Down and Out

by Matthew Smith

  “Hm.”

  “I was going to send in a nearby unit to assist, as per. Given the flag, I thought you should be informed.”

  Davidson straightened and nodded. “I’ll direct it up the chain of command. Get a helmet out to his location and keep me updated of his status.”

  “Sir.” Oakland tapped her headset, regarding the old man as he hobbled off slowly down one of the aisles. The name Dredd meant nothing to her; she had no idea why the powers-that-be were so interested in his whereabouts or tracking his communications. But she did hear—surprisingly clearly, given the background chatter—Davidson mutter “Damn clones” before he disappeared from sight, though the significance was lost on her. She shook her head.

  “All units in the vicinity of Sector 9, we have a possible Code 99 Red, Strickland estate,” she stated into her mic. “Back-up required, please acknowledge...”

  11.05 am

  THE PAIN BROUGHT him round, the fringes of it gnawing at him until it forced him to surface into consciousness. It took several seconds to orientate himself, vestiges of dream-figures dissipating; he was aware he’d heard voices, that someone had even spoken directly to him, but the details were hazy, and it was now all becoming mixed up in one big ball of hurt. The more his senses returned, the louder his nerve-endings screamed: every second seemed to bring a fresh report from some corner of his body demanding attention. He’d flopped onto his back, but as he tried to galvanise his legs to get him at least halfway upright, his strength deserted him. His head felt woozy, and he heard his heart thrumming in his chest, veins pulsing weakly: he’d lost a lot of blood, he knew that.

  Recall dawned in pieces—Calhoun, his Lawgiver. He glanced over at the charred remnants of his attacker, then realised he was still holding his boot knife in his left hand. He studied it, the blade dark and slick, then slotted it, trembling, back into its sheath, put an elbow under himself and manoeuvred into a sitting position. The air rushed out of him, and he thought for a second he was going to black out.

  Control, he told himself. Control the pain. Don’t submit to it. It’s secondary to my duty. It’s just another obstacle to overcome, an enemy to neutralise.

  He took stock: his right hand was unresponsive, the bones evidently fractured; the skin of his torso was scorched from his gun exploding, and the pain in his side told him at least one broken rib; his head pounded and his jaw was swollen, most likely a shattered cheekbone too (an injury from last year that hadn’t set properly; he wasn’t surprised to find that the bone there had splintered again). He needed med-assistance, and quickly. He tried to speak, and an ache spread across his face, the muscles frozen; he gave up on it, remembering that Calhoun had destroyed his helmet-comm anyway.

  He couldn’t physically call for help, but he could signal Justice Central from his bike. The Lawmaster was undamaged—he just had to get to it.

  Wavering, he planted a foot firmly beneath him and, through force of will, levered himself upright and began to hobble towards his vehicle, his right ankle protesting every time he put weight on it. There didn’t seem to be any part of him that wasn’t aching, and nausea was starting to claw at his throat. The head injuries he’d sustained interfered with his vision, the bike blurring as he got closer. He began to feel vulnerable, too, a sensation he wasn’t at all familiar with. Isolated.

  He considered programming the bike computer to take him back to Grand Hall—even if he requested help, he was in no fit shape to fend off any attacks should the locals try their luck in the interim. Better to pass out over the handlebars and be ferried to safety. He crossed the last couple of feet and fell against his Lawmaster, steadying himself by gripping the seat with his one good hand; letting it prop him up, he reached across and pressed the emergency button. Nothing. It had powered down to protect itself from misuse, wouldn’t boot up without the correct voice-activation. He tried to speak again, a viscous growl emerging in place of any identifiable words.

  “This unit has been coded only to be operated by its designated user,” the bike’s onboard comp warned. “Step away or necessary force will be applied.”

  “Bike,” he muttered, the effort exhausting. “Respond.”

  “Judge Dredd? Please verify identification.”

  “I... need help.”

  It didn’t answer for a second, then said, “Judge Dredd, this unit has detected a weapons-lock signal within close range.”

  “...What?” He looked up, scanning the buildings.

