Down and Out

by Matthew Smith

  They met few block residents, and those they did encounter just stared at them in silent curiosity. Any one of the cits could easily raise the alarm and make life a whole lot more difficult, but they seemed cowed, submissive. They had no more love for the gangs than they did Justice Department; there were no sides, no loyalties, just fear and isolation.

  “The Murder Corps work for Winstanley?” he asked as they limped on.

  “No, he just lets them operate,” Maze answered. “They probably kick back a tribute to him outta respect, but they ain’t his soldiers. Too damn batshit crazy to be relied upon. They’re always squabblin’ amongst themselves anyhow, fightin’ over who gets to be top dog. That’s when they ain’t kickin’ off with the Furies across the way. Big juves, basically.”

  “Who does he have, then?”

  “He’s got his own men. You see ’em comin’ down in the el. Scary dudes you know you don’t wanna mess with. The MC gives ’em a wide berth; they know whose block it is really.”

  Dredd grunted in response, plainly unhappy with that last remark. That he should be forced to negotiate with the creep at the top when he should be locking him away in a cube grated, there was no question of that. The order of the universe had been upended: here he was, diminished, trying to skulk off lawless territory while he still had breath in his body. He wondered if his thoughts kept returning to Rico because his clone-brother’s fall from grace was no more shameful than Dredd’s own failure today—failing the badge, failing as a Judge, letting the perps get the upper hand. His authority had been undermined, his ability called into question; if he was facing a challenge like this in his second year, did he have what it took to last another five? Ten? Few helmets made it to retirement age. All of them, no matter what their lineage, were just one random trigger-pull away from a trip to Resyk. Days like today could always be just around the corner, and how you handled them was the mark of a good officer. Dredd, as far as he was concerned, had come up wanting.

  He’d never been assailed by doubts before—he’d been pure in his belief, in his devotion to the law, ever since he’d been pulled from a birthing tank—but street-experience brought with it the hard truth of his limitations, something for which the Academy perhaps hadn’t fully prepared him. Was he always going to be striving for that perfection Fargo craved? Was it unrealistic to try to achieve it? He didn’t think so; any Judge should have high standards.

  Black thoughts circled his head, surfacing no matter how hard he tried to tamp them down. He was starting to ache from the strain of remaining composed.

  “Here we go,” he heard Maze murmur as they came to a corner. They both peered round and saw the nondescript, unguarded doors of the service el at the end of a short passageway. It took Dredd a moment to discern what was wrong with the picture: the brushed-steel surround was free of graffiti, possibly the only part of McCluskey untouched by neglect, and seemingly in working order. A vid-camera was perched above the threshold—that it hadn’t been ripped from its housing was again unusual.

  “Remember,” she whispered. “I’ll do the talking. Pass me your rifles.”

  She walked ahead, pulling Dredd along with her rather than supporting him. The camera jerked into life before they reached them, and started tracking their progress. She looked up into its unblinking eye and waved, then pressed a button on an intercom set into the wall.

  “What do you want, Maze?” a male voice crackled.

  “Kinda thought that was obvious,” she answered, yanking the Judge into the camera’s field of vision.

  “If that’s the lawboy the MC are looking for, give him to them. We ain’t got no use for him.”

  “You don’t figure havin’ a jaybird as a hostage could be useful? Justice Central protects their own—you’d be lookin’ at all sortsa leverage.”

  “We’d be lookin’ at all sortsa heat, too. The last thing we need is the full weight of the five-oh on our doorstep if we try to dangle a ransom in front of them.”

  “An’ what do you think’ll happen if the MC kill him? They’ll blitz Strickland till there’s no-one left outside a cube.”

  There was silence for a moment. Maze raised an eyebrow at Dredd but said nothing. “He your prisoner or somethin’?” the voice asked finally.

  “The kid’s drokked. Taken a bullet, broke some bones, lost a fair amount of blood. He’s barely conscious. He don’t get some meds into him, he ain’t gonna make it.”

