Judge Dredd: Year Two

by Michael Carroll

  “That’s if he hasn’t stashed it already,” she chimed in.

  “Drokk it, will someone dispose of this bum—” Fungal called over his shoulder and nodded towards the figure in the corner, just as a single gunshot resounded in the room. Everyone swung their weapons in the direction of the noise, seeing one of the perps stagger back with a gaping chest wound and fall to his knees.

  Dredd took his chance and drilled a slug in the side of Fungal’s head, then snapped efficient, accurate shots into the remaining two before they had a chance to return fire. All four were on the ground in a few seconds. Dredd glanced over at the woman—a circular smouldering hole had appeared in her bedding. She tossed it aside, revealing the compact blaster she held in her right hand.

  “When were you going to tell me you were armed?” Dredd asked.

  “It’s the kind of thing you don’t reveal until you need to,” she said, staggering to her feet and stamping some circulation back into them. She was younger than he first thought, now that he could see more of her; no more than ten years older than he was, her thin frame swallowed by the tatty, ancient greatcoat wrapped around her.

  “You’re aware that you’ve just committed a felony? I’m assuming that weapon is unlicensed, too.”

  “Hey, you’re welcome,” she said, giving a mock curtsey. “Next time the Murder Corps come knocking, I won’t save your sorry ass. A little gratitude goes a long way, you know.”

  “I had the situation under control,” Dredd grumbled, though even as he said it he felt a fresh wave of dizziness sweep over him, and had to take a step back so and prop himself against the wall. He needed painkillers, and probably some form of antibiotics too: the sweats were back, a sure sign he was fighting an infection. His skin prickled, his head throbbed. He felt disappointed in himself, that the battle his body was fighting was out of his hands, and it was losing, failing. If he’d even known he’d had a physical limit, he’d never imagined he would reach it; they’d all thought they were invincible back in the Academy, him and Rico especially. Peak triple-A fitness, mentally agile, sharp reflexes—they were prime Justice Department material. Yet all it took...

  All it took...

  Joe.

  “Brother... I don’t know if I’m going to get out of this one...”You’re becoming weak, Joe.

  “I’m losing blood. Bones are broken—can feel a rib pressing on my lung. Makes it hard to breathe...”

  Weakness is a crime, Joe. A fundamental betrayal. It’s the opposite of everything we are, everything we stand for. Even when I fell, I stayed strong.

  “Rico, you gave in to temptation. You brought the badge and the name into disrepute. You were greedy, venal...”

  I just chose another path, Joe. I had the conviction to do that, the will. The strength. You stayed a—

  “Judge?”

  —a poor excuse for the DNA that flows through you. A weak—

  “Judge!”

  —in the shadow of Fargo—

  A hand shaking his shoulder brought him round, the room swimming back into focus. The woman was standing before him, concern etched on her face, her hand resting on his bicep. He studied it uncomprehending for a second; then his gaze travelled the length of her arm until he looked her directly in the eye. It took another few seconds for the present to return to him.

  “You still with me?” she asked softly. “You were kinda muttering under your breath about somethin’. Somebody called... Rico?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” he croaked.

  “You’re in a really bad way, aren’t you? You need med-attention. You’re burning up...” She reached out and put her palm on Dredd’s swollen jaw, but he slung the rifle-strap over his shoulder and grabbed her wrist with his left hand, snatching it away. She wrested it free without much difficulty.

  “Inappropriate contact with an officer—” he started, but she was already stepping back.

  “Whatever. I’m just tryin’ to save your life. You don’t look older’n eighteen to me, you’ve been through the mill—I don’t think you’re goin’ to survive without a doc seein’ you in the next few hours. Plus there’s them.” She indicated the bodies at their feet. “I do not wanna be around when more of the Murder Corps come callin’. Figure you don’t either.”

  Dredd paused then asked, “Can you get me to this service el?”

  “I can show you where it is, but there’s no guarantee Winstanley’s gonna give us access.”

  “Winstanley?”

  “Block daddy. He who rules the roost. He ain’t no fan of you bluejays.”

