Judge Dredd: Year Two

by Michael Carroll

  “What?” Dredd spat. “Where is he?”

  Morphy pointed into the sky. “Looking down on us.”

  Dredd followed Morphy’s gaze, spotting a sky-surfer high above the plaza, the same punk he’d seen flying over Dependicorp.

  “Grud. Get me out of here,” he barked at the Tek-Judge.

  The woman continued chipping away at the hardened foam with her laser-cutter. “It’ll take as long as it takes. The last thing you want is for me to slip and accidently disembowel you.”

  The Judge had already freed one of Dredd’s arms. He used it to snatch the cutter from her grasp. “Give me that.”

  Before she could stop him, Dredd ignited the torch, sweeping its beam across his body to carve a line through the congealed lather. The foam’s grip on him loosened and Dredd forced himself out, bursting from the cocoon like a particularly bad-tempered moth.

  He shoved the cutter back into the Tek-Judge’s hands, ignoring her sudden gasp, echoed by Morphy.

  “Dredd, your chest.”

  Joe looked down, seeing the blistered line across his torso. Grunting, he peered at Morphy’s screen. “Nothing that can’t be patched up. Let me see.”

  McKenzie was continuing his on-air confession: “I did it. I killed him. And now the Jays will be after me. Oh, Grud. They’re going to lock me away!”

  “Damn right we are,” Morphy said grimly, as above them the hoverboard streaked away from the plaza. “Creep’s running!”

  So was Dredd. Leaping over the foam-covered bodies of the rioters, he raced for his Lawmaster, ignoring the pain in his chest and threw himself in to the seat. He gunned the engine, tires squealing as he accelerated away, eyes locked on the fleeing skysurfer. “Dredd to Control. Am in pursuit.”

  The punk was heading north, followed by an army of rocket-powered drones and hoverbikes. Dredd guessed they belonged to McKenzie’s fellow ambulance-chasers, desperate to get the scoop on their colleague’s unexpected confession. Dredd ordered his bike to tune into Hound News, Barnet’s oily commentary filling Dredd’s helmet as the Lawmaster swerved onto the sked.

  “I TOLD YOU Dredd was one to watch,” Bret Barnet told his audience as he watched the young Judge weave in and out of traffic. “Joe Dredd, class of ’79, and cloned from none other than Chief Judge Fargo himself. That’s some legacy resting on those shoulder pads.”

  On the monitor, McKenzie threw his board around Bruce Forsyth Block, screaming through the narrow gap between Jimmy Tarbuck and Ronnie Barker, all luxury retirement homes for eldster-entertainers. Dredd didn’t miss a trick. He zipped up a pipeway, disappearing from view, before roaring out onto the Jenson Button Megaway. The kid was good. Really good.

  “If you’ve just joined us, Judge Joseph Dredd is in pursuit of fugitive from the law Seymour McKenzie. I’ve never seen anything like it. A lone Judge on the ground pursuing a hover-boarder high in the sky; and a champion hover-boarder at that. As you’re no doubt aware, McKenzie was a Mega-City skyboard champion three years in a row.”

  For all that Bret despised the sky-punk, McKenzie’s skill with a board was obvious. He was sweeping past antigrav flyers with ease, pushing his board higher and higher, although Dredd wasn’t far behind, zooming along the Megaway, his mastery of the thundering Lawmaster matching—if not surpassing—McKenzie’s dexterity in the air.

  “Dredd really is a wonder, although, from what we can tell, his standing in the Justice Department isn’t what you’d expect. According to our sources, he’s already been forced to prove his innocence on at least one occasion. Recently, Judge Whistleblower provided a damning indictment of Dredd, describing the young Judge as, and I quote, ‘a humourless freak no different to the muties on the wrong side of the Wall. He’s a flawed experiment, just like his no-good brother, a miscarriage of Justice made flesh…’”

  “...TOUGH WORDS THERE from our Judge on the inside, referring of course to Dredd’s wayward brother, Rico, who—despite graduating at the top of his class—was arrested by Dredd himself—”

  “Channel off.” Dredd needed to concentrate on the perp, who had now entered a stream of heavy traffic, dodging hoverpods and juggers with ease. It was just a shame that the other pilots didn’t share McKenzie’s skill. There had already been one collision, a flyer slamming into an airbus, the drivers only just managing to maintain altitude. McKenzie had to be taken down, and fast.

