Judge Dredd: Year Two

by Michael Carroll

  Morphy doubted if many people in the plaza even knew what a sheep looked like.

  “Dumb animals to corral and control. That must stop. Mega-City One is not what it should be, what you deserve it to be. Mega-City One is broken, but that can change. It will change. Together, we will make Mega-City work again.”

  The crowd picked up her words, chanting them over and over again.

  “WORK A-GAIN! WORK A-GAIN! WORK A-GAIN!”

  Beside him, Lint shifted uncomfortably.

  “Steady,” Morphy said quietly. “Don’t show them you’re rattled.”

  “I’m not, sir,” the rookie insisted.

  “You should be,” Dredd snapped. “A Judge never gets comfortable. Never relaxes.”

  The muscles of Lint’s jaw tensed. “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

  On the holo-screens, Piper continued to rabble rouse.

  “Do you want it to work?”

  “Yeah!”

  “Do you want it to work?”

  “Yeah!”

  “Do you want to work?”

  “YEAH!”

  “And that’s how we’ll rebuild. That how we’ll Make the City Mega Again!”

  The crowd was reaching fever-pitch, Piper yelling over their roar as she brought her message home.

  “Ninety-nine percent unemployment. That’s what we’re faced with today. What you’re faced with. Ninety-nine percent. And why? Because our factories, our stores, our restaurants, even our hospitals, are run by robots. By machines.

  “Now, I’m no luddite. You know that, I know that. And Mayor Amalfi knows that, no matter what he says on the news-vids. I love technology. Hell, technology is my business. But technology should never, ever replace human beings. It should assist human beings, help human beings, but take our jobs? That—is—wrong.

  “If you vote for me, I will prohibit robots from working jobs that you could do. You want to work, don’t you? You want to earn creds?”

  The crowd responded with a deafening, unified, “YES!”

  “I want you to earn creds. I want you to earn an honest wage that you can spend in any way you want. And I know what some of you are thinking. You’re thinking, ‘Jocelyn, even if I earn money, I’d be too tired to enjoy it. I’ll come home and flop in front of the Tri-D, too exhausted to move.’ But why should you? If you’ve earned your money, you should be able to enjoy your money.”

  On the holo-screens, Piper’s gigantic face was replaced with promotional videos of cigar-shaped pods the size of coffins, gleaming white on a bright yellow background.

  “Sleep machines,” Dredd muttered, recognising the devices; sleeker, more sophisticated versions of the snooze-tubes that all Judges were required to use at the end of every shift.

  A ripple of confusion went through the crowd.

  “And yes,” Piper said, “I know what you’re thinking once again, my friends, because we’re alike, you and I, like peas in a pod. ‘Why is she showing us sleep machines? How can I afford a sleep machine?’ Well, I tell you this: elect me as Mayor, and you won’t need to afford them. Elect me as Mayor, and Mega-City One will supply every citizen with a sleep machine of their own. Men, women, boys and girls. Hell, we’ll even buy one for your dog. Why? Because we want to give you the most precious thing of all. We want to give you time. Time to go to work, to feel the satisfaction of contributing to society, and then, when you get home, time to enjoy what you’ve earned. Ten minutes in your new, state-funded sleep machine and you’ll be ready to party, party, party!”

  The crowd cheered louder than ever.

  “Unemployment will fall! You, my friends, will have a new sense of purpose—of pride—and Mega-City One’s economy will soar as you spend all your money!”

  The noise in the plaza had swelled with every word, the crowd becoming frantic as they imagined the credits. Now, the chants returned in force.

  “MAKE THE CITY WORK!”

  “MAKE THE CITY WORK!”

  “MAKE THE CITY WORK!”

  On the platform Jocelyn Piper exuberantly flashed the victory sign. Anyone would have thought she’d already won.

  Beside Morphy, Dredd’s stance had shifted. His shoulders were hunkered down, his hand resting on his Lawgiver. Morph felt it too.

  “Something wrong,” Dredd said.

  “Yeah,” Lint agreed. “The citizens want to work. When did that happen?”

  “Not all of them,” said Morph, pointing out a couple of placards among the sea of VOTE PIPER banners and flags

  They were held by a pair of morbidly obese men, with multiple chins rolling into flabby chests, and guts so large that they needed a belliwheel™ to prop up the bulging blubber.

