Swine Fever

by Andrew Cartmel

  "Pig, put that man down," said Judge Dredd, in the instant before the screen went dead. Blue Streak continued screaming.

  "You can release the longghoul now," said Rootmaster, and the pig let go of Streak who sank to the floor clutching his damaged arm. "If he tries to reach for the controls again, bite his fingers off." Streak stared at the pigs, frightened and uncomprehending. He had no idea what was being said, but he showed no signs of resistance.

  Rootmaster turned triumphantly to face Zandonella and Porkditz, who were still skulking behind the acceleration couches with the brown and white boar guarding them. "Well, little shoat?" demanded Rootmaster. "Well, longghoul witch?"

  "What do you want us to say?" said Porkditz.

  "I want you to congratulate me and my fine brave brethren. The cabal is now in command of this flying turd and we are going to send it crashing into the atom furnace. Our mission will soon be completed. No one can prevent us now."

  "What makes you think you can control this craft?" said Zandonella. "What makes you think you can find this so-called atom furnace?"

  "We don't have to," snorted Rootmaster. "The longghoul has done all the work for us. He has told the mechanical brain of this flying turd where he wants it to go, and unless anyone interferes with it, it shall soar straight to its destination. The longghoul was about to change the orders to the mechanical brain when I sent Ripped-Ear to attack him. Fortunately, Ripped-Ear got to him in time, otherwise the longghoul might have spoiled everything."

  Zandonella cursed inwardly. Despite his rather quaint phraseology, Rootmaster seemed to have a good rudimentary grasp of the control systems on the ship and how they operated. He might have an incomplete understanding of computers and autopilots, but that hadn't stopped him successfully hijacking the craft.

  However, the old boar's understanding was indeed incomplete, thought Zandonella, and that was precisely what could stop him completing his attack on the nuclear facility. This was because the autopilot, left to its own devices, would not only fly them to their programmed destination, but it would also implement a soft landing, bringing the shuttlecraft down gently and safely on a suitable surface. Rootmaster's dreams of destruction were nothing more than a wild fantasy after all. For the first time in hours Zandonella felt fear ebbing away and she began to relax. All she and Porkditz needed to do was sit tight and soon the shuttlecraft would be safely parked at the Aquatomic Fun Pool and Fission Reactor Complex, waiting for the Judges to discover it.

  Rootmaster smirked. "Look at the longghoul witch. Pig excrement wouldn't melt in her mouth. She thinks she knows something I don't."

  "What do you mean?" said Zandonella. The fear was coming back now, in waves.

  "You think I don't have enough knowledge to make this flying turd crash and burn. I could see the relief and happiness in your face, smell it on you. You haven't been a pig long enough to hide your emotions. Your assumptions are wrong. I know that when we are approaching the atom furnace, flying at top speed, I must wait for the last possible moment and then do exactly what the longghoul tried to do." He nodded at Streak who was still lying on the floor, murmuring weakly and clutching his bloody arm.

  Zandonella felt a deep, profound chill. Rootmaster was going to turn off the autopilot just as they came in for landing. That would do the trick all right. The shuttle would crash, and if it crashed anywhere near the reactor, they would blow it to Kingdom Come.

  It had taken a few minutes for the Judges to work out the controls at the factory farm. Most of the equipment still bore Cyrillic labels from its tour of duty as a Russian space station. But eventually they'd got the hang of things. It was Judge Dredd who had worked out how to switch off the red illumination in the holding shed and replace it with white light in the daylight wavelength. It enabled the Judges to see properly but it wasn't doing O'Mannion any good.