  “If he knows what’s good for him—”

  “Yeah, look, I hate to break it to you... Dredd, is it?” She leaned close, and tipped up the bottom of his badge with one finger, rolling her eyes. “But you ain’t callin’ the shots no more. You’re on your own, half-dead, with a target on your back—Winstanley’s just gonna laugh in your face if you think you can lay down the law.”

  “While I wear this uniform—”

  “And you’re in Strickland,” she interrupted. “They use Judge helmets as pisspots here. We’ve been left to fend for ourselves for years; don’t go expectin’ much in the way of respect.”

  “I can handle it,” he replied, taking a step forward.

  “You know what? I reckon the only reason you ain’t dead already is that you’re too gruddamn stubborn to acknowledge it.” She held up her hands. “You wanna let Winstanley finish the job, go ahead. No skin off my shin. You lawboys ain’t ever done nothin’ for me, anyhow.”

  Dredd stopped at the doorway, cast an eye over his shoulder. “You want to know what I think the gangs are after?” He reached into one of his belt pouches and retrieved the zipdrive, holding it up. “Figure it’s this.”

  “What’s on it?”

  “No idea. I pulled it from a suspect vehicle an hour or so ago.”

  “Just before you became the local bullet-magnet.”

  “Right. The name Gilpig mean anything to you?”

  The woman shook her head. “You’re thinking it’s pretty important, though, right?”

  “Important enough to kill for. Important enough to maybe use as a bargaining chip with the creep upstairs for an airlift out of here.”

  She thought for a moment, considered the corpses again. She was in deep stomm if the MC traced her involvement in the death of a member. Maybe getting out of McCluskey wasn’t such a bad idea after all. “We do this,” she said finally, “you better let me do the talkin’. I get the feeling you ain’t the negotiating type.” She joined him at the threshold, motioned that he should lean on her. “I’m Maze, by the way.”

  “Maze.” He hissed, winced, a grinding in his chest driving the breath from him. “I appreciate it.”

  “Don’t start goin’ all gooey on me,” she muttered, smirking.

  12.43 pm

  THEY MADE THEIR way through McCluskey steadily but cautiously, sticking to the secluded areas where possible. Maze said she knew a back route that would keep them under the radar. Both knew speed was essential, but Dredd told her not to risk stumbling upon another gaggle of Murder Corps gangbangers on the prowl. The pain came in waves, but he was determined not to let it overwhelm him, even when he felt on the fringes of a blackout. That was when he told Maze to wait for a second, let him grit his teeth and push through, before continuing. It made progress slow but gave them time to listen for the sound of approaching bodies; they heard shouts occasionally, the pounding of feet on the floor above, and only moved when they were sure the coast was clear. The Judge was becoming increasingly concerned that he wouldn’t be able to protect either of them in a firefight; that the shakes and the impaired vision were going to make him a liability. Maze was still armed, of course, but he doubted she’d pulled the trigger before today. If they could avoid any kind of confrontation it would significantly increase their survival prospects.

  They met few block residents, and those they did encounter just stared at them in silent curiosity. Any one of the
cits could easily raise the alarm and make life a whole lot more difficult, but they seemed cowed, submissive. They had no more love for the gangs than they did Justice Department; there were no sides, no loyalties, just fear and isolation.

  “The Murder Corps work for Winstanley?” he asked as they limped on.

  “No, he just lets them operate,” Maze answered. “They probably kick back a tribute to him outta respect, but they ain’t his soldiers. Too damn batshit crazy to be relied upon. They’re always squabblin’ amongst themselves anyhow, fightin’ over who gets to be top dog. That’s when they ain’t kickin’ off with the Furies across the way. Big juves, basically.”

  “Who does he have, then?”

  “He’s got his own men. You see ’em comin’ down in the el. Scary dudes you know you don’t wanna mess with. The MC gives ’em a wide berth; they know whose block it is really.”