  The missile streaked out of a fifth floor window of Meyer; Dredd just had time to see the stream of its wake twist in the air before it struck the front of the Lawmaster. The bike flipped as it detonated, throwing the lawman back—he grunted in pain, landing on his already lacerated side. It exploded a second time as the fuel tanks caught, and Dredd was forced to roll to escape the heat of the blazing vehicle. His lungs sucked in dry, hot air and he coughed until he vomited, specks of blood visible in the thin gruel that hung from his lips. He spat, clearing his mouth.

  Then came the rattle of gunfire; he looked over his shoulder and saw a line of impacts splintering the sked and closing on him. He scrambled to his feet and dived behind the limo just as the shooter found his aim. Bullets rattled against the bodywork and blew out the windows. Keeping low, he tugged open the passenger door and hurled himself across the seats, relieved to see the key still in the ignition where Calhoun had left it; he twisted it and the engine rumbled into life. Twisting himself around, grimacing as shards of glass dug into his flesh, he stomped on the accelerator, thrust the gearstick into drive and the car lurched forward. Shells continued to spang off the hood, and the windscreen cobwebbed; he slid down as low as possible in the seat, one hand on the wheel, the limo picking up speed as he drove blind. He knew he wasn’t going to make it very far, but at least it could offer some cover as he fled the line of fire.

  Inevitably, a round burst a rear tyre and the car lurched, Dredd struggling to keep it steady. The air was filled with the shriek of grinding metal as the wheel rim screeched on the sked, slowing the limo’s progress. Another tyre exploded and it started to swerve; the Judge took his foot off the gas to control it, but the shredded rubber snagged on the kerb and it tipped as it fishtailed. Dredd braced himself as best he could as the vehicle rolled onto its roof, spinning once on the spot before coming to a standstill. Pushing aside the dizziness, he scrambled through an open window, shots continuing to pockmark the bodywork and chassis; when he saw one ricochet off the exposed fuel line, he knew he had to make some distance. He steeled himself, then pushed away from the shelter of the limo and limped quickly towards the shadowy entrance of a subterranean car park. Bullets whined over his head and clipped the walls either side of him, one passing through his side, just under the ribcage; he grunted, stumbled and fell, sliding the last few metres down the shallow incline into the underground space.

  He was swallowed up by the darkness and oppressive stillness, the rattle of gunfire sounding far away. Eventually, the shooting ceased. Here, in this cool, tenebrous enclosure, Dredd’s last, pain-wracked thought was that this was must be how it felt to be buried alive.

  11.10 am

  “WELL?”

  “Nothing. It’s gone.”

  “Jovus drokk. You looked everywhere?”

  “We looked where you told us it was. We had a nose round inside, too, but the car’s a mess, ain’t nothing still in one piece.”

  “Yeah, and whose fault is that? Your men had carried on shooting, the whole thing would’ve gone up.”

  “Wouldn’t have made no difference. Data-stick was gone anyway.”

  “But we didn’t know that. For all we knew the badge hadn’t found it. If the fuel tank had blew and it was still in the trunk, all this would have been for nothing.”

  “Well. You wanted the bluejay dead.”

  “Something else, I might add, that you have significantly failed to deliver on. You’re telling me there’s no sign?”

  “Think he made it into the McCl
uskey car pool. It’s a warren down there, all sortsa crawlspaces and hidey-holes he could lose himself in. Dark, too. We found some blood traces, reckon he took a bullet, but didn’t lead nowhere. Gonna need a good search, an’ plenty of feet on the ground. Plus there’s the, y’know, the Murder Corps to contend with.”

  “Will they play ball?”

  “If’n they get a cut, sure. Ain’t no fans of us Furies, but throw ’em a percentage an’ they’ll let us on their turf.”

  “Jovus... Look, the Judge obviously has the zipdrive. Find him and get it back. Spread the word—first musclehead that gets me my property back is on a bonus. Call it a five-kay finder’s fee; that’s how important this is to me.”

  “That’ll motivate the troops, certainly.”

