Judge Dredd: Year Two

by Michael Carroll

  “You sure about that?”

  “Absolutely, sir. We’re afraid your flight systems have been hijacked, remote-controlled from an unknown location.”

  “What?”

  “But there’s no cause for concern.”

  “That’s easy for you to say!”

  “I will simply restart your vehicle from here.”

  “Restart?”

  “Please be aware that you may experience some plummeting as the systems are rebooted.”

  “Plummeting? Wait, what do you mean, plumm—”

  The hover-limo’s engine stopped, the internal lights flicked off and the screen went dark.

  Bret screamed as the flyer went into a nosedive, the solid, bone-crushing, spine-snapping ground rushing up to meet him. He was just adding to the stains on his tuxedo trousers as the dashboard lights flashed back on. The stabilisers reactivated, the hover-limo pulled up and Bret started to cry, his nerves as shredded as his dinner jacket.

  Sheila’s face reappeared on the monitor, smiling broadly. “I’m pleased to say that your limo has just restarted.” The smile dropped. “Oh.”

  Bret looked at her through his tears. “What do you mean, ‘oh’?”

  The helpdesk engineer had the decency to look apologetic. “I’m sorry to say that it hasn’t worked. The limo is still under external control.”

  The car smacked into the side of a speeding hover-truck, the back door ripping from its hinges, the shattered contents of the bar streaming out of the limo behind him.

  “I’m going to die, aren’t I?”

  A new sense of purpose seemed to come over Sheila. Popping a new stick of gum in her mouth, she picked up a hefty operator’s manual. “No, you’re not. I’m gonna talk you through the manual override.”

  Bret didn’t respond.

  “Sir, can you hear me?”

  He was looking through the cracked windscreen. A large screen rose ahead of him, mounted on the side of a rapidly approaching mega-block. It showed someone he recognised, albeit dishevelled, their face covered in oozing cuts, hair a sweaty, tangled mop. It took a moment to realise the face was his own, stretched across a screen the size of a soccer pitch.

  In a daze, he looked around, spotting camera-drones weaving through traffic, the lenses trained on his careering hover-limo. He wondered if Hound News was covering the car’s erratic flight. At least it wasn’t swerving now. The limo seemed locked on a single course, heading straight towards the screen.

  “Mr Barnet!”

  Sheila’s voice snapped him out of his reverie. He sniffed loudly and ran a hand through his tangled hair.

  “Yes, yes, I’m here.” If his public was watching, they wouldn’t see Bret Barnet sobbing like a sports reporter who’s just taken a rogue hyperball to the happy-sacks. No, they’d see Bret Barnet making headlines. They’d see him save the day. “What do you need me to do?”

  “Do you see a control panel in front of you?”

  The dashboard was awash with computer terminals and dials.

  “Which one?”

  “A numeric pad beneath a matrix display?”

  Bret wiped a gritty cocktail of snot and blood from his nose. “Yes. I see it.”

  “I need you to enter a code.”

  Bret glanced up to check his appearance on the colossal screen ahead. It was better; not by much, but it would do.

  “Mr Barnet? Can you do that? Can you enter a code?”

  He looked back down at the keypad.

  “Yes. What’s the number?”

  “9-7-8-1-7-8—”

  The computer beeped as he keyed in the digits.

  “1-0-8-5-9-6-7—”

  “How long is this number?”

  “Security is important to us, sir!”

  He snorted. “Could have fooled me!”

  “1-7-8-1-0—”

  The limo increased its speed.

  “8-2-7-4-X.”

  “X?” Bret looked at the keypad, not knowing what to do. “There’s no X!”

  From her desk in the call-centre, Sheila checked the manual with her manager. “Sorry, that’s a typo. You don’t need to enter the last letter.”

  The screen on the side of the block was bigger than ever.

  “Now what?”

  “Now press the green button underneath the numbers.”

  He did what he was told. The control panel buzzed.

  “And?”

  He could hear his voice repeated from the floating news screens around the City, every channel now broadcasting a live stream of the helpdesk call.