  Dredd grunted in response, plainly unhappy with that last remark. That he should be forced to negotiate with the creep at the top when he should be locking him away in a cube grated, there was no question of that. The order of the universe had been upended: here he was, diminished, trying to skulk off lawless territory while he still had breath in his body. He wondered if his thoughts kept returning to Rico because his clone-brother’s fall from grace was no more shameful than Dredd’s own failure today—failing the badge, failing as a Judge, letting the perps get the upper hand. His authority had been undermined, his ability called into question; if he was facing a challenge like this in his second year, did he have what it took to last another five? Ten? Few helmets made it to retirement age. All of them, no matter what their lineage, were just one random trigger-pull away from a trip to Resyk. Days like today could always be just around the corner, and how you handled them was the mark of a good officer. Dredd, as far as he was concerned, had come up wanting.

  He’d never been assailed by doubts before—he’d been pure in his belief, in his devotion to the law, ever since he’d been pulled from a birthing tank—but street-experience brought with it the hard truth of his limitations, something for which the Academy perhaps hadn’t fully prepared him. Was he always going to be striving for that perfection Fargo craved? Was it unrealistic to try to achieve it? He didn’t think so; any Judge should have high standards.

  Black thoughts circled his head, surfacing no matter how hard he tried to tamp them down. He was starting to ache from the strain of remaining composed.

  “Here we go,” he heard Maze murmur as they came to a corner. They both peered round and saw the nondescript, unguarded doors of the service el at the end of a short passageway. It took Dredd a moment to discern what was wrong with the picture: the brushed-steel surround was free of graffiti, possibly the only part of McCluskey untouched by neglect, and seemingly in working order. A vid-camera was perched above the threshold—that it hadn’t been ripped from its housing was again unusual.

  “Remember,” she whispered. “I’ll do the talking. Pass me your rifles.”

  She walked ahead, pulling Dredd along with her rather than supporting him. The camera jerked into life before they reached them, and started tracking their progress. She looked up into its unblinking eye and waved, then pressed a button on an intercom set into the wall.

  “What do you want, Maze?” a male voice crackled.

  “Kinda thought that was obvious,” she answered, yanking the Judge into the camera’s field of vision.

  “If that’s the lawboy the MC are looking for, give him to them. We ain’t got no use for him.”

  “You don’t figure havin’ a jaybird as a hostage could be useful? Justice Central protects their own—you’d be lookin’ at all sortsa leverage.”

  “We’d be lookin’ at all sortsa heat, too. The last thing we need is the full weight of the five-oh on our doorstep if we try to dangle a ransom in front of them.”

  “An’ what do you think’ll happen if the MC kill him? They’ll blitz Strickland till there’s no-one left outside a cube.”

  There was silence for a moment. Maze raised an eyebrow at Dredd but said nothing. “He your prisoner or somethin’?” the voice asked finally.

  “The kid’s drokked. Taken a bullet, broke some bones, lost a fair amount of blood. He’s barely conscious. He don’t get some meds into him, he ain’t gonna make it.”

  “Then he’s shit outta luck. Drop him off at Saint Jude’s, you’re that concerned about him. We ain’t got the facilities—”

  “Don’t give me that. I know you got the doc up there. You got antibiotics, splints, bandages. He’s worth more alive.”

  “What’s your angle in this, Maze? Why do you care so much about one bluejay?”

  “’San opportunity. Way I see it, he’s fallen in our laps, and it’d be a waste to hand him over to the MC. This way, we can all come outta this smilin’.”

  “He cut you a deal, you get him outta here alive?”

  “He’s a rookie that’s taken a beatin’. He can’t offer me shit. But we can sure as hell exploit what we got.”

  Another pause. “Nah. It’s too risky lettin’ a jay up here—”

  “Too bad. Maybe Gilpig can make a better offer.”

  “Gilpig?” It was a different voice this time; older, less wiseguy. Not a Mega-City accent. “How’s he involved?”

  “Who do you think’s frontin’ the Furies and the MC to track the badge down? He’s got somethin’ Gilpig wants.”

  “What?”

  Maze didn’t reply, just shot a laconic look at the camera. It was enough.

  “All right. We’re sending the el down. Put the guns on the floor and don’t move.”

