Judge Dredd: Year Two

by Michael Carroll

  This was what Dredd was talking about. They were Judges. They didn’t need McKenzie’s co-operation, or his consent. You committed a crime, you paid the price—cause and effect.

  Closing her eyes, Ruan placed her hands on McKenzie’s head. The perp let out a whimper, and Ruan’s eyes snapped open. The Psi-Judge’s eyes were completely blank. No colour, no pupils. Just orbs of eerie, unnatural white.

  “Ruan?”

  “I’m in,” she whispered. “Taking him back.”

  McKenzie was echoing Ruan’s words, his lips moving silently with hers.

  “Back where?”

  “To his confession.”

  “Forget the confession, take him back to the crime.”

  “These things take time, Dredd. It’s... it’s a mess in here.”

  “A mess how?”

  “His memories are fragmented. Uneven. He’s at home, with Rufus. On the sofa, the vid-screen on.”

  “Is there a clock? Anything to prove he was there around 8pm?”

  She paused for a moment, frowning. “They’re talking. Do you want to watch another? Seymour’s looking at his watch. It’s 10:23. I need to be in work early tomorrow.

  “Just one more episode. Come on, babe, don’t you want to see what happens?”

  It was weird, hearing Ruan relating both sides of the conversation, McKenzie murmuring in unison. Still, 10:23 was too late. Peck had been dead for two hours by then. “Anything earlier?”

  “They were there all evening, on the sofa.”

  “Didn’t go out for food?”

  “Had it delivered.” She licked her lips. “Chicken wings with spicy ’slaw, Seymour’s favourite.”

  Her brow creased.

  “What is it?”

  “Something’s wrong.”

  Dredd hated this. Relying on someone else. Being shut out of his own investigation.

  “All night. On the sofa. Chicken wings. ’Slaw. One more episode. Need to know what happens.”

  She was rambling now, stumbling over her words.

  “But?”

  “Chicken wing. ’Slaw. Need to know. Need to know.”

  She was going down the rabbit hole. Dredd had read about this in class. Psi-Judges lost in a past that didn’t belong to them, unable to break free.

  “Judge Ruan’s heartbeat is racing,” the robo-doc reported. “We must break the connection.”

  “No,” Dredd told it. “Not yet. Ruan, what do you see?”

  “’Slaw. Vid. One more episode. Blood. Blood on the wall.”

  “Blood?”

  “On the wall. Gun in his hand... in my hand. Okay, pal... we can sort this out. No need...’”

  She had adopted a rough accent. South Meg. Unlike either of the McKenzies.

  “No need for what?”

  “No need for any—” She gasped. “Muties… muties sliding down the wall. Dead. Just one more episode. Okay, pal. Aiming. firing. Need to see what happens. We can sort this out. Just one more episode. One more. Sort this out. Sort this...”

  McKenzie shook violently on his bed, his body going taut, veins popping on his neck and arms.

  Ruan cried out, snatching her hands away, her eyes returning to normal as she stumbled back against the wall. Dredd ignored her, his eyes on the prisoner.

  “What’s happening?”

  “Blood pressure 240 over 120,” the robo-doc replied, activating its finger syringe. “Brain activity spiking. We’re losing him.”

  The android slammed the needle into McKenzie’s neck and the perp relaxed, his body going slack.

  Dredd turned to Ruan. “What was that?”

  She held a hand up to Dredd, still catching her breath. Patience wasn’t one of Dredd’s gifts, but he had no choice but to wait for the psi to regain her composure.

  “The images... were disjointed, overlapping.” She forced herself to stand without the support of the wall. “Peck died in a shipping container, yeah?”

  Dredd nodded. “Near the West Wall.”

  “I saw. McKenzie with a gun in hand, Peck in front of him.”

  “So he did shoot him.”

  She wiped sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. “Yes and no.”

  “Explain.”

  “McKenzie was right; he killed Peck, or at least he remembers killing him, pulling the trigger, the back of Peck’s head blowing out. But he also remembers being at home with Rufus at the same time. One moment, two memories, in two very different locations.”

