Rawlings had done a five-stretch in the same iso-block as a knucklehead who later became one of the politician’s minders; Bertram wasn’t picky about where he hired his muscle. Rawlings was serving time for robbery, the goon a manslaughter rap. When Gilpig wanted a contact in Strickland, the chief Fury got the call—and when he’d heard what the councillor had to say, he told him to go to hell. But in the end, greed won out.
Still, all moot now. The jays were going to call for reinforcements if they got beaten here, and more waves of Judges would be on their way: the gangs would be pummelled into submission by the sheer weight of Grand Hall forces, and the trail of evidence would lead back to Gilpig, who would be looking at thirty years. There’d be questions asked about who he had leaked the transporter codes to, and a major internal review—heads would roll, security access would be scrutinised. Ripples cascading outwards, people across the board exposed in a chain of events that originated with that one badge zeroing in on the councillor’s car. It didn’t really matter now whether they killed the jay or not; there were too many eyes on Strickland now for anyone to get away.
Part of Rawlings felt a little relieved that Gilpig’s plan wasn’t going to come to fruition. He’d been born in Meyer, and like most of the locals, hadn’t come close to escaping it. Glum acceptance led to a perverse sort of pride, an obstinate belief in keeping Strickland the way it was for the people unlucky enough to be stuck here. If he was honest, he didn’t want it bulldozed and replaced with something else, he didn’t want redevelopment, even though it would’ve set him and his brothers up for life, if Gilpig had come through on his promises. He shouldn’t feel anything for this dump, but... you grew attached.
A sharp boom as the cannon mounted on the pat-wagon took out a corner of the block, and the whole building rumbled. The helmets were forcing their way into Meyer, getting under the arc of burning bottles and rubble; the Judges knew their tactics. Within minutes they’d be coming for him—there would be nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. He doubted any quarter would be given.
As much as he wanted to preserve Strickland, he didn’t want it to forget him, either. If the jays were going to trample all over the estate, then he wasn’t going to make it easy for them. Rawlings turned from the window and woke up the laptop sitting on the table, fishing a zipdrive from his overjak pocket and plugging it in. A wash of data flooded the screen, and he flicked through it quickly, finding the time and code he’d been seeking. He started the hack program running, aware that without the other half of the codes it wasn’t going to give him much control—as a final note of payback, it was going to be untargeted and somewhat random. But needs must, he supposed.
As the numbers scrolled by and he got a lock on his particular cargo vessel, Rawlings considered the deal with the Devil that had brought him to this point, and wondered which of them was the innocent party seduced into corruption. He laughed, despite himself. They were all going to hell, he thought. Every damn one of them.
13.26 pm
MCCLUSKEY WAS DESCENDING into chaos. The regular cits that still called it home were trying desperately not to be caught in the crossfire between the Judges and the Murder Corps, who were lobbing firebombs and using any window available to open fire on the officers on the ground. If Dredd had hoped that he and Saunders could pass through the panicking throng unmolested, he was disappointed—if anything, the MC were more hopped up on destruction than before. Maybe they recognised that they never had any realistic chance of withstanding a Justice Department onslaught, and were determined to go out in a blaze of glory. Perhaps they wanted to set a fire to Strickland and burn it down themselves before the jays could get close. Whichever, the madness was palpable, thick in the air as much as the stink of gasoline and oily smoke. But they evidently hadn’t forgotten they were meant to be finding Dredd, and whenever the pair was spotted they had to take cover from guns and blasters, punching chunks out of the plaster walls haphazardly. The uniform was making him a target.
Every delay dealing with these attacks was critical. As far as Saunders could see, her companion was growing paler by the minute, the blood loss becoming more acute. His breath was shallow, and his attempts to cover up his pain were less and less convincing. The MC were becoming increasingly wanton in their violence, and the Wally Squad Judge found that taking them out was not especially difficult; Dredd’s aim, however, was deteriorating, his left hand wobbling. She blew holes in the latest two creeps and before they’d hit the dirt pulled Dredd into the corridor to continue their descent. But the young Judge resisted this time, his attention elsewhere, and instead walked through the open door into a vacated apartment. She barked his name a couple of times, and when she received no acknowledgement, she followed him, sighing. A figure was silhouetted against the window on the far wall, watching the insanity outside.