  “Then he’s shit outta luck. Drop him off at Saint Jude’s, you’re that concerned about him. We ain’t got the facilities—”

  “Don’t give me that. I know you got the doc up there. You got antibiotics, splints, bandages. He’s worth more alive.”

  “What’s your angle in this, Maze? Why do you care so much about one bluejay?”

  “’San opportunity. Way I see it, he’s fallen in our laps, and it’d be a waste to hand him over to the MC. This way, we can all come outta this smilin’.”

  “He cut you a deal, you get him outta here alive?”

  “He’s a rookie that’s taken a beatin’. He can’t offer me shit. But we can sure as hell exploit what we got.”

  Another pause. “Nah. It’s too risky lettin’ a jay up here—”

  “Too bad. Maybe Gilpig can make a better offer.”

  “Gilpig?” It was a different voice this time; older, less wiseguy. Not a Mega-City accent. “How’s he involved?”

  “Who do you think’s frontin’ the Furies and the MC to track the badge down? He’s got somethin’ Gilpig wants.”

  “What?”

  Maze didn’t reply, just shot a laconic look at the camera. It was enough.

  “All right. We’re sending the el down. Put the guns on the floor and don’t move.”

  She complied, and they stood listening to the rumbling coming down the lift shaft. “We’re in,” she whispered.

  12.59 pm

  “CLARENCE? IT’S DAVIDSON. Sorry to pull you out of the meeting... Yeah, I’m sure. No, it’s just we might have a situation, and I know you’ve got a vested interest. Well, it’s Dredd—we’ve lost contact.

  “Over an hour now. Last reported trace was on the Strickland estate, Sector Nine. Collins radioed in, said Dredd had comms problems. My operative says both were instructed to return to the Grand Hall—neither has yet done so.

  “Could well be... If it were anyone else, maybe, but after what happened with the other clone... Yes, we’ve got a citywide alert to notify us of any sightings. Indeed. Troubling.

  “I spoke to Morgan in Special Tactics. He recommended sending a unit into Strickland. Well, it’s high poverty, high crime, strong gang element... bit of a tinderbox at the best of times. But something has to be done... Well, quite, considering the bloodline. Yes, of course, I’ll be right over.

  “Yes, Chief Judge. I’ll tell Morgan you gave the green light.”

  Six

  13.03 pm

  “JOVIS, WHAT’S KEEPING him together?”

  “Sheer willpower, I think. That, an’ an absolute refusal to accept when he’s beat. ’Slike one of those dinosaurs that take so long to die ’cause their brain has to catch up with the rest o’ the body.”

  “Yeah, but he’s just a kid... Anyway, what do you know about dinosaurs, Maze?”

  “My mom told me all about the old national park, back before the war. Brontosauruses were her favourite. Used to make me cry when she told me they all escaped.”

  “You always were a damned weird juve. Don’t surprise me that your folks skipped town an’ left you behind.”

  “That’s enough, Jeperson.”

  Dredd could hear them talking through the glasseen case, see them looking his way. There were four of them—Maze; a well-dressed, authoritative figure he took to be Winstanley; the melon-headed lackey Jeperson; and another subordinate, a woman, who’d operated the auto-doc. When he’d been told that they had a doctor up here that could patch him up, he’d assumed it to be a trained medic—he hadn’t expected what looked to be a
modded speedheal chamber, evidently built from purloined Justice Department tech. Either the boss-man had friends on the force passing him components, or there was a thriving black market in Judicial materiel. Either way, it was old stock: a clanking, wheezing affair that wasn’t in much better shape than he was, and wasn’t doing a great job of knitting him together: the broken bones in his right hand were setting imperfectly and the scorched skin was refusing to regenerate. His cuts and bruises were diminishing, and he felt the rib snap back into place, but it wasn’t the complete overhaul that he would’ve had in a Grand Hall med-bay. By the time the thing shuddered to a halt, he still felt like he’d gone ten rounds with a demolition droid. The dizziness hadn’t left him, either; when the woman opened the glasseen lid, he found himself gasping for air.