  “Control, where’s air-support?” Dredd yelled as his Lawmaster streaked between two lumbering mo-pads, the gap between them only inches wider than the bike’s handlebars.

  “Right on top of you, Dredd. Look up.”

  Dredd looked up to see two H-Wagons swing around a monumental construction site to his right—a partially-built Palais-de-Boing destined to house another of the Meg’s emerging crazes. McKenzie responded with preternatural speed, banking left even before the wagons had cleared the scaffolding and disappearing behind a stream of low-slung hover bikes, a convoy of heavily-muscled Air’s Angels patrolling the skies.

  The punk’s reactions were incredible. Unless...

  “McKenzie’s using a Justice Department scanner.”

  “What’s that, Dredd?”

  “Standard journo-tech. He’s tapping into transmissions. That’s how he knew the H-Wagons were coming, how he knows I’m coming.”

  He didn’t wait for a response. “Bike, disconnect from Justice-Net. No comms in or out.”

  The Lawmaster’s computer chimed and the Justice Department chatter in Dredd’s helmet silenced. Control would still be able to monitor him on surveillance cams, but would hopefully have the sense to keep their mouths shut about his position.

  McKenzie was ahead of him again, heading for the West Wall. Was he going to take his chances in the Cursed Earth? The sentries on the wall would take him down before he escaped the City limits, but the way the spug was flying that thing, there was every chance he could dodge their guns.

  Dredd drew his Lawgiver. McKenzie was too high. There was no way he could draw a bead on him.

  Unless he got higher.

  The ramp leading up to the West Mutieland Turnpike was ahead. Dredd accelerated, civilian vehicles swerving to get out of his way. He picked up speed, hitting the ramp at a solid one hundred and fifty. Racing up towards the turnpike, he triggered his bike’s turbo boost and shot into the air like an anti-aircraft missile.

  He aimed, waiting until he felt himself start to fall, then fired twice; Standard Execution rounds. His shots slammed through the back of McKenzie’s hoverboard, taking out the rear stabilisers. The surfer screamed as he dropped into a dive, his board corkscrewing out of control.

  Dredd’s bike crashed back onto the sked; the sudden jolt aggravated the already angry wound across his chest.

  McKenzie came off worse, bouncing once off a covered pedway, his safety line breaking along with both his legs. He hit the ground with a sickening crump and lay still.

  Dredd’s Lawmaster screeched to a halt beside the downed sky-boarder. The creep was barely conscious, his blood soaking into the sked as his eyes fluttered in a fractured skull. He glared down at the punk.

  “Seymour McKenzie, you’re under arrest.”

  Eight

  Two Places at Once

  MORPHY AND LINT found Dredd being treated near to where McKenzie had come down, a Med-Judge spraying plasti-skin over the burns Dredd had inflicted on himself.

  “Dredd always gets his man,” Morphy told Lint, as they jumped from their bikes. “If you can make half the arrests, you’ll be doing well, rookie.”

  “Yes, sir,” Lint acknowledged.

  Dredd waved the Med-Judge away. “That’s enough. See to McKenzie. We need to make sure he’s well enough to survive forty-six years in the cube.”

  Lint squinted as he made the calculations. “Eighteen for murder, another three for leaving the scene of the crime, fifteen for fleeing for justice...”

  “Plus ten for dangerous flying.”

  Morphy looked over to the remains of the hoverb
oard, scattered across the sked. “Looks like he took a tumble.”

  “More than I d-deserve...” McKenzie whimpered, before dissolving into fresh lamentation. “I did it. I killed Ben. I can... I can still see his body.”

  “But why?” Lint asked the perp. “Why do it?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Dredd told him. “Creep confessed. Sentence has been passed.”

  Morphy raised a hand. “Rookie’s got a point, Joe.” The Senior Judge turned to McKenzie. “What was it, kid? Professional jealousy? Peck get the scoop on you once too often?”

  “Or was he ‘going undercover’ with your better half?” Lint added, a sneer on his young face that vanished at a sharp glance from his instructor.