  Fatties. Yet another suicidal craze gripping the Big Meg; citizens who gorged themselves silly, their bodies bloated out of all proportion. Morph remembered the mess that had gone down at the Herc last year. This pair were the biggest he’d seen so far. One had a scrappy brown beard, the other clean shaven, although the resemblance between the two was startling. They had to be related, maybe even twins. Scrappy Beard was wearing a black vest over his titanic tummy, whereas his porky sibling had decided to throw caution—and decency—to the wind and go topless, rolls of unsightly flesh basting in the sun. They were chanting, stubby arms so weighed down they could barely hold the placards above their neckless heads.

  “NO JOBS!”

  “NO WORK!”

  The slogans weren’t complaints, but demands.

  Other placards appeared among the crowd. Near Lint, a juve so pale he was almost albino had unfurled a banner.

  Dredd spotted it too, three letters scrawled in green paint on the fabric. “It’s the CPF Grud!”

  The spud was shouting a chant of his own now, his weedy voice joining that of his fellow protestors, who, by the look of things, had been hiding in the crowd all the time.

  “No—to—jobs! No—to—jobs!”

  Dredd’s Lawgiver was in his hand, the CPF chants challenging even Piper’s ecstatic supporters.

  “No—to—jobs! No—to—jobs!”

  “Down—with—work! Down—with—work!”

  “What do we want? Apathy! When do we want it? Whenever!”

  “Who the drokk are the CPF?” Lint asked, looking around the crowd.

  “Couch-Potato Front,” Dredd said, striking the nearest protestor with the butt of his Lawgiver. “Anti-work activists. They want robots taking their jobs.”

  Another protestor had found himself on the wrong side of Dredd’s fist, but it was too late. The mood in the plaza had changed, discontent rippling through the crowd, swelling by the second. In less time that it took to say, ‘work-shy dross,’ punches were thrown and some of Piper’s supporters trampled.

  The Judges went to work, busting skulls and delivering sentences, but it was clear the rally had descended into a full-scale riot.

  On the stage, Piper struggled to make herself heard above the rabble: “Please, my friends, there is no need for this! Please, settle down. Remain calm.”

  She might as well have tried to convince the Earth to stop spinning. Piper’s bodyguard—a mountain of muscle in dark glasses and a sharp suit—rushed to the podium to get his employee to safety.

  “Morph! Four o’clock!”

  Morphy turned at Dredd’s warning to see a protestor lifting a long cylindrical weapon onto his shoulder. Drokk! Was that a rocket launcher?

  Dredd brought up his gun, but the perp had already pulled his trigger.

  A shell streaked out, slamming into the floating platform with a bone-rattling FOOM. The explosion set off a chain reaction, the stage’s hoverpads exploding in succession.

  “It’s going down,” Dredd yelled as the platform ploughed into the crowd, screams of terror replacing the rival chants.

  Five

  Riot-Foam

  THE CROWD SURGED forwards, baying for Jocelyn Piper’s blood. The would-be Mayor was going to be ripped limb from limb by the very citizens she’d just pledged to help.

 
; Dredd charged through the mob, immediately taking a punch to the jaw.

  “Assaulting a Judge,” he barked, knocking the perp onto his back. “Five years.”

  He didn’t stop to check if the punk gave himself up. Justice Department hover-wagons had descended on the plaza, capturing the riot on camera, every misdemeanour logged, citizens marked for arrest. Dredd need to focus on Piper. He had no loyalty to the woman, only the City, but wasn’t about to let a mayoral candidate be slaughtered in front of him.

  Above him, the H-Wagons were getting into position, ready to deploy riot-foam, a quick-hardening polymer that would immobilise the crowd until they could be cut free for processing.

  “Hold the foam,” Dredd yelled into his helmet mic. “Piper may be injured.”

  He didn’t want to give the Justice Department’s political enemies any more ammunition to spread discontent.

  “Standing by, Dredd, but you haven’t got long.”

  “Understood.”

  The shirtless Fattie with the CPF placard rammed into Dredd, propelled by the wheel supporting his obscene belly. Was that thing motorised?