  She complied, and they stood listening to the rumbling coming down the lift shaft. “We’re in,” she whispered.

  12.59 pm

  “CLARENCE? IT’S DAVIDSON. Sorry to pull you out of the meeting... Yeah, I’m sure. No, it’s just we might have a situation, and I know you’ve got a vested interest. Well, it’s Dredd—we’ve lost contact.

  “Over an hour now. Last reported trace was on the Strickland estate, Sector Nine. Collins radioed in, said Dredd had comms problems. My operative says both were instructed to return to the Grand Hall—neither has yet done so.

  “Could well be... If it were anyone else, maybe, but after what happened with the other clone... Yes, we’ve got a citywide alert to notify us of any sightings. Indeed. Troubling.

  “I spoke to Morgan in Special Tactics. He recommended sending a unit into Strickland. Well, it’s high poverty, high crime, strong gang element... bit of a tinderbox at the best of times. But something has to be done... Well, quite, considering the bloodline. Yes, of course, I’ll be right over.

  “Yes, Chief Judge. I’ll tell Morgan you gave the green light.”

  Six

  13.03 pm

  “JOVIS, WHAT’S KEEPING him together?”

  “Sheer willpower, I think. That, an’ an absolute refusal to accept when he’s beat. ’Slike one of those dinosaurs that take so long to die ’cause their brain has to catch up with the rest o’ the body.”

  “Yeah, but he’s just a kid... Anyway, what do you know about dinosaurs, Maze?”

  “My mom told me all about the old national park, back before the war. Brontosauruses were her favourite. Used to make me cry when she told me they all escaped.”

  “You always were a damned weird juve. Don’t surprise me that your folks skipped town an’ left you behind.”

  “That’s enough, Jeperson.”

  Dredd could hear them talking through the glasseen case, see them looking his way. There were four of them—Maze; a well-dressed, authoritative figure he took to be Winstanley; the melon-headed lackey Jeperson; and another subordinate, a woman, who’d operated the auto-doc. When he’d been told that they had a doctor up here that could patch him up, he’d assumed it to be a trained medic—he hadn’t expected what looked to be a modded speedheal chamber, evidently built from purloined Justice Department tech. Either the boss-man had friends on the force passing
him components, or there was a thriving black market in Judicial materiel. Either way, it was old stock: a clanking, wheezing affair that wasn’t in much better shape than he was, and wasn’t doing a great job of knitting him together: the broken bones in his right hand were setting imperfectly and the scorched skin was refusing to regenerate. His cuts and bruises were diminishing, and he felt the rib snap back into place, but it wasn’t the complete overhaul that he would’ve had in a Grand Hall med-bay. By the time the thing shuddered to a halt, he still felt like he’d gone ten rounds with a demolition droid. The dizziness hadn’t left him, either; when the woman opened the glasseen lid, he found himself gasping for air.

  “He don’t look cured,” Maze muttered, watching as Dredd fell to his knees and coughed violently. Nobody went to his aid as he spat blood-flecked phlegm onto the floor; they all stepped back as one, as if his injuries were infectious.

  “The machine can’t work miracles,” Winstanley said. “He needs a full course of treatment if he’s to recover, not a quick fix.”

  “Seems to me the machine don’t work at all,” she replied. “How long have you had that thing?”

  “It’s on its last legs,” the female attendant said, stepping around the prone Dredd to shut it down. “The electromagnetic coils have corroded. You’ll find it’s only capable of making the most superficial of repairs over time.”

  “Time to shop for a new one, then,” Winstanley remarked jovially, rocking back on his heels with his hands in his pockets. “I’m sure my man could accommodate me.”

  “What you’re admitting to... is criminal,” Dredd snarled, wiping his mouth with the back of his gauntlet. He rose, unsteadily. “You’re receiving stolen goods.”

  The older man remained unfazed, the smile fixed on his face. “And you’re now party to using said stolen goods, Judge. How are you feeling, by the way. Strength returned? You did look at death’s door when Maze brought you up, and I gave you safe harbour.”