  “He certainly was not,” said a voice from behind. The Judges turned to see a black man in his late twenties running up to them.

  Dredd rose from the med-wagon to block the newcomer’s path. “Move along, citizen. There’s nothing to see.”

  “There certainly is,” the cit replied, pointing at McKenzie. “That’s my husband. And he didn’t do it.”

  “Your husband has confessed,” Morphy told him.

  “To the murder of Ben Peck, yes. I saw it on the news. But it’s impossible.”

  “What’s your name?” Dredd asked, pulling a datapad from his belt.

  “Rufus. Rufus McKenzie. We live in apartment 1890, Johnny Utah Block, Sector 58. How is Seymour? Is he okay?”

  Dredd ignored the question, checking the screen of his pad. “Story checks out. Seymour and Rufus McKenzie, married four years ago.”

  “I know this is hard to accept, McKenzie,” Morphy said, putting himself between the worried spouse and their prisoner. “But your husband has confessed to the crime. It’s a done deal.”

  “A crime he didn’t commit. I don’t know what’s going through his head, but there’s no way he killed Ben Peck. When did the murder take place?”

  “Two nights ago,” Dredd told him.

  “On Tuesday, yes, that’s what they said on the news, but Seymour was at home with me on Tuesday night.”

  “Anyone else with you?”

  “Only a family bucket of chicken wings and the Game of Groans season three box set.”

  Dredd’s hand went to his belt and he pulled a lie-detector from a pouch. “Testify to it?”

  “Gladly.”

  Dredd thrust the birdie in Rufus McKenzie’s face. “Tell us again—where were you on Tuesday night around 8pm?”

  “Watching Tri-D with Seymour, at home.”

  “And he never went out?”

  “Not once. We watched five episodes back to back.”

  Dredd checked the readout, his lips thinning into a single line.

  “Birdie says he’s telling the truth.”

  He stalked back to the injured sky-surfer, this time placing the birdie beneath the perp’s split lips.

  “Seymour McKenzie, were you at home with your husband on Tuesday night?”

  McKenzie nodded.

  “All night?”

  “Y-yes. We… we watched Game of Groans.”

  “Then why say you killed Peck?”

  “B-because I did. It was me. Why don’t you believe me?”

  “Because you can’t have done it, babe,” Rufus cut in. “You were with me all evening.”

  “I know. But I did it all the same. I shot Ben with my own hands, before putting on the mask.”

  “You wore a mask?” Lint asked the boarder.

  “N-no, I put it on Ben’s corpse, after he died.”

  “No-one knows about the mask outside the Justice Department,” Dredd said. “I kept it from the public record.”

  “Thought it was f-funny. One last face-change.”

  “He’s delirious,” Rufus insisted. “Doesn’t know what he’s saying.”

  Dredd’s lie detector bleeped conclusively. “Birdie says the creep’s telling the truth.”

  “About what?” Morph asked. “The murder, or a night watching holo-vids?”

  Dredd double-checked the readout. “Both.”

  “It must be malfunctioning.” Morphy produced his own lie detector and repeated the interrogations. Again, his birdie reported that they were telling the truth. The alibi checked out, as did McKenzie’s confession.

  “Doesn’t make sense.” Dredd indicated for the Med-Judge to get McKenzie on a stretcher. “Take him in. We’ll continue this at the Sector House.”

  “But he didn’t do it,” Rufus maintained. “Your own machine proved it.”

  “It proved nothing; machines can be fooled. But there’s more than one way to get to the truth...”

  Nine

  Judge Ruan

  ONE HOUR LATER, Seymour McKenzie lay in a Sector House infirmary, his arms, legs and neck already knitting together in a speedheal force-bubble.

  Dredd had changed into a fresh uniform and finally conceded to a dose of painkillers, if only to shut up the prattling robo-doc scuttling around the ward like an overprotective mother hen.

  McKenzie himself was sedated. Dredd glowered at the perp as he slept. Whether McKenzie had shot Peck or not, he was still going away, for reckless endangerment and resisting arrest. If it turned out the creep was innocent of Peck’s murder, Dredd would charge him with false confession and wasting Justice Department time.

  One way or another, Hound News’ eye in the sky had been permanently grounded.