  Dredd went down, the gutlord’s bulging breadbasket blocking out the sun.

  “Attempting to smother a Judge, six years,” Dredd shouted, bringing his boot up hard to connect with privates the perp probably hadn’t seen in years.

  His foot just sank into whalemeat, the chubster’s crotch protected by mounds of flabby padding. There was nothing else for it. Dredd pressed his Lawgiver into the belly threatening to smother him and yelled a muffled, “Armour piercing!”

  The bullet sliced through the Fattie’s gargantuan body, exiting through the top of the creep’s head. The walking blimp toppled forward, Dredd rolling clear before he was flattened by the prestigious paunch.

  “Out of my way,” Dredd yelled, jumping to his feet and shoving protestors from his path. Piper was on the floor in front of the wrecked stage, her bodyguard stretched over her body.

  “She hurt?” Dredd yelled.

  “I’m looking after her,” the bodyguard replied.

  Dredd grabbed the muscleman’s jacket and hauled him from Piper. “That’s not what I asked.”

  Piper looked up at Dredd, her eyes fearful despite her usual bravado. “I’m all right, Judge...”

  “Dredd, ma’am.”

  “Thank you, Judge Dredd. Hendry has everything under control.”

  Dredd couldn’t agree with her assessment of the situation. The crowd was pressing in, and Piper herself was in a terrible state. Blood was pouring from a gash above her right eye, and at least three of her teeth were missing, knocked out by either the crash or a well-aimed boot.

  Dredd offered the woman his hand, his Lawgiver raised in the other. “Let’s get you out of here.”

  “These poor people,” she said as she allowed herself to be manhandled through the crowd, Dredd and Piper’s bodyguard—Hendry—forming a protective shield around her. “They don’t know what they’re doing.”

  “Wouldn’t bet on it,” Dredd growled as Hendry stopped and scooped up a discarded Make Mega-City Work sign and batted a protestor across the head with a sharp thwack.

  Dredd snatched the placard from his hand. “Leave the violence to me, or your boss will be looking for new muscle.”

  They were almost at the edge of the plaza, Lint joining Dredd to clear a path.

  And then there was someone in front of them, a small, weasel-faced woman brandishing a microphone as if it was a sword.

  “Loreen Peston, Hound News. Judge Dredd, what could the Justice Department have done to prevent this incident?”

  “Out of my way.” Dredd tried to barge past her, but the reporter stepped back in front of him.

  “Not until I have an answer. Were the Judges watching the CPF before the tragic events of this morning?”

  All the time, Control was yelling in his ear: “Dredd, we can’t wait any longer. We need to deploy the foam.”

  “What do you say to critics who claim the Chief Judge has lost control over the City?”

  “Dredd?”

  “Judge Dredd, I’m going to have to press you for an answer.”

  “Dredd!”

  “Do it,” he roared into the comm. “Press the button!”

  A sound like thunder rumbled above their heads, and a thick, milky substance smothered protestor and Judge alike. Dredd held his breath; the last thing he wanted was to swallow any of the stuff. It looked innocuous enough, but that would change the moment it started to solidify. He’d seen perps suffocate as the foam expanded in their mouths, or suffer heart attacks as they found themselves encased. There were fatalities with every deployment, but the numbers had been crunched at the Grand Hall, and acceptable losses calculated. Dredd didn’t let such things concern him. All he cared about was restoring the peace.

  He forced himself to relax, the spume having hardened around his limbs within seconds, gripping like rockcrete.

  Dredd couldn’t move, Loreen Peston couldn’t move, Jocelyn Piper and her tank of a bodyguard couldn’t move, and—more importantly—the crowd couldn’t move.

  Dredd glared at Peston, who was standing like a statue, her microphone still held out towards him.

  “Any final comment?” she mumbled through the unyielding gunk.

  Dread grimaced. “Sure. Three years for obstructing justice. How’s that for a headline?”

  Six

  Back to the Studio

  IN THE HOUND News studio, anchor Bret Barnet raised a sculpted eyebrow and smouldered into the camera-drone hovering in front of his heavily made-up face.

