The Final Cut

by Matthew Smith

  But nobody ever said it was easy. Stupidity in the Big Meg is everywhere, like it's one of Otto Sump's lifestyle choices that's never stopped being all the rage. Right now, as I flip channels, the vapidity steals out of the Tri-D set and tries to lower my IQ. I can feel my eyes glazing over as the stations change, but the inanity remains the same: a cookery programme presented by a microwave telling viewers in clipped female tones how to reheat leftovers; an embarrassingly cheap drama about teenaged skysurfers that was obviously filmed by a very unskilled cameraman on a powerboard; a right-wing chat show hosted by a guy claiming to be the reincarnation of Bob Booth; alien seduction techniques; celebrity bean-counting; and so on and so on, like a descent into cathode-ray hell...

  Enough, I tell myself, resisting the urge to wheel through a further hundred channels, my forefinger hovering over the buttons on the remote. I stick, as expected, with a movie, a fairly old propaganda job retelling moments from the Apocalypse War, clearly made with Justice Department approval. The simplistic black-and-white moralities on display make even me wince; the Sovs are portrayed as warmongering animals, slaughtering women and children with dastardly quips while the Meg Judges ride out of a rising sun, bringing justice to the invading hordes. It typically plays fast and loose with the facts, inventing laughable romantic subplots between Sov lieutenants and cit fraternisers that sit uneasily with the carnage it unashamedly glorifies.

  I was a cadet at the time the conflict kicked off, so my experience of the realities of the war were limited to a bunker beneath the Academy, but even so, you'd have to take a full hit with a Stupid Gun not to smell the bullshit this movie was peddling. Watching the shots of Sov tanks rumbling through the occupied streets makes me think of my eight year-old self lying on a makeshift campbed deep underground with the other greenies, listening to the shriek of missiles streaking overhead and realising at that moment just how much we had changed, how much our tutors had moulded us into proto-Judges.

  Other children of our age would normally be terrified to be so close to the noise and heat of battle, but all we felt was a steely determination and a shared desire to be out there, defending our city. I suppose if we'd been asked to visualise our emotions, they would look not unlike this piece-of-crap flick, this child's-eye view of a nuclear exchange. Fiercely patriotic and breathtakingly naive, with caricatures mouthing clichés, the programme reduced the war to the level of something like the Tri-D talent show You Stink! - easy consumption for people who don't like to think too much.

  In the end, the toe-curling acting and lines like "But War Marshal, haven't you ever truly loved someone?" are enough to make me want to kill someone, so I flip the set off before I lose my temper. I go into the bedroom and lift up a couple of floorboards, removing two Justice Department blasters with the serial numbers burnt off to make them look unlicensed. The small ammo store I have here contains probably the most valuable items in the entire apartment. It's not a significant arsenal by any means - several hand cannons, a little explosive, some bladed weapons - but enough to make me feel secure.

  I slot a loaded Zirgman P28 into my shoulder holster, then work the slide on a compact Roundlock before slipping on the safety catch and jamming it beneath my belt at the small of my back. I tape a boot knife to the inside of my trouser leg, then I pull on my jacket and drop a snubnose Jameson .38 into the pocket with a few spare slugs. The weight feels reassuringly heavy, like I've got some solid protection. I look myself over in the mirror and don't see any awkward bulges that would give me away. Ideally, a bullet-proof vest would be useful for this kind of deal, but its bulkiness would be too obvious.

  I replace the floorboards then take a final look in the mirror. Breathing deeply, I stare back at my reflection and silently tell myself that the Danskys are not going to know what's hit them, and they will never know, because everything is going to go nice and smooth. I have no reason to panic. I am smarter than them by several billion degrees.

  I switch off the light and my reflection is lost in darkness as I head out into the night.

  I'm due to meet Cavell at a hottie house on Johnson, so I grab myself a synthi-caf while I wait. It jangles with the zizz I scored on the way and snorted in the restaurant's toilets, but it helps flatline the paranoia that was starting to creep up on me. The drug is boosting my perception, and in the building's sickly, yellow flickering light, everything is in deep focus: the group of arguing eldsters at the next table, the droids working behind the counter, the steam rising from the frying hotties, the puddles of sauce on the tiled floor. I feel hyper-alert, but it should level off shortly into a sense of pleasantly heightened awareness.