  What Dredd couldn’t understand was how McKenzie had fooled not one, but two birdies? He had to be lying, one way or another. He was either innocent or guilty. It wasn’t possible to be both.

  The infirmary’s doors swept open and a female Judge walked in. She was around Dredd’s age, of Chinese descent, with close cropped hair and keen green eyes. Instead of a name, the badge on her chest displayed the letters PSI.

  Dredd’s experiences with Psi-Division had been limited to a breakout of psychic phenomena twelve months ago. Dredd and a Psi-Judge by the name of Riorden had found the source of the disturbance and eliminated it, but not before Riorden had sacrificed himself, his body and mind burnt out.

  Riorden had been a good man, but Dredd still felt uncomfortable dealing with Psi-Div. He understood their benefit, but that didn’t stop his jaw from clenching. Back at the Academy, Dredd been classed a double-zero: not a telepathic bone in his body. To him, psykers were as alien as the extra-terrestrial refugees flooding from the Meg’s deep space colonies. The rational part of his mind told him that to distrust something just because it was different was wrong—foolish, even. But weren’t psychic abilities just another form of mutation?

  “Judge Dredd, my name is Ruan Keiko.” The Psi’s voice was softer than he’d expect for a Judge. She nodded at McKenzie. “This is the victim?”

  Dredd’s brow furrowed. “This is the perp.”

  “Apologies.” She rubbed her gloved fingers against her forehead as if trying to push away a headache. “I’m getting waves of anguish and grief.”

  Dredd grunted. “I’m not surprised. I shot him out of the sky. You’re an empath?”

  “Empath, telepath and precog,” she confirmed. “Your basic overachiever. The other cadets hated me in the academy.”

  She smiled; Dredd didn’t. But if his demeanour made her awkward, she didn’t show it. She carried on, all business.

  Good. That’s the way Dredd liked it.

  “I’ve already scanned the husband, Rufus.”

  “And?”

  “And his memories match his story.” She nodded at the dozing sky-boarder. “He was watching Game of Groans on Tuesday night.”

  “With Seymour?”

  “Yup. Although I wish I hadn’t caught got a glimpse of the season finale in his mind. Talk about spoilers. You watch the show?”

  Dredd ignored the question. “And Seymour didn’t leave the hab?”

  “Not that I could see.”

  Not that she could see... from someone else’s memories. He’d witnessed a scan during the psi-kids incident, Riorden rifling throug
h a juve’s mind as if reading a paper. It didn’t seem right. Some called it an invasion of privacy, and Dredd didn’t agree with that—perps waived their rights the moment they committed a crime—but plucking memories from another’s head felt to him like catching water in your fingers. Dredd liked his evidence to be solid, incontrovertible. Thoughts were ambiguous, inconclusive. Let Psi-Division deal with vagaries. He dealt with facts.

  He indicated the prisoner. “You know what to do.”

  Ruan nodded. She took off her regulation gloves, placing them beside McKenzie’s medi-bed, and moved around to stand at his head. “It would be better if he was conscious.”

  “That can be arranged.” Dredd turned to the robo-doc. “Wake him up.”

  “We should let him rest,” the android argued as it wheeled across to the two Judges.

  “Creep can sleep in the cube. We need him awake, now.”

  Grumbling, the robo-doc checked its patient’s stats before the tip of its right index finger flipped back to reveal a slender needle. McKenzie groaned as the hypodermic was pressed into his neck.

  “W-where am I?” he slurred, heavy eye-lids opening. “What happened to me?”

  “Sector House 9. I’m sure it’ll come back to you.” At the sound of Dredd’s voice, McKenzie tried to sit up, crying out in pain as the restraints around his arms and legs held him in place.

  “You need to remain calm,” Ruan told him. “I’m going to read your mind.”

  “My m-mind?”

  “We need to find out which version of the truth is real.”

  “I k-killed him. I killed Ben.”

  “Let me check.”

  “W-will it hurt?”

  “No. Not at all. Everything’s going to be all right.”

  Ruan was talking to the perp as if he was a frightened puppy. She was trying to put him at ease, Dredd understood that, but didn’t approve. By its very nature, the Law was uncomfortable. Pandering to a prisoner was a waste of time and resources.

  “O-okay,” McKenzie agreed. “That’s fine.”