  “He don’t look cured,” Maze muttered, watching as Dredd fell to his knees and coughed violently. Nobody went to his aid as he spat blood-flecked phlegm onto the floor; they all stepped back as one, as if his injuries were infectious.

  “The machine can’t work miracles,” Winstanley said. “He needs a full course of treatment if he’s to recover, not a quick fix.”

  “Seems to me the machine don’t work at all,” she replied. “How long have you had that thing?”

  “It’s on its last legs,” the female attendant said, stepping around the prone Dredd to shut it down. “The electromagnetic coils have corroded. You’ll find it’s only capable of making the most superficial of repairs over time.”

  “Time to shop for a new one, then,” Winstanley remarked jovially, rocking back on his heels with his hands in his pockets. “I’m sure my man could accommodate me.”

  “What you’re admitting to... is criminal,” Dredd snarled, wiping his mouth with the back of his gauntlet. He rose, unsteadily. “You’re receiving stolen goods.”

  The older man remained unfazed, the smile fixed on his face. “And you’re now party to using said stolen goods, Judge. How are you feeling, by the way. Strength returned? You did look at death’s door when Maze brought you up, and I gave you safe harbour.”

  “He still looks like shit with sprinkles on,” Maze said.

  Winstanley laughed. “True. I did say it was only the most cursory of treatments. But the odds of him surviving the next twelve hours are, I believe, now significantly better. The blood-loss has at least stopped.”

  “Don’t expect any gratitude,” Dredd responded.

  “I wouldn’t dream of it. My experience of Justice Department is not one of politeness and appreciation.”

  “Your accent—you’re from Brit-Cit.”

  The older man nodded. “Sought a future across the ocean in 2069. Big-city life appealed.”

  “In other words, the heat was closing in on you, and you skipped town. What made you end up in this cesspool of a sector?”

  “Poor career choices, I’m not ashamed to admit. But what’s the saying? ‘It’s better to rule in hell than serve in heaven’? Some kingdoms just aren’t blessed by their looks.”

  “Something to be said for being at the top of the dungpile,” Dredd replied, taking a step forward, his legs still feeling wobbly. Jeperson bristled, preparing to step between the Judge and his boss, but Winstanley didn’t seem perturbed in the slightest. They were in a kind of makeshift lab/workroom. Beyond the door, Dredd could see living quarters, where other goons were shifting merch or cleaning guns. “I figure you must’ve been here long enough to be itching to escape the slums, to take your business up a level. Let me guess: you control the drugs and insurance rackets for at least the four-block area. Too much competition to be solely running crime in Strickland. But you need an edge, an advantage—something that’s gonna finally let you break out, if you ever want to progress beyond lord of the dump.”

  Winstanley raised his eyebrows. “Eloquent and perceptive, Judge. You’ve got quite the serious head on those young shoulders. I rather think it must’ve been something of a tough call to have given yourself over to me as your one chance of getting out of here alive.” He cast an amused eye towards Maze. “I knew Maze here couldn’t have been instrumental in apprehending you; she’s more than likely helping you in exchange for her own rewards. But still, walking willingly into the lion’s den, not knowing what awaited you... you must’ve felt you had no options left. That your one chance out of here other than in a bodybag was to make a deal with the Devil.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself,” Dredd grumbled.

  “Oh, yeah? I haven’t thought twice about putting a bullet in a bluejay’s heart in the past,” Jeperson snarled. His bravado did little to challenge Dredd’s first impression of him as a small-time oaf. “You’re lucky you weren’t whacked on the spot.”

  “Indeed,” Winstanley said. “The forces of law and order aren’t traditionally very popular around here.”

  “Whoa, whoa,” Maze interjected hurriedly. “Thought it was agreed he was an asset. Justice Central will pay more for a live cop.”

  “Justice Central won’t negotiate at all,” Winstanley replied. “They’ll string us along till they secure our location and set a drone on us. Or drop a nuke on the whole district.”

  “They’d do that?”

  “Any excuse to raze Strickland to the ground.”

  “They’d sacrifice one of their own?”