  “That’s not possible.”

  “But it happened.”

  Dredd stared at the unconscious prisoner. The robo-doc was checking McKenzie’s limbs for signs of any further damage sustained during the seizure.

  “Can you try again?”

  “Go back in there?”

  “No,” the robodoc interrupted. “The prisoner is too weak. The chance of permanent brain damage is too great.”

  “Besides, it wouldn’t do any good,” Ruan said.

  Dredd narrowed his eyes. “How so?”

  Ruan looked like she needed medical attention herself; her face was pale, her once steady hands shaking. “The more I tried to focus, the worse things got in there. Both sets of memories were slipping away, becoming unstable.”

  Like catching water in your fingers.

  Dredd fists clenched by his side. “Then what do we have? A killer that can be in two places at the same time?”

  Ten

  Evidence

  JUDGE MORPHY LEANT back on his chair, staring at the image on the Sector House monitor. He flexed his toes, his feet aching inside his regulation boots. Morphy’s feet ached every day; he purposely wore boots one size too small. They hurt like hell, but the discomfort kept his mind from wandering. It was an old trick, passed from one Judge to another, and it worked like a charm. There would come a day when he would pass the advice onto the next generation, to Dredd and maybe even Lint, when the job started to get to them, when they started to brood. Better to walk with pain than to take the Long Walk before your time.

  Morphy heard a creak at the door and turned to see Lint enter the evidence room.

  “Judge Morphy?”

  “Pull up a chair, son.”

  “I prefer to stand.”

  “Of course you do. You and Dredd; so alike.”

  Lint hesitated. “Yes, sir.”

  Morphy took off his helmet and laid it by the monitor, regarding the rookie with renewed interest. “Got something to say, Lint?”

  The rookie shook his head, but his expression made him a liar. “No. It’s just...”

  “Spit it out, boy.”

  “It’s just the stories we heard back in the Academy. About Dredd and his brother.”

  “The best cadets we ever saw.”

  “Until they hit the skeds. Rico—”

  “Rico was a troubled soul, and paid the price. Don’t judge Joe on the actions of his brother.”

  “His clone brother. Isn’t that the point? Aren’t they exactly the same?”

  “Obviously not, because Rico is serving time on Titan while Joe’s serving the City.”

  Lint wasn’t letting this go. “But... they’re not natural. Neither of them.”

  “I’ve had folks say that about me. They probably say the same about you.”

  That stopped Lint in his tracks. “Sir?”

  “The way we’re trained, taken from our families as children…”

  Lint removed his helmet, revealing cropped blond hair and a pair of startling blue eyes. He set it down beside Morphy’s, white against black.

  “At least most cadets have family to begin with.”

  “So did Dredd.”

  “He was born in a lab. It’s not the same.” Lint pulled up the chair next to Morphy and sat down. “They say he was artificially aged, his brain…” He seemed to struggle for the right words. “It was electronically stimulated—”

  “And they’re right.” Morphy leaned forward, mirroring the rookie’s posture. “Lint, there’s
no secret here. All of this in the public record. Both Joe and Rico had the letter of the Law surgically imprinted on their brains, yes. Try it out next time you speak to Dredd. He can quote the rulebook chapter and verse.”

  “Like a machine.”

  Morphy smiled. “Joe Dredd is a lot of things, and while he likes people to think he’s a machine, he’s not. I’ve seen him in action. I know what he can do. He’s loyal and he cares, more than he likes to admit. Whoever you’ve been talking to, I suggest you stop listening. Making an enemy of Dredd won’t help you.”

  Morphy regretted his choice of words as soon as he saw Lint’s blue eyes widen.

  “Why? What will he do?”

  “His job, to the best of his considerable ability. And you’ll look a fool.”

  Lint’s face flushed. “I was just saying—”

  Morphy sat back. He’d had enough, now. “I know what you’re saying, and I’m saying you shoulddrop it. Mark my words, Joe Dredd will be a Judge long after I’m gone—and a damned good one, to boot. Look beyond your prejudice and you’ll see for yourself.”