  “It better. Christ, what a drokk-up. I haven’t got a ride back now, either. I don’t want to be stuck here while you deal with the cop—can one of your boys give me a lift back up-sector?”

  “Don’t know if that’s a good idea right now, Mr Gilpig. We’ve got company.”

  “What? What can you see? Rawlings, you there?”

  “Yeah, yeah, keep it down. Badge on the approach—probably checking out our buddy’s last known whereabouts.”

  “Oh, stomm. The estate will be crawling in no time—”

  “Cool your boots, boss-man. I got an idea that might buy us some time.”

  “Rawlings?”

  “Gotta go. Stay outta sight, we’ll handle this. It’ll mean double on the advance, though.”

  “Whatever it takes.”

  11.25 am

  OAKLAND TOOK THE call. “This is Control, go ahead.”

  “Collins on Strickland, responding to that possible Code 99 Red. That’s, uh, a negative. Made contact with Dredd—he’s having comm problems, is all. Kept cutting out on him.”

  “Understood.” She checked the transponder signal on her screen; it matched Collins, all right. “Tell him to return to Central—that’ll need to be rectified immediately.”

  “Wilco. We’ll both head back now.”

  She date-stamped the transcript and forwarded it for Davidson’s attention, red flag and all. Let them know their prodigal son whatever-the-hell-he-was was alive and well.

  11.26 am

  RAWLINGS WAVED THE gun barrel slowly between Collins’ eyes as he finished speaking into his mic, then he snatched the Judge’s helmet away and tossed it in a corner. The badge eyed him and the others in the room nervously, sweat beading his face. Strapped to the chair, missing one hand—severed to aid co-operation—he looked helpless, stripped of all authority. Take away the uniforms and their daysticks and they were all just scared little runts, Rawlings thought, beatin’ on the folk beneath them.

  “Bye-bye, Mr Bluejay,” he said, putting the gun to Collins’ forehead and pulling the trigger. “Fly away home.”

  He turned to his Furies. “Dispose of that. Then find me the other one. Now.”

  Four

  11.47 am

  THE STREETS OF Eminence were alive with creeps. Joe squeezed his trigger as he advanced, picking his targets carefully, his Academy-trained brain forcing itself to stay calm, controlled. It was all too easy to panic when faced with multiple hostiles, to set the Lawgiver to rapid fire and spray; it was the mark of a badge on top of the situation that every bullet was economically and precisely spent. Buckshot blasts punched holes in the warehouse wall behind him, kicked up the dirt at his feet, but he didn’t flinch or falter. He sighted on the nearest mutie that was trying to get a bead on him and drilled an SE round between his eyes—one set, at least—before assessing the next threat.

  He glanced over at Rico, several feet ahead of him on the other side of the street, and knew he was guided by the same by-the-book tactical thinking. They were in synch, a well-oiled, two-headed justice-dispensing weapon; few were their match when it came to combat, whether in classroom simulations or real-world exercises like this Hotdog Run. They were in their element: the odds against them, the last twelve years of schooling finally put to the test. Beyond the Academy walls—indeed, beyond the city—their lives were at risk. It was as much a fight for survival as a performance review. But the Judges they’d been shaped to be were now emerging, born in fire. This town was the kiln that would make them.

  They’d all heard the rumours, the locker-room scuttlebutt, about the high failure rate of Hot Dog Runs. Deaths were rare, but many cadets were put back a year or put through the process again or—worst-case scenario—dismissed from the Academy entirely. Joe and Rico never believed that would be an option: too much was at stake, there was a bloodline to honour. It was unthinkable that they wouldn’t be Judges; it was in their DNA. They’d rather take a fatal bullet than return to the metropolis in disgrace.

  But that wasn’t going to happen.

  Their self-assurance probably rankled amongst their peers, but to the Dredd clones it was immaterial: these kind of personal feelings were an irrelevance, anyway.