“Maze,” Dredd murmured.
The figure didn’t turn, but the lawman could see her reflection lit by the orange glow of burning petroleum. It was impassive, mask-like. “This was my home,” she said softly. “It was everything I knew.”
“We’ll get you out of here,” Dredd replied. “Come on.”
She cast an eye over her shoulder as if only just becoming aware that there were others in the apartment with her, and shook her head. “I don’t want to leave. I belong here.”
“I promised I’d get you out. I can’t guarantee your safety if you stay. The whole building could come down.”
“You don’t have to guarantee me anything. You’re not beholden to me, Dredd. I’m just another Strickland bum; I should be doing time for vagrancy. I’m a perp, like all the others.”
“You’re a citizen. I’m sworn to protect you, regardless of your station.”
“Really? How’s that going?” She turned to face him, jerking her head back at the window as a fresh explosion blew out a balcony across the way in Meyer. “Have you seen yourself lately? You look like you’ve been dragged through a garbage grinder ass-backwards.”
“So everyone keeps telling me. But that’s secondary to my duty, as long as this is still intact.” He tapped his badge, an echo of a gesture that Maze had made—hours? It seemed like a lifetime—earlier. “Everything else is just flesh and blood.”
“Can we have this conversation another time?” Saunders interjected. “Dredd, we need to go before you pass out, or one of us is shot, or McCluskey topples over, whichever comes first. Leave her if she wants to stay.”
“Do you want me to arrest you?” Dredd asked Maze, ignoring Saunders. “I haven’t forgotten that unlicensed firearm you’ve got about your person.”
Maze laughed, raising her arms. “One prisoner, amongst all this. Feels kind of pointless, don’t it?” As if to underline her comment, an MC gunman came crashing into the apartment, drunk on disorder. He had a moment to recognise Dredd before Saunders grabbed him by the throat, slammed him into the door frame, and swung the door repeatedly into his head until he collapsed. She rolled him into the corridor and kicked the door shut behind her.
“Okay,” the undercover officer breathed. “Now we’re getting the drokk out of here.”
“This doesn’t have to be your life,” Dredd said. He remembered hearing Jeperson’s passing remark back in Winstanley’s quarters. “Your parents abandoned you here, didn’t they?”
“No, they just never came back. Drug deal over in Earhart—must’ve gone sour. Funnily enough, the local jays didn’t assign it top priority, and Welfare didn’t quite stretch all the way down to Strickland. So I fended for myself, and McCluskey became my family. Became everything. I couldn’t leave it.”
“It’s a trap, that way of thinking. I thought you wanted out.”
“So did I, what with...” She waved at the bloodstained door. “But when it came down to it, I couldn’t. I can’t.”
“It could all end up being razed to the ground.”
“Then I’ll go with it.” Maze reached down and picked one of the musty-looking blankets heaped at her feet and tossed
it to him. “Wrap yourself in that, cover up the uniform. You’re a sittin’ duck otherwise.” Dredd did so hesitantly, hooding his helmet, and she smiled approvingly. “Now you’re one of us. Go on, go.”
She turned back to the window as Saunders yanked open the door and impatiently pulled him through, back into the mêlée.
13.33 pm
DREDD DIDN’T CARE for hiding beneath a disguise—the Academy had always taught him that the man and the uniform were indivisible, and it was a tenet that he stood by—but he had to admit it was working. With his Wally Squad companion leading him, the Judge kept his head down and sought to avoid confrontation, and they looked like any other McCluskey tenants fleeing the fighting.
Some Justice Department personnel found plainclothes work a lot more natural than others. Maybe it was a mindset; certainly it required courage and unshakeable self-belief. Dredd simply felt uncomfortable with any kind of pretence, ungainly. He could intimidate, exaggerate and insinuate, but he couldn’t lie. Saunders was clearly very adept at it, to have been embedded within Winstanley’s outfit for so long without arousing suspicion, but lengthy periods came with attendant psychological problems. The lack of discipline, the total immersion in the criminal culture, meant some deprogramming was necessary once they were brought back into the fold. For Dredd, that bending of the law was unconscionable.