  Lint shifted uncomfortable in his chair. The kid’s jaw had clenched so tight, Morph thought his teeth might crack.

  “Have I made myself clear?”

  “Perfectly, sir.”

  “Good.” Morphy turned back to the terminal. “What do you make of this?”

  He didn’t have to be psychic to feel the relief from Lint. They were back on common ground, inspecting evidence.

  The rookie studied the vid-screen. “The crowd at the rally.”

  “Just before things went south, starting with these two.”

  He pointed at the Fatties who had first raised the CPF placards—straggly-beard and his shirtless sibling.

  “I should have noticed it at the time, sir.”

  “We all should have, but it’s left me wondering.”

  “Sir?”

  “Couch Potatoes. What do they do?”

  Lint was quick to answer. “As little as possible.”

  “Exactly. Work is abhorrent to them, to be avoided at all costs.”

  “Then why protest?”

  “Exactly. They never have in the past. The CPF aren’t activists. They rage from their sofas, or their beds, ranting on online forums, picking fights on Mega-City Radio call-ins.” He waved a hand at the screen. “All this? Making banners, organising demonstrations...?”

  “Takes effort.”

  “And firing a rocket launcher? It’s all these spugheads can do to shove chips in their fat mouths.”

  Morphy hit the keyboard in front of the terminal. The image on the display froze.

  “Here’s our shooter.” The screen zoomed into the bearer of the rocket launcher. The man was tall, the muscles on his thick arms defined, a single star tattooed onto a powerful shoulder. “You don’t get a body like that watching Name That Loon on Crackpot TV.”

  “Do we get a clear shot of his face?”

  “Barely. And when we do, the image is blurred, like he’s wearing a scrambler.”

  “So we can’t run it through Comp-Ident. Facial scramblers, they’re expensive. Most members of the CPF can barely scrape two credits together.”

  Morphy scrolled back to the Fatties, the computer instantly providing names and addresses. “Jamie and Oliver Truss, Frederick Fudge Block, Sector 14.”

  “That’s a long way to come to disrupt a political rally,” Lint commented.

  “Especially when you’re that size.” Morphy checked the arrest log. “Oliver Truss—the creep who forgot to pack a shirt—was executed by Dredd on site.”

  “And his brother?”

  Morphy shook his head. “His name’s not on the log.”

  “He wasn’t picked up?”

  “Must have absconded before the riot-foam was deployed.”

  Lint turned to address the computer. “Track movements of surviving Truss brother.” The image shifted to CCTV footage of the Fattie wheeling into a waiting hover-car, the computer picking up the registration plate—FLAB4EVA.

  “Private number?”

  “Part of a sponsorship deal. Turns out Truss and his brother were competitive binge eaters.”

  “Figures.”

  Traffic cams next picked up the car in the fast lane of the throughway, heading in the direction of Sector 14.

  “And this little piggy went wee, wee, wee all the way home,” Lint said.

  “Apparently not.” The spy-in-the-sky footage was replaced with CCTV pictures of Truss squeezing his bulk through the doors of a floating diner. Morphy pulled up the address. “Url’s Place, on the corner of Fannie and Cradock. Looks like someone got peckish. Fancy a munce-burger, son?”

  Lint grinned. “Thought you’d never ask.”

  Eleven

  Award-Winning

  LOREEN PESTON COULDN’T sleep. It wasn’t surprising. She’d been using sleep machines every day for the last three years. The recommended ratio was six nights of the snooze-tube, one night of regular slumber, but Loreen had never been one for following rules. Who needed sleep anyway? Did sleep get you to the top of your game at twenty-three? No, it did not.

  Of course, it had side effects. After a while, the brain became dependent on the machines, unable to drift off without their assistance. Users literally forgot how to sleep. There was also supposed to be a risk of psychosis and/or death, but Peston was all about risk. Wasn’t she the woman who’d climbed the Statue of Justice to interview the exiled Duke of Milton Keynes before he’d jumped to his death? Hadn’t she smuggled herself to the Moon to expose a land-grabbing conspiracy in direct contravention of the International Lunar Treaty of ’61?