  Still, clockwork precision was required; they weren’t out of the woods yet. Faulder had been taken out, bringing the scam to an end, but the gun runners didn’t care about details. Joe watched Rico duck beneath the swing of a homemade mace and jammed his gun barrel under the mutant’s chin, his round detonating the creep’s skull. It was perfectly fluid, almost effortless, and a move he could’ve anticipated as if it was happening to him. They were bonded on a cellular level, connected to a far greater degree than any regular sibling; but neither felt fear for the other. He knew that his twin was up to the challenge.

  The bodies were piling up, Eminence’s main drag turned into a charnel pit. None of them—Joe, Rico, Gibson—were offering their foes much of a chance of surrender. Termination was what was required now, to show the townsfolk that the perps had been judged, that the law was as resolute out here as it was back in the Big Meg. By the time the shooting tailed to a halt, nearly two dozen corpses littered the ground, and hazy smoke drifted across the scene. Joe joined Rico, who had his boot on a struggling mutie’s chest and was training his gun on him, snapping off a headshot.

  “Made good time,” he said.

  Rico turned to face him. For a moment, Joe thought he saw something like disdain etched on his twin’s face; then he realised he was studying his arm. “You’re bleeding,” he remarked.

  Joe looked down and saw shrapnel had carved through his bicep. In the midst of an adrenaline surge, he hadn’t even felt it. Now, the ache was beginning to spread, and the blood was starting to soak the uniform. “Need a med-pack,” he muttered, glancing around. Suddenly the town felt very quiet and empty. His brother was turning away from him and walking up the street, cadavers crunching beneath his feet.

  His arm was aflame. “Rico, help me,” he said. A crimson gauze was curtaining his vision, blurring the sight of his clone.

  “It’s too late, little brother,” Rico said, pausing, turning his head to the side but not looking at him, not moving to assist. “You failed.”

  11.48 am

  DREDD’S EYES SNAPPED open. It took a moment to reorient himself; he adjusted to the gloom and realised he was in a maintenance antechamber, little more than a couple of metres square. It was mostly filled by a large junction box, but had also been used as a walk-in storage cupboard; various items of cleaning equipment were stacked against the wall. He’d used the hose of a deactivated robo-cleaner to tie the door handle shut so it couldn’t be opened from the other side. He’d had enough of his wits about him to realise his attackers may well be looking to finish the job.

  He must’ve passed out; for how long, he didn’t know. The cold rockcrete floor had numbed his legs, and as he tried to shift himself into a more comfortable position, he had to battle a wave of cramp. He hissed as he sat up, massaging feeling back into his limbs, and with that returned attendant aches from all over his body. He was in a bad way, there was no disguising it: weak, feverish, in constant pain. He’d been suffering enough before he’d taken the slug, but now that compounded matters—alth
ough it seemed to have passed through his midriff without striking anything vital, his attempts at patching up the wound using the basic personal med-kit he had on him had been cursory at best. He was no doctor. The sutures would hold, he hoped, but he couldn’t help but be reminded of the poor saps under Mama Carrington’s care and the half-hearted treatment they’d received. The tissue damage was no doubt playing havoc on his system.

  He shook his head to clear it, the dream still vivid. Fever had jumbled some of the details of a firefight on his and Rico’s Hot Dog Run, less than three years before they attained the full eagle. He hadn’t given it much thought since, and wondered why his sickly mind had dredged up that particular memory. There was something to that connectedness the clones shared, and it made him consider whether Rico was in any way aware of his twin’s predicament right now; that out there, across the gulf of space separating the pair, in a prison cell somewhere on Titan, his brother felt a twinge, an intuition, that his blood-family was in trouble. It seemed unlikely, frankly; Dredd wasn’t one to indulge such fancies. Yet... there was a reassurance there, in an unbreakable DNA-bond, despite all that had come between them. If Dredd ever saw his brother again, he would have to ask him, though the chances of him returning from the penal colony were admittedly slim.

  Rico could do nothing for him now, though; he needed to look closer to home, to Justice Central. His absence would be noted eventually, but the question was whether he’d survive long enough for it to make any difference. Time was clearly of the essence, given his state. He’d heard voices beyond the door while he’d stitched his bullet-hole, but they’d quickly moved off, and all appeared silent now. He had to get moving.