  Somebody's left today's Mega-Times on a chair beside me and I leaf through it, conscious of the Roundlock rubbing uncomfortably against my waist. A news item on page two about a body dump discovery catches my interest. Reading between Dredd's typically terse statements to the press, it looks like the victims were all tortured before being buried beneath a block development for some time. The story sets alarm bells ringing in my head that I know is more than just the zizz talking, and Dredd's vague comment at the end about following up "significant leads" makes me ponder. I tear the article out and stuff it in my pocket.

  The scarred, hulking visage that is Cavell appears at the door and nods. I finish the synthi-caf with a gulp, then join him, the meathead already striding away before I'm out the door. Conversation has never been Cavell's strong point, and the welcome silence between us as we catch the zoom over the docks gives me more time to mentally prepare. We arrive at our destination and I follow the big lunk through the maze of warehouses, his long coat flapping ahead of me. The wind brings with it the smell of the Black Atlantic: a harsh, eye-watering stink of pollutants. In the distance I can hear the cries of dog-vultures, probably wheeling above the sluggish waves, searching for carrion, but otherwise it is unnaturally quiet. The roar of the city seems a very long way away.

  I try to imagine the forces of Justice Department moving in the shadows, surrounding the area, getting into position. It gives me a small amount of comfort to envisage that our movements are being tracked by infra-red binox and rifle sights, that somewhere out in the darkness my back-up is waiting to pounce. My hand slides inside my jacket pocket and brushes against the snubnose. I hope that events don't spiral so out of control that I have to blow my cover too soon.

  Cavell halts at an anonymous door and raps on it four times as I check my watch: 1:45 am. The door opens and we slip inside to be met by the sight of the rest of the gang thumbing shells into shotguns. On the other side of the warehouse stands an empty truck, waiting to be loaded with the merchandise.

  "Guess we're all here," Brett says by way of greeting, snapping shut the breech on one of the weapons and throwing it to Cavell, who silently hides it within his coat.

  "You expecting trouble?" I ask, nodding towards the ordnance. Hogg is strapping a wicked-looking blade to her thigh.

  "They ain't gonna be welcoming us with candy and flowers," Brett remarks, adjusting the holsters under each arm. "Pays to have a little insurance."

  With the amount of killware on display here, I realise that if it all goes down then I'm going to be in the middle of a small war. Even with several helmets standing over me like guardian angels, they're not going to be able to pull my fat out of the fire before both factions start swapping lead. I'm walking into a highly volatile situation, and if they get any whiff of the fact that I've set them up, then I'm going to have a dozen or so gangbangers looking to tear my lungs out and eat 'em. I've gotta hope these guys mean business and don't dick the Danskys around too much. With slimeballs from Banana City, you can never be too sure.

  "OK, we set?" Brett asks the room, picking up a briefcase. Most of them are wearing long coats similar to Cavell's to hide the shotguns hanging at their sides. "From here on, let me do the talking. That includes you, Jonny. No threatening gestures, no throwdowns unless necessary. Don't underestimate these dirtwads, they'll slice your drokking throat as
easily as shaking hands with you. Clear?"

  Mauser, Strodem and Hogg nod, and Cavell remains impassive, like a mechanoid awaiting instructions.

  Brett leads the way through the darkened alleys to the docks until we're overlooking the black expanse of the sea. The smell off the water is ripe with decades of decay and I struggle not to cough as it gets into my mouth. I keep my lips tightly sealed and breathe through my nose.

  "Martinez..." Brett mutters testily, looking at his watch. I check mine and see it's just after two. I can sense the Danskys' anxiety; they obviously want this over as quickly as possible.

  A light flares in the shadows to our right and we turn as one and see Martinez emerging from a doorway, casually smoking a cigarillo. He looks like he's out for nothing more than a midnight stroll, wearing the same white suit that I last saw him in. He saunters towards us as if he's deliberately toying with the brothers' nerves. I can detect again that subtle shift in power. Martinez performs as if he's holding all the ace cards.