  She never gave up until she got her story—as Judge Dredd was about to find out. Shifting on her bunk, Loreen turned her back on the holding cube that would be her home until she was transferred to an iso-block. All she’d wanted from Dredd was a comment, a pithy soundbite that could be played every hour on the hour, and what had she got instead? Imprisonment? Humiliation?

  No. She’d got the scoop of the year. Loreen was going to write the story to end all stories. A courageous journalist falsely imprisoned, her future snatched away. If she had to spend three years in a stinking iso-block, she would document each and every indignity. The harassment, the brutality, the disgusting food rations. The people of the Meg would be so moved by her words, so outraged by her treatment that they would batter down the gates of the Grand Hall itself.

  She could almost hear them chanting outside the Chief Judge’s chambers:

  “Free the Hound NewsOne! Free the Hound News One!”

  There would be book deals, maybe even a holo-movie. Her harrowing experiences would win her the Howard Stern, the highest accolade for any serious journalist. No, this wasn’t the end; it was just the beginning.

  Imagining herself marching up onto a rostrum, the world watching as she collected her award, Loreen started to finally fall asleep, her body relaxing as her adoring public called for Dredd’s head...

  Just the beginning...

  Just the—

  Behind her, the door unlocked. Loreen twisted sleepily to see who had entered the cube, the bunk creaking beneath her.

  The first blow took her by surprise, and she tumbled to the floor. Her hand went to her head and came back bloody, her fingers trembling as she went into shock.

  She tried to lift her head, but it felt ridiculously heavy, like her neck couldn’t take the weight.

  There were boots beside her. Green boots, with a thick tread.

  The blows kept coming. Once, twice…

  “Please… don’t…”

  Blood splattered across the floor, across the boots... Another hit. And another. Pain... pain like she’d never felt before, white hot one minute, numb the next. She could hear something cracking. She couldn’t work out what.

  The world was fading away, the colours dimming.

  She didn’t care. She could barely remember her own name, but could hear applause. Her applause. She
was on the rostrum, the world watching as received her award.

  This was the beginning...

  Just the beginning...

  Just—

  Twelve

  Jamie Truss

  JAMIE TRUSS ATE when he was stressed. To be fair, Jamie Truss ate when he was relaxed, but not in the same quantities.

  Yesterday, for example, he’d only chomped his way through 42 stodge-burgers. Today, he was already way past that, not to mention all the fries, onion rings and hotties. He knew he should go home—should be hiding out—but in many ways Url’s Place was home. He easily spent more time here than anywhere else. He even had his own booth, the table removed to make room for his belly. Who needed a table when you could balance your tray on your own gut?

  Belching like a sealion, Jamie threw his latest carton in the direction of the garbage grinder. It fell short, tumbling to the floor to be swept up by Cher-L, the diner’s friendly robo-waitress.

  “Had enough, hun?” the mechanoid asked, swivelling on her chrome wheel to face her favourite customer.

  “Perhaps one more for the road,” Jamie wheezed. There was no point heading back while still peckish. He’d only end up flagging down a mega-kebab wagon.

  Cher-L pulled a notebook out of a compartment in her waist. “Same again? Triple-stacked beef-o-lard with double bacon and salad?”

  “Maybe leave out the salad,” he told her, patting his engorged stomach. “I’m trying to be good.”

  “I could swap the green stuff for a rack of ribs?”

  “Sounds great. Thanks.”

  “Want the entire thing deep-fried this time?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  “You got it, hun.”

  Cher-L turned and whirled back to the kitchen.

  “And tell Url not to skimp on the sauce, okay?” he called after her as she bustled through the swing doors.

  Jamie gazed out of the diner window while he waited. He could sit for hours, watching people scurry like ants on the pedway below. He felt safe here, floating above the scum of the city. It was his own personal oasis, where old-skool rock ’n’ roll played on the digi-juke and the food kept coming. Grud bless 24-hour service. Grud bless the sponsorship that paid his tab. Up here, his troubles melted away like cheese on a griddle. Up here, he was left alone.