  His voice was like honey running from a spoon. “Shocking scenes today at Boris Johnson Plaza. As you’ve just witnessed, political correspondent Loreen Peston has been arrested for asking questions by”—Bret glanced at the monitor, still showing scenes of the riot—“by Judge Dredd, a new lawman who has certainly made a name for himself in the last year.” Bret turned to camera two and unleashed a devastating wink, designed to make the city’s housewives and -husbands go weak at the knees. “One to watch, although with that chin, he’ll be kind of hard to miss.”

  On the monitor, Loreen was already being chipped out of the riot-foam. Bret wondered who he’d have to bribe to keep her stuck in the stuff. He was no fan of the network’s up-and-coming political correspondent. He still couldn’t believe the little madam had spurned his advances at the Hound News Summer Hottie-Fest. Didn’t she know who he was? Newsflash: Bret Barnet was the bee’s knees. In fact, he was the bee’s everything. The camera loved him, the viewers loved him, and all eighteen of his mistresses loved him. The gall of the girl! Well, now she had three years in an iso-block to rue her decision.

  Bret turned back to camera one, reading from the autocue he’d had grafted to his optic nerves back when he was a cub reporter. “Official reports suggest that at least 878 people have been confined in the riot-foam, including mayoral hopeful Jocelyn Piper herself. Let’s go to everyone’s favourite eye in the sky, Seymour McKenzie, who’s on the scene. Seymour, what can you tell us about the incident at Boris Johnson?”

  Bret paused, waiting for Seymour’s response. He frowned. That was odd. All they could hear was the sound of somebody sobbing.

  He checked his earpiece to make sure it wasn’t malfunctioning. “Seymour? Are you there?”

  Was there something wrong with the feed? He glanced at the monitor, seeing the footage streaming from McKenzie’s hoverboard. What was the fool playing at? This is what you got when you employed a skysurfing stoner as a roving reporter. Bret had told the network it was a bad idea, especially after he found out that McKenzie had somehow hooked up with Loreen after she’d turned him down. Those two deserved each other.

  But something was awry. The images were great, a dramatic shot of the foam-encased rabble, but the only commentary was the sound of snivelling.

  Bret flashed an apologetic smile at the cam-bot. “Sorry about this, folks, but we seem to be having trouble with Seymour�
��s report. I’m not really sure what’s happening, but as you can see—”

  A voice whined over the studio speakers. “I’m sorry...”

  Again, Bret’s hand went to his earpiece. It didn’t help him hear any better, but always looked good on camera, ramping up the drama and—with it—the ratings. “Seymour, is that you?”

  “I did it. I... I did it.”

  Bret laughed nervously for the camera, although inside he was punching the air in glee. McKenzie was obviously as high as a kite, in more ways than one. The kid was finished, and once again it was down to Bret Barnet to steady the ship.

  “Done what, Seymour?” Bret mugged to the camera, wagging an accusatory finger. “You haven’t raided my stash of newsroom biscuits again, have you?”

  “I shot him.”

  Bret’s smile dropped away. “I’m sorry. What was that?”

  “I killed him,” McKenzie wailed, his disembodied voice thick with emotion. “I didn’t mean to. I didn’t want to. I... I just pulled the trigger.”

  This was... brilliant. Tri-D gold. An unexpected confession live on air. If Bret handled this right, he’d probably be able to ask for a bonus... not to mention find lucky Miss Nineteen. He’d had his eye on the network’s celebrity reporter for a while, a cheeky little minx if ever he saw one. Sure, she was engaged, but hey, he was married—twice. What did it matter?

  “Okay, slow down Seymour. Who exactly did you shoot?

  “Ben Peck,” came the strangled reply. “I killed Ben. Shot him right between the eyes.”

  Seven

  Chasing the Story

  “YOU BETTER SEE this, Joe.”

  Dredd tried to look up, but the riot-foam still held him tight. A Tek-Judge was attempting to slice him free, but progress was painfully slow.

  Morphy appeared in front of him, brandishing a datapad, Bret Barnet’s unctuous voice emanating from the unit’s tiny speakers.

  “That’s right, folks, you heard it first on Hound News. Our very own Seymour McKenzie has confessed to the murder of MC-1 News reporter Ben Peck.”