For the moment, though, he was doing a very realistic impersonation of someone on the edge of unconsciousness. The blood loss was taking its toll: his limbs were growing ever heavier, his vision blurring. His clumsy tumble through the crowds was becoming a nightmarish plunge into a sea of grotesques, faces swimming past. He would catch a fleeting glimpse of a gang member stalking past, spitgun hoisted on their shoulder, and had to actively suppress himself from drawing his blaster from under the blanket. If he was to survive, he had to go below the radar, concentrate on breathing, and allow this lawlessness—for the moment—to go unpunished. It was a wrench, as painful as any he’d sustained over the course of this testing day.
As they neared the ground floor, the mass of bodies grew thicker, a logjam caused by McCluskey residents scurrying for the main entrance to escape the MC’s rampage, and those reluctant to venture outside, where gunfire was still rattling. Adding to the obstruction was one of the Special Tactics officers standing at the doors, trying to instil some kind of order while at the same time casting an eye over the faces present. When Saunders caught sight of him, she redoubled their efforts to push through the throng.
“There’s our way out,” she muttered over her shoulder.
The crowd was solid and panicking, and the Judges met with more than a little resistance and no shortage of anger. A meathead squared up to Saunders as she elbowed her way past, and she punched him hard in the face without hesitation or warning, leaving him on his backside and cupping a broken nose. The sea of citizens parted a touch after that, but still the press separated them. Dredd’s breathing devolved into halting rasp—it felt like the oxygen was being sucked from the block—and he stumbled, his head hot and dizzy. Unable to prevent himself, he collided with a figure in front of him, and the blanket was knocked from his shoulders.
Blearily, he looked at who he’d walked into, and she looked vaguely familiar—a young adult with a Mohawk and face tatts. He was sure he’d seen her before, but couldn’t place it; she was staring at him with both fear and recognition in her eyes, as were the three juves standing behind her. Sandwiched in the scrum, Dredd and the girl held each other’s gaze for a long uncomprehending second before she silently pulled a snubnose from beneath her vest-top and proffered it to him.
The cry went up. “Gun! Everyone on the floor! Now!” The Tac-Judge brought his Lawrod to bear, and the crowd scattered. Dredd still had the wherewithal to snatch the weapon from the fem and strongarm her to the ground, while Saunders yelled her Wally Squad I.D., holding up her hands non-threateningly.
“Dredd? Good to see you’re still alive,” the Tac-Judge called, edging towards him, rifle trained on the woman in the lawman’s grip, who wasn’t offering any resistance. The name on his badge was Pearce. “We’re here to pull you out.”
“Yeah. Textbook... operation, from what I’ve seen,” he murmured in reply, wincing and glancing around at the chaos. Saunders smiled thinly.
“C’mon, we need to get you to a med-facility asap,” Pearce said, and talked quickly into his comm for back-up. He unhooked a pair of cuffs from his belt and bound the punk girl, who appeared shellshocked.
As they were making for the doors, a low rumble filled the air, which made everyone, cit and Judge alike, look up quizzically. It was coming from beyond the block and slowly growing louder; Dredd saw a shadow passing over the thoroughfare outside. He turned to Saunders.
“What time is it?”
Nine
13.37 pm
THE CARGO VESSEL loomed large above the peaks of the blocks, a black brick-shaped slab filling the world like the flawless blue sky had simply been taken away, leaving only an impenetrable absence. Only the red blinking lights lining its undercarriage broke the illusion. An automated carrier transport had no need of decals or cockpit, or indeed to be especially streamlined—it wasn’t much more than a flying crate in both looks and function, programmed with a single flight path, held aloft by the twin anti-grav engines positioned towards its rear. Normally the sky-barges cruised at an altitude that ensured they didn’t interfere with Mega-City traffic; it was rare to see one so low and close-up.