  “Can you read what’s on the matrix display please?”

  The display was blank.

  “Nothing. There’s nothing there.”

  “Perhaps we should try inputting the override again.”

  The giant screen was all Bret could see out the front of the limo now. “You’re kidding me!”

  There was another bleep, and words started scrolling across the display.

  “It’s working!”

  “What does it say?”

  “‘You’…”

  “Is that it?”

  “No, there’s something else. Grud, why is this thing so slow?”

  “Try to remain calm, sir.”

  The words continued to crawl across the display.

  “‘Met’... ‘Your’...”

  The last word died in his throat.

  Sheila flipped through pages of her manual. “Sir? Can you please repeat? That doesn’t sound right.”

  “Deadline,” Bret whimpered. “You met your deadline.”

  THE HOVER-LIMO SMASHED slap-bang into centre of the screen, exploding into a ball of flame that could be seen for blocks around.

  Twenty

  To the Scene of the Crime

  THE NEWS OF the hover-limo crash came over Dredd’s helmet. He’d abandoned the studio, as the newscaster’s producer had all but ignored him to cover the breaking news. For once, there was little the Law could do. She’d answered Dredd’s questions to the best of her ability, but it was clear that she knew nothing. Naturally paranoid, Ben Peck had played his cards exceptionally close to his chest until the moment he submitted his reports. He kept no records on the network’s computer system, and no one other than Peck knew his sources. He’d always been a loner, with few friends.

  Dredd was wasting his time; he needed to move on. He was racing back to the haulage company. While there was a chance that Peck’s homicide was linked to the stories he was covering, it was more likely that he was killed for sticking his nose into what didn’t concern him at the depot.

  Dredd switched his bike to auto and brought up Hound News on the Lawmaster’s terminal. An image of the now-late Bret Barnet’s face filled the screen, not how it had been in the seconds before the crash—bloodied, bruised and borderline deranged—but airbrushed within an inch of his life, the perfect Tri-D host.

  The picture was replaced by a report from the crash-site, a Hound News correspondent talking solemnly to camera.

  “Bret’s last words bring a chilling message to Mega-City One. ‘You met your deadline.’ This is, of course, the same message that was found on the body of MC-1 Today reporter, Ben Peck, and—as Hound Newshas learned—in the mouth of political commentator, Loreen Peston, who has been found dead in her holding cube at Sector House 9.”

  Grud! How had they found out about Peston’s death? Goodman had wanted the 793 kept under wraps. Was there a leak in the Grand Hall?

  Dredd flicked channels, bringing up MC-1 Today, a female anchor addressing viewers in urgent tones.

  “The Deadliner strikes again. Who is waging war against the Mega-City press? Hound News’ Seymour McKenzie had previously confessed to Ben Peck’s murder, but according to our sources, his testimony has been questioned by Judges working on the case—”

  Dredd killed the screen and resumed control of the Lawmaster. The Deadliner. The press had even given the nutjob a name. Dredd wasn’t even sure it was one person. If McKenzie d
id kill Peck, the sky-boarder was already in custody when Peston was bludgeoned to death. And then there was this limo-crash. Justice Department reports said the hijacked flyer had been remote controlled. Until his injuries were treated, McKenzie was being kept in an induced coma, standard practice for convicted perps. It couldn’t be him.

  Were they looking at a copycat? A series of gang hits? But why target journalists? They were annoying, sure, but there were plenty of annoying people in this city. You might as well take out estate agents, or PR executives.

  Nothing about this made sense.

  THE FOREMAN AT the Dependicorp depot looked as though he would rather clean stomm from his boots than talk to Dredd.

  “I need to take another look at the container,” the lawman told the haulage worker, a gruff Scot by the name of Campbell.

  The foreman made a show of checking through the lists on his datapad. “You could be too late, laddie. The thing may have already been cleaned and reused.”

  Dredd’s scowl intensified. “I told you it’s off-limits until the investigation is closed.”