  "Señors," he says with an insincere smile, blowing smoke out the side of his mouth. "Glad you could make it."

  "Martinez," Brett acknowledges, visibly trying to control his temper. "So, the deal still on?"

  "Si, my people are here," he replies, tapping ash onto the ground. "But there has been a slight change of plan."

  "What?" Jonny growls.

  "Nothing serious, I assure you, señors, but my contacts, they have their own protection to think of. They would prefer that the deal went ahead on the boat."

  "Wait, wait," Brett says. "You mean we make the exchange out at drokking sea?"

  Martinez nods. "It is anchored just a couple of miles outside Mega-City docks." He gestures towards the water and the darkness beyond. "They have a small craft that will take you there, and they will help you offload the merchandise once the deal is complete. But they want to keep the negotiations on the ship."

  "Why?" Brett demands.

  "They are reluctant to enter Mega-City One, as you would expect. But they would also prefer it if the two parties met on ground where there is little opportunity for... unforeseen circumstances."

  My mind is reeling. This is bad. My back-up is going to be snafued out in the middle of the drokking Black Atlantic, and I can only hope that Hendry is picking this up and making some fast changes, otherwise I'm on my own and up to my neck in it. My zizz-induced confidence gets the better of me and before I know it I'm saying: "This is bullshit. Why the drokk should we trust these greasers?"

  "Trager," Brett shoots me a look. "Keep your damn mouth shut."

  "But we'll be right where they want us," I protest, playing for time.

  "Trager, make another noise," Brett hisses, "and I'll put a cap in you myself."

  I shut up and in the momentary silence that descends we can hear the puttering of an outboard motor approaching. A small skimmer slides out of the night, lights swinging through the mist hanging above the water's surface, and comes to a stop parallel to the sea wall by a short set of steps. Nobody disembarks from it.

  "My clients are waiting, señors," Martinez says. "It is time to decide whether you want to do business or not."

  The brothers exchange a glance that suggests they are seriously not happy with this, and the tension in the air crackles. I try surreptitiously to look around me, checking to see if I can catch even the smallest glimpse of the reinforcements that are waiting just around the corner, but there's no sign. I feel my heart beating harder against my ribs as a low-level, drug-infused fear begins to take hold.

  "OK," Brett says at last. "Let's do it. But I wanna tell you, Martinez, this better be the one and only surprise of the evening, otherwise your dago ass is gonna be going swimming. You hear me?"

  The geek grins that nauseating crescent moon of yellow teeth and nods. "But of course, Señor Dansky. Everything will go smoothly, I assure you." He gestures for us to follow him down the steps and onto the skimmer.

  Brett looks at each of us in turn with a glare that says "First sign of trouble, kill 'em all," then heads after Martinez, his brother joining him. We each take our turns to board the vessel, which is about the same size as a Justice Department patrol boat. Despite the arc lights positioned above the cabin, the darkness ensures that I can't get a good look at our two Banana City hosts: one guy is standing beside the wheel, waiting until we're all aboard before cranking the engine and turning the vessel back out to sea, while the other lounges against the side, a rifle slung over his shoulder. Martinez says something in Spanish to him, sharing a joke it seems, then tells us that it will not take more than five minutes to reach the ship. The brothers are staring the rifle-guy out, trying to intimidate him, but it's not working. From what I can see of his face in the moonlight, he just smiles back, rocking with the motion of the boat.

  With the flat, black expanse of water all around us, I start to feel alone and trapped. It's easy to see why the dealers chose to meet the Danskys out here, there's nowhere to run to, nowhere to make a stand. You can't even swim for it as very few have fallen into the Black Atlantic and survived. The thick soup of chemicals and pollutants is so strong that if you swallowed a mouthful you'd be in intensive care for days, your stomach pumped dry. I realise that if we don't get back on this boat after the transaction is finished, then none of us are getting out of here alive.