At this height—and clearly still descending—the roar of the craft’s engines was deafening, making the teeth and bones feel like they were rattling loose. When Dredd and Saunders exited McCluskey and stepped into the dim light, escorted by Pearce, the fighting had all but dribbled to a halt, everyone’s eyes drawn to the immense ship.
“Jovus drokk,” the Wally Squad Judge whispered. “Is that...?”
“The thirteen-thirty-seven treemunce special,” Dredd intoned. “Looks like the Furies decided to upload the hack program.”
“But they won’t have control without—”
“I don’t think they’re going for control—”
Any further words were drowned out by the ear-spitting cacophony of the turbines as the vessel bore down on Strickland. It sounded like the end of the world; the blare of trumpets signalling the last day of judgement, if you believed in that sort of thing. The backwash of the anti-grav lifters was sending a squall through the estate, winds whipping around every corner of the rockcrete canyons, smoke plumes twisting and dust and debris spiralling in the air. The Special Tactics officers motioned a retreat towards the pat-wagon, but Dredd didn’t believe that there was going to be enough time to pull out of the impact zone. The ship was coming in hot and heavy.
“Get down!” Dredd yelled at Saunders, raising his voice as much as he was able above the din. “Find cover! You try to take your chances in the open, you’re not going to make it!”
The plainclothes cop nodded and made to do as Dredd suggested before he stopped her with a hand on her shoulder.
“Wait. The zipdrive.”
“Dredd, no. You’re not going into Meyer?”
“Not going to stop it otherwise.”
“It’s suicidal. That thing’s going to take out every block in its path.”
“If you’ve got another solution let’s hear it.”
“I’ll come with you. I’ll have a better chance of accessing the data anyway.”
Against his better judgement, Dredd found himself shaking his head. “No. No point us both taking the risk.”
“Don’t patronise me. I’m a Judge too. It’s my duty—”
“You don’t understand. Figure this is a one-way ticket, and there’s not much left of me still to break.”
“Exactly. You’re in no fit state—”
“No point getting yourself killed holding my hand. I can do that well enough on my own.”
“What, hold your hand?”
“Get killed.”
“Just trying to save lives rather than put them in danger.” He held out his palm, his expression grim, implacable. She knew he would not be swayed, and reluctantly passed the memory stick over. “Now go,” he shouted.
She backed away, scowling, and dashed for a nearby narrow alley. Dredd turned and saw Pearce push his Mohawk Girl prisoner back towards the entrance of McCluskey, the direction many of the other residents were taking. The panic was almost tangible as bodies collided at the doors. Dredd tried to shout orders, to try to stop the stampeding, but no-one was in the mood to listen; sheer animal instinct had taken over. When the transporter clipped the top of the first building—Arthur Mullard Con-Apts—and brought several hundred tons of masonry crashing down onto the sked below, the chaos intensified. Dredd could do nothing to quell it; he could only watch—for a moment, uncharacteristically paralysed by the enormity of what he was witnessing—as the ship continued its trajectory and carved off half of Sarah Jessica Parker, an explosion of glass and rubble raining down in a wide arc. He hobble-ran as best he could, throwing himself to the side to avoid a plummeting timber beam embedding itself in the ground. He glanced at the rapidly reversing pat-wagon just in time to see a plate of glass the size of a door go somersaulting through the air and smash into the driver, who disappeared in a red mist. The vehicle careened wildly and tipped, the Tac-officers tumbling out in a flurry of limbs. So much for his exit.
Dredd picked himself up and continued to stumble towards the entrance to Meyer, his boots crunching on crystal shards, casting an eye up at the cargo ship falling inexorably towards them. Its shadow spilled over the estate like ink. The front of the block was free of people now, the last combatants having fled, and he had little trouble getting to the building. The foyer was littered with corpses where the heavy-weapons unit had engaged the Furies, and he had to pick his way carefully. He heard a groan rising from a heap at his foot, and stopped to pull aside a couple of cadavers, revealing a semi-conscious creep in gang colours holding his stomach, his face a sweaty grimace. Dredd prised apart the guy’s fingers and saw an entry wound too severe to be treated; the entire front of his shirt was dyed crimson.
Judge Dredd: Year Two Page 21