  Campbell shrugged. “But the fella on the surfboard confessed. I saw it on the news.”

  Dredd took a step towards the man. “You wanna confess to anything, punk? We’ve already found mutie blood in one of your containers.”

  The man’s face blanched. “That was nothing to do with us. The damned muties sneak in when the convoys stop for refuelling en route. There’s nothing we can do about it.”

  “Sounds like you don’t want us looking in your other containers. Afraid of what we might find?”

  “We’re clean, I tell you. 100 percent legit.”

  Dredd activating his comm. “Control, request a tek-squad for immediate—”

  “It’s here,” Campbell said quickly, checking the pad again. “Still on site and completely off-limits, just like you said.”

  “And you couldn’t find it a minute ago?”

  The man shrugged. “We’ve got a lot of containers.”

  “And we’ve got a lot of cubes. Doubt you’ll like yours. Eight months for wasting Justice Department time. Oh, and tell your replacement, this place is getting audited...”

  DREDD CUFFED CAMPBELL and made his way across the depot to container 146175.

  The scene inside was exactly how Dredd remembered: the bloodstains, the bullet holes. The teks had already crawled over every inch of the place, but Dredd needed to make sure they hadn’t missed anything. Starting at the back, he began opening the boxes to examine the cargo stashed inside. They were all filled with identical mechanical components he barely recognised. He checked for contraband hidden within the freight, false bottoms that could be used for smuggling drugs or moonshine. Nothing. Everything was as it should be.

  Until he heard the noise behind him.

  Dredd whirled around, Lawgiver in hand, pointing at the newcomer.

  Psi-Judge Ruan raised her hands. “Hey, it’s just me, Dredd.”

  He dropped the weapon to his side. “Ruan. What you are doing here?”

  “Same as you. Trying to get to the bottom of the case.”

  He holstered the Lawgiver. “You been cleared for duty?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Then you should be at Psi-Div.”

  “I can help, cleared or not.”

  “How’d you find me?”

  “Pulled in a favour with Control. Thought you might like a hand.”

  He turned away from her, returning to the half-examined boxes. “I don’t need assistance.”

  Behind him, Ruan hissed. Dredd turned to see the Psi-Judge doubled over, a hand on the side of the container to steady herself. He rushed toward her, grabbing her arms before she could sink to the floor.

  “Ruan? Ruan, what’s wrong?”

  When she looked up, her pupils had dilated so much that her eyes were black discs rimmed with a narrow band of green, her breath coming in ragged gasps.

  She clutched his arm, the fingers of her hand digging deep into his bicep. “Fear. Such... fear.”

  Twenty-One

  The Path of Fear

  “RUAN. WHAT ARE you talking about? What are you afraid of?”

  The Psi-Judge shook her head, sweat dripping from her hair. “No, not me. Someone close... someone terrified.”

  She pushed away from him, stumbling out of the crate and into the cool night air. She paused, looking around, as if trying to listen. Dredd couldn’t hear anything other than the clank and whirr of heavy machinery as cargo was loaded onto nearby hover-trucks.

  “There...” she said, stumbling as she ran to her left. Dredd followed as she darted between containers. She was tracking something—or someone—but not by sound. She was feeling her quarry, following a trail of emotions, a trail that finished up in a dead end against the West Wall itself, containers stacked three high to either side of them to form an alley.

  “There’s no one here, Ruan.”

  She held up a hand to silence him. The furthest container wasn’t completely flush to the wall, leaving a narrow gap between the corrugated plasteen and rockcrete.

  Ruan crept closer to peer into the gap and then gasped, slumping against the wall, briefly overcome.

  “No,” she said as Dredd moved to assist her. “Stay where you are.”

  She crouched down beside the container, holding her gloved hand towards the gap.

  “It’s okay,” she said, softly. “I know you’re scared, but we’re here to help. You’re safe.”

  Dredd didn’t like not knowing who Ruan was talking to, but held back. He was rewarded by a small, delicate hand reaching out from the shadows to take Ruan’s own.

