the details of a firefight on his and Rico’s Hot Dog Run, less than three years before they attained the full eagle. He hadn’t given it much thought since, and wondered why his sickly mind had dredged up that particular memory. There was something to that connectedness the clones shared, and it made him consider whether Rico was in any way aware of his twin’s predicament right now; that out there, across the gulf of space separating the pair, in a prison cell somewhere on Titan, his brother felt a twinge, an intuition, that his blood-family was in trouble. It seemed unlikely, frankly; Dredd wasn’t one to indulge such fancies. Yet... there was a reassurance there, in an unbreakable DNA-bond, despite all that had come between them. If Dredd ever saw his brother again, he would have to ask him, though the chances of him returning from the penal colony were admittedly slim.

  Rico could do nothing for him now, though; he needed to look closer to home, to Justice Central. His absence would be noted eventually, but the question was whether he’d survive long enough for it to make any difference. Time was clearly of the essence, given his state. He’d heard voices beyond the door while he’d stitched his bullet-hole, but they’d quickly moved off, and all appeared silent now. He had to get moving.

  Dredd eased himself to his feet, drawing his boot knife from its sheath and wincing at the tightness in his side. He felt three times his age, as if he should need support from a cane. Gripping the blade in his teeth for a moment, he unknotted the vacuum hose one-handed and gently eased the door open: all was quiet, vehicles—many evidently abandoned—were ranged i
n rows, just silhouettes in the darkness. Few of the strip lights in the ceiling were working. Knife back in hand, he considered commandeering the nearest roadster and gunning hell for leather for the exit; but a brief recce of the ramp showed that was a no-go. The creeps had parked a couple of cars across the sked and littered the route with debris. There was no way out on two wheels or four.

  There were shouts from the top of the ramp, torchlight flickering on the walls, and Dredd turned and headed towards the el. He jabbed the call button, eyeing the emergency stairs—attempting to ascend more than half a dozen flights would wipe him out. The voices grew closer. The green arrow above the el doors pinged and they slid open, bringing the Judge face-to-face with three armed perps. They stared at each other for a shocked, frozen second, before the gunmen recovered their senses and brought their blasters to bear.

  Dredd lunged forward through the open doors, skewering the middle meathead in the neck with the blade, then yanking it free and ducking as the guy sprayed the interior of the cab with blood. He immediately shoulder-charged to his left and slammed the second perp against the wall, kicking out his foot at the control panel so the doors slid shut, noting as he did so more figures hurrying towards the el. The lift began to rise. Dredd spun and pushed aside the third man’s rifle—biting down on the pain as a stitch popped—just as the perp pulled the trigger, riddling the ceiling with bullets and shattering the overhead fluorescent tube. The Judge headbutted him once, drove the knife deep under his ribs and into his heart, then swung the weapon low and used the still-firing gun to kneecap his friend, who collapsed with a yell to the cab floor. Dredd crossed over quickly and pulled the blaster from his grip before he could think to use it, and levelled it between his eyes. He nudged his forehead with the barrel and told him to stop howling.

  Dredd glanced at the level indicator; the el had climbed two floors. He jammed the stop button with the rifle butt, bringing it to a juddering halt. An absolute stillness descended, the cramped lift ripe with the smell of spent ammunition and coppery gore.

  Dredd caught his breath, his lungs burning. He could feel blood trickling down his hip and thigh from the ruptured suture, but was determined not to let the creep in front of him pick up on how much pain he was in. He had to maintain his authority. Given the crim was in no little agony himself, trembling with shock as he clutched his ruined legs, Dredd doubted he’d notice, but the image he presented was everything. Let an adversary discern any hint of weakness and they’ll use that against you: it was Academy dogma.

  “Drokkin’ crippled me, man,” the meathead wailed. He wasn’t much older than Dredd. “They tol’ me they tagged you. Tol’ me you was bleeding out...”

  “Just makes me more dangerous,” Dredd replied, poking the rifle barrel at the gang cut on his jacket. “Furies, huh? Thought you were Meyer boys?”

  “We are.” He jutted his chin out at the mention of his block, territorial pride momentarily overriding his wounds. These idiots lived and died by their address; it became their whole world, their neighbours rivals to wage war with. “The Murder Corps are givin’ us a pass, on account...” He winced, his words tailing away. His eyelids flickered—he was passing out.

  Dredd gave him a boot. “On account of what?”

  “’Cos they’re... they’re gettin’ a cut,” he replied sleepily.

  “There a bounty on me?”

  “Kinda. More of a reward. Boss wants you found... real quick...” He was slumping over, the blood pooling beneath him. “You gonna... gonna call a doc, or what?” His voice was a whisper as he faded into unconsciousness.

  “Fat chance of that,” the Judge murmured, glancing around the wrecked interior of the el. He slung one of the rifles over his shoulder, holding on to another and hit the button for the upper levels. The lift rumbled into life. He reasoned if he could make it to a pod park, an H-Wagon would be able to airlift him out, provided he could get word to Control. That not one but two gangs were now hunting for him, however, did nothing for his chances.