  “Like I said, they won’t give an inch—and he knows that.” Winstanley jerked a thumb at Dredd. “Juves like him, they’re indoctrinated into the Department, brainwashed into giving their lives to the law. They know no single individual is greater than the system, and will walk into the fire to protect it.”

  “But he’s valuable leverage, a bargaining chip. Why put him in the auto-doc if he’s that disposable?”

  “I didn’t say I didn’t want him around—at least for the next hour or so. We do have an opportunity before us, one we can use to our advantage.” Winstanley addressed Dredd. “You’re right, Judge. I want out of this...” He cast around, searching for the word. His quarters were comfortable and functional, but Dredd guessed the Brit wanted the trappings associated with status. “...quagmire,” he said finally. “And you have brought the means to do so.” He slid one hand out of his pocket and held up the flashdrive. Dredd must’ve been so out of it when he and Maze had arrived that he hadn’t even been aware it had been removed from his belt pouch. She must’ve told them it was there; he guessed it went a long way to stopping Jeperson putting a bullet in him. “Do you know what’s on it?”

  “Enlighten me.”

  Winstanley chuckled. “Marcie?”

  He tossed it to the engineer, who blithely caught it one-handed, plugged it into a nearby computer terminal and hit a few keys. A string of numbers scrolled past on the black screen. Dredd cast an eye at them: they looked like dates, times and codes.

  “Recognise them?” the older man said.

  “Some kind of delivery schedule,” the Judge murmured, the stream of figures flickering against his visor. One he picked out among the many—today’s date, June 16th, alongside the time 13:37.

  “That’s exactly what it is,” Marcie answered, leaning against the monitor, tapping the glass with a finger. “Shipment times. The codes denote the cargo and the transport ID.”

  “Shipments from where?” Dredd asked.

  “The Cursed Earth. Automated container craft bringing in munce stock, treemeat, synthi-derivatives from the outlying farms. There’s no crew, just an A.I. pilot taking each ship on a round trip; deliver to the city, then the flight-path is programmed for the next destination. They’re in constant motion, arriving every six hours or thereabouts.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “Marcie’s my on-staff tek expert,” Winstanley said. “I... recruited her from Eastside U. I wrote off her gambling debts in exchange for her coming to work for me. She’s digitised my entire client base.”

  The woman smiled, but looked away when she saw Dredd studying her.

  “But we’re not just talking solely a delivery schedule, are w
e?” continued the crime lord.

  “No,” Marcie replied, tapping a key so the numbers froze. “The memory stick seems to contain a program that allows you to hack into any given transporter and remote-access its directives. You can control it, fly it to wherever you want, even set it to self-detonate, should you wish. Essentially a massive back-door security lapse in the A.I. that whoever wrote the program must’ve been aware of.”

  “Does it work?” Dredd asked.

  “We haven’t yet put it to the test,” Winstanley responded. “All in good time. Right now, though, I’m more curious as to how you acquired it. Because I seem to recall the name Bertram Gilpig being mentioned.”

  “Who is he?”

  “I’m surprised you haven’t encountered him before. Maybe they don’t let you baby Judges rub shoulders with the great and the good. He’s a perennial thorn in my side, let me tell you.” Winstanley started to pace, hands behind his back. “Gilpig’s a councillor; he’s on the zoning committee for Meg South West. Planning, construction contracts, he’s got his greedy fingers in all of it, as well as the inevitable kickbacks. He’s been pushing for regeneration of Strickland and the surrounding areas for years.”

  Dredd was studiedly ignorant of city politics; he saw it as what those at the top occupied themselves with while he got on with what he did best: breaking heads on the street. Of course, there was no shortage of criminals in the corridors of power either, and they would eventually cross his path when necessary—but that was his sole experience of politicians and their ilk. It tended to colour your opinion somewhat. “What’s stopped him?”

  “The displacement problem. Too many cits with nowhere to go if they rolled in the demolition droids. As much as I’d imagine Grand Hall would like to see this place sealed in rockcrete and forget it ever existed, they haven’t got room for all the poor dinks that make it their home. City’s at capacity as it is; it’s more convenient to keep them living in squalor, where they don’t have to worry about them.”