  “That’s it,” the Psi-Judge encouraged. “Nothing to worry about.”

  It was a girl, dressed in dirty rags that hung from a fragile, malnourished frame. Her age was hard to guess, but she couldn’t have been more than eight years old. Her head was a hairless dome, a single yellow eye in the middle of a broad forehead. The rest of her features were shrunken, a small, lipless mouth little more than a slit.

  “A mutant,” Dredd growled.

  Ruan ignored the comment, keeping her attention focused on the child who looked at Dredd with something approaching sheer terror.

  “No, no, it’s fine. He’s with me. My name’s Ruan. What’s yours?”

  The mutant girl looked back at Ruan, but didn’t answer.

  “Can you tell me?”

  Still the child didn’t respond.

  “Reckon she doesn’t speak English?”

  “Oh, she understands. She just can’t speak. Maybe because of her mutation, maybe out of fear.” Ruan brushed her hand gently against the child’s face and the mutant flinched, ready to bolt back into the gap behind the container.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you any more than you already are. Because you are very, very scared, aren’t you?”

  “She knows she shouldn’t be here,” Dredd said.

  “No, that’s not it. She’s not scared for herself—well, no more than any child would be in this situation—but for someone else. Someone she loves.” Ruan’s eyes widened. “It’s your mom, isn’t it? You’re scared she might die.”

  The child nodded, a tear rolling down her tiny nose.

  “Can you show us where she is? We can help you.”

  The child nodded and, keeping hold of Ruan’s hand, timidly led her past Dredd.

  Stopping frequently to look for haulage workers, the child dragged Ruan towards a large building at the back of the yard. The door was shut, but not locked. Inside, Ruan and Dredd found themselves in a storage area, rows of shelves piled high with boxes and files that looked like they hadn’t been disturbed for months, maybe years.

  She led them to a pile of blankets up against the far wall—a pile that moved.

  Dredd brought up his Lawgiver, but Ruan waved him back, shaking her head frantically, as she inched towards the heap of linen. Gently, she pulled aside a blanket to reveal a woman with the same mutation as
the girl. She was lying on her side, face pale in the weak light of a lantern.

  “The mother?”

  Ruan nodded, checking the mutant’s pulse. Her large eye fluttered open at the touch, but the woman didn’t start or cry out. She was too weak, blood-stained rags wound around her shoulder.

  “She’s been hit. Lost a lot of blood.”

  “The mutants in the container.”

  “Maybe.” Ruan turned back to the daughter. “I’m going to help your mom, okay? There’s nothing to be scared about. I can read people’s minds. Do you understand? Do you have telepaths where you come from?”

  The child nodded, clutching her frail hands together.

  “I won’t hurt her, I promise. Here, Joe will stand with you.”

  “I will?”

  Ruan shot him a look. “Yes, you will.”

  She leant into the child and smiled conspiratorially. “I need you to hold Joe’s hand. He gets nervous sometimes.”

  She winked and the child’s little mouth almost twitched into a smile. Dredd scowled as the girl held up a shaking hand, before giving in and walking over to join them. The mutie’s thin fingers slipped into his and his frown softened. She barely had any flesh on her bones at all. He thought he’d feel revulsion, but as she squeezed weakly against his gloves, Dredd found himself kneeling on one knee beside her. He told himself he wanted to observe Ruan, although he didn’t push the child away when she nestled into him.

  Ruan removed her gloves and raised her hands, resting her fingers on the mutant woman’s hairless head.

  “That’s it. Let me in. Let me help.”

  The woman barely stirred.

  “I was right,” Ruan said, her voice husky as she made contact. “They don’t have vocal cords. They can’t speak. Can’t cry out, even—”

  She gasped, a sudden intake of pain.

  “Ruan?”

  “Shot,” the Psi-Judge breathed. “Hiding in the container. Shot in the shoulder. Beside her… Grud, he’s dead. They killed him.”

  “Who’s dead?”