  He watched the numbers climb, his muscles throbbing from the sudden exertion. Resolve, he told himself. Dig deep. Think of this as another training exercise, his own personal Hot Dog Run. He’d been dropped into a situation, and his superiors were waiting to see him make it out the other side. Well, it wasn’t over yet: he was still alive, for one. He was rearmed, he thought, tightening his grip on the rifle. It could, theoretically, be worse.

  He needed to sound more convincing, he decided.

  The el ground to a halt somewhere in the early hundreds, and no amount of button-jabbing would force it to continue any further. He wrenched the doors open one-handed and had to pull himself up where it had stopped below the floor. Dredd got to his feet: the corridor was gloomy and under-maintained, as he should’ve expected. The walls were festooned with graffiti. Many of the apartments looked derelict. He stopped at the nearest one that wasn’t boarded over or fire-damaged and rapped on the door, but received no reply. Electing not to announce himself, he tried again half a dozen times, moving down the row, meeting with the same response each time.

  “You won’t get much luck findin’ someone who’ll answer,” a voice called from ahead. Dredd followed it, peering round an entranceway that had lost its door entirely and into a bare room. Curled up in the far corner was a figure shrouded in blankets and encircled by shadow. All Dredd could see was a pair of bright eyes regarding him from beneath a knit cap. “Most no-one there anyways,” the shapeless heap added.

  “You live here?” the Judge enquired, stepping further into the empty apartment. It felt cold and exposed; several windows were broken, he noticed.

  “Well, I made it my home,” the figure said. Dredd suspected it was a woman; the dirt and darkness around the eyes were impenetrable, but he picked up an inflection in her words that he pegged as female. “Wasn’t told that I couldn’t, an’ I ain’t had any complaints.” She paused, then asked, “You’re not here to move me on, are ya?”

  “Don’t worry, I’m not here for you. I need a vidphone, anything like that, to call out. You know where I can find one?”

  She shifted beneath her bundles, and Dredd caught a waft of damp and sour, unwashed linen. He felt a twinge of sympathy for the woman. “No, nothin’ like that down here. Lines ain’t worked since I was a juve, far as I remember.”

  “Down here?”

  A grimy finger emerged and pointed upwards. “Topside. Thass’ where the block boss lives. Everythin’ works up there, or so I heard. It’s why the el won’t go any higher; they fixed it to stop us trespassin’.”

  “How do they make it down?”

  “Got their own service express on the other side of the block.”

  “Could you show me?”

  “Aw, I just got comfortable.” She plumped up her blankets, then stared at him. “Whass’ in it for me?”

  Dredd bit down on his instinctive response, which was to suggest a vagrancy charge could be avoided. His patience was wearing thin as exhaustion crept up on him, but he didn’t want to antagonise her. “I can make sure you get into a welfare shelt, you help me out. You want to escape Strickland, don’t you?”

  She looked down. “Dunno. ’Sall I know. Feel weird bein’ anywhere else.”

  “You got a better chance of a future—” Dredd started before being interrupted by the click-clack of a round being chambered behind him. He spun, his rifle raised.

  “Sorry, Judgey,” the lead gangbanger said, brandishing his automatic in the doorway. Three others stood behind him similarly armed. “But you ain’t got no future to speak of.”

  Five

  12.11 pm

  “DROKK, JAYBIRD,” THE lead meathead drawled as he and the rest of his compatriots filtered into the room. They formed a loose semi-circle around Dredd, rifles trained on him. “What a day you’re havin’! Look at you; it’s a drokkin’ miracle you’re still standing.”

  “Put your weapons down before there’s further trouble,” the Judge responded, his own gun u
nwavering.

  The creep raised his eyebrows and snorted, looking genuinely taken aback. He looked to the others, laughed and then frowned. “Tell me you’re kidding.” Receiving no answer, he stepped forward, barrel only inches from the lawman’s face. “I’m sure they breed juves like you to think you’re robots, but have some gruddamn sense. You got four guns pointed at you; you ain’t in a position to tell anyone to do shit.”

  After a further moment’s silence, he added in a measured tone, “Lower the killware now ’fore we drop you where you stand, spugwit.”

  “You can try—but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  The lead perp smiled again and shook his head. “You’re a tenacious son of a bitch, I gotta admit that. But enough is enough. This ends now.”

  “Just pop him already, Fungal,” the creep next to him said.

  “Not till he tells us where it is,” Fungal snapped. He turned his attention back to Dredd. “How about it? You wanna make it easy on yourself, or we gotta pin you down and take you apart piece by piece?”

  “Whaddya want him for, anyhow?” the woman under the blankets piped up.

  “Ain’t none of your damn business, slitch,” the gang member nearest her barked. “Keep your drokkin’ mouth shut.”

  “Figure I’ve got something they want,” Dredd muttered, his sights never leaving the perp sticking his gun in his face. “Something important enough that the Russ Meyer Furies and the Len McCluskey Murder Corps have joined forces to get it back—and someone’s paying them to find it.”

  “Yeah? Colour me intrigued. What is it?” the woman asked.

  “I don’t know myself,” the Judge replied. “But I’m sure as hell not giving it to them.”

  “All right, enougha this crap,” Fungal spat. “Just as easy to drag your corpse outta here and search it—”