  True to Martinez's word, the ship hovers into view in no time at all. The large, sleek yacht is anchored out in the ocean, and I can see shadowy figures moving on its deck. As the boat sidles up against the hull, a rope ladder is thrown down to meet us. The pilot kills the engine and the skimmer bobs on the waves, rifle-guy crossing to portside and beckoning us to climb. The Danskys hesitate.

  "Go, señors," Martinez urges.

  Cautiously, we ascend. As we clamber over the edge, we find ourselves staring down the barrels of a dozen guns. On the deck, a semi-circle of Banana City gangbangers surrounds us, automatic weapons pointed in our direction. They're armed to the max. The brothers look around hopelessly, as if trying to find a way out, but there's nowhere to go. The greaseballs say nothing, and it strikes me that if they wanted us dead, they wouldn't be taking their time about it. I get the feeling they're waiting for an order, or just keeping us under guard. Either way, it doesn't smell like a double-cross.

  "Please excuse my friends," Martinez says behind us, huffing and puffing as he throws himself over the side and onto the ship. "They just like to be extra careful."

  "I get nervous in the face of so much killware," Brett says, whipping a pistol from his holster and levelling it at Martinez. "And when I get nervous, I get an itchy trigger finger. You might want to tell 'em to lower their cannons before it becomes a bulletfest."

  "Please, Señor Dansky," Martinez says. "Let's not make this unpleasant."

  "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't unload into your treacherous drokking face, you piece of shit-"

  "Because Enrique has brought an exceptional offer your way," says a voice from behind the Banana City group, and they part to allow a slim, dark woman clad in combat fatigues to walk through to the front. Her ebony hair is pulled back into a severe ponytail, revealing a birdlike, coffee-coloured face. "I trust him implicitly, and so should you."

  "Talón," Brett acknowledges.

  "Hello again, señor." She nods once. "Now, I believe we are here to do business and not kill each other?" The woman makes a waving gesture and says something in Spanish. The gangbangers slowly drop their guns, though from the murderous glints in their eyes, only reluctantly. "I'm sorry we are not more welcoming, but we make no exceptions. You can trust no one these days."

  Brett sheathes his gun and shakes hands with her. "You got that right."

  "We should not delay," Talón says, looking uncomfortable. "Evading the forces of law and order is becoming increasingly difficult. I think we should conclude our deal as soon as possible."

  "Suits me."

  "You have the money?"

  Brett taps the briefcase. "Right her
e. Forty thousand in untraceable paycards, as agreed. And the merchandise?"

  "But of course." Talón barks an instruction to a couple of lackeys and they disappear into the hold. Minutes later, they return struggling with a crate between them, dropping it down in front of the brothers. "There are another three like this," she says as the Danskys peer into the crate, pulling out zip guns and random weapon parts. "I trust you are satisfied?"

  "All looks good to me," Jonny murmurs.

  "Did I not say you would be happy?" Martinez beams, but everybody seems to ignore him.

  This is it, Hendry, I'm thinking. Now, now, now. Can't take them all by myself, man...

  Brett hands the briefcase to Talón. "You'll help us get this stuff ashore?" he asks.

  "I have another two skimmers at your disposal," she replies, then pauses as another of her lieutenants whispers in her ear. He hands her a small package, wrapped in cloth. "Ah, yes." Talón gives Brett a dazzling smile. "We also have this for you. I understand you have a buyer who is interested in such antiquity?" She passes the bundle over to Brett, whose face has gone pale and takes the package gingerly as if he was holding a grenade. "It will cost you a further five thousand-"

  Then the whole world turns white.

  For a moment, we're frozen, transfixed in the hard light, too stunned to move. Darkness is banished in a heartbeat, as if daybreak has suddenly exploded over the ship. But when I look up, I see a looming shadow moving in the sky, followed a fraction of a second later by the amplified voice coming from it.

  "Justice Department! Nobody move!"

  The H-wagon swoops in low to hover above the yacht, its engine roaring in our ears, spotlights trapping us in their glare. The sea churns in the downward blast of its jets and sprays filthy water in our faces, and after a moment of utter incomprehension, it serves to break the spell and Talón and her men are moving and shouting, looking for somewhere to hide. They're like roaches, scuttling into every crack and crevice, trying to find safety.