  She was standing at one end of the shed. Beside her, on the floor, was the eerie form of the comatose Zandonella. Her sleeping body lay enclosed in the white shape of a portable med-bed. As she lay there under the gaze of O'Mannion, thousands of pigs filed past her, being driven by groups of Judges equipped with riot clubs that they used occasionally to nudge along any reluctant animals. The pigs passed by Zandonella's med-bed, moving in a continual stream, entering at the far end and leaving through the open section of wall which had previously led down to the slaughter chutes. The pigs were understandably reluctant to pass into the abattoir darkness, reeking of the death of their kind. But they had nothing to fear. Dredd had switched off the killing mechanisms and the animals passed through unharmed to end up in one of the loading bays where a further detachment of Judges were loading them onto transport vehicles to be carried to safety.

  Judge Dredd came into the shed, climbed down from the platform that led to the airlock and joined O'Mannion. He didn't waste time with greetings. "This isn't working," he snarled as he watched the endless line of pigs shuffling past Zandonella's med-bed. "What do you expect to achieve?"

  O'Mannion glanced at Dredd in irritation. "I expect that the pig that is hosting Zandonella will step out of the line and come over to the bed here. Then we'll simply have to bring it into contact with her sleeping body and the consciousness exchange will take place. We'll have her back safe and sound."

  "There's just one problem with your plan."

  "Oh really? And what's that?"

  Dredd looked away impatiently. "What if the pig containing Zandonella isn't here?"

  "Isn't here? Where else could she be?"

  Dredd frowned. "When I was talking to Blue Streak on the communications link I saw that there were some pigs in the shuttle with him. And one of them bit him just before they broke contact."

  "Bit him? But if he was attacked by a pig..."

  "That pig might have been the host for Zandonella, trying to break free of her human captors."

  "Well, can't you trace the communications signal and go after the shuttle?"

  "Negative. They were using a signal-bounce algorithm. We can break it using the computers at Justice Central but that won't do any good. It will take an hour or two and then all it will tell us is their flight position an hour or two ago."

  "Isn't there any other way to track the shuttle?"

  "Not unless they broadcast an unguarded signal. Otherwise they're just lost in the traffic pattern."

  O'Mannion stared at the unending line of pigs waddling past. "Maybe you're wrong," she said. "Maybe Zandonella's pig isn't on the shuttle. Maybe she'll turn up here."

  "Maybe," said Dredd grimly. "But if she doesn't, I've got a hunch time is running out for her."

  Blue Streak had crawled onto one of the acceleration couches and was lying there nursing his maimed arm, moaning occasionally, under the alert, baleful gaze of the boar called Ripped-Ear. Having bitten the man, the pig seemed to be taking a proprietary interest in his fate. The other young boar, the brown and white specimen called Splatter-Pattern, was keeping a close watch on Porkditz and Zandonella.

  The Judge was waiting for an opportunity to try to do something - anything that might improve their situation - but no such opportunity had presented itself and she was beginning to wonder if it ever would. Rootmaster was lolling comfortably on the other acceleration couch and seemed entirely in control of the situation. The shuttlecraft was roaring along on autopilot, and if nothing happened to disrupt its flight, they would all too soon be arriving at their extremely final destination.

  It was Porkditz who broke the silence. "So we are to die with you, Rootmaster."

  The old boar stirred on his couch and gazed down at Porkditz. "Has that knowledge only now penetrated your thick skull, little shoat?"

  "It is only now that I am beginning to accept it, old warrior," said Porkditz humbly. Zandonella wondered what he was up to. This sort of humility was quite uncharacteristic of the cocky little pig.

  "Ha," snorted Rootmaster. "It is never too late to kneel before your betters and pledge allegiance to the cabal. Is that what you have
finally decided you want to do, little shoat?"

  "What I want, old master, is to spend my last moments in this life expiring in pleasure and happiness."

  Rootmaster squinted at Porkditz suspiciously. "What do I care about your pleasure or your happiness, runt?"

  "Nothing at all, wise master. But equally, why should you want to prevent it? Since it is nothing to you, I might as well end this life as joyfully as I can."

  "Joyfully? Your joy means nothing, runt. It means nothing to the cabal or myself or the vast uncaring world."

  "If the world is uncaring, then it makes no difference if I am happy or sad. So, I repeat, why shouldn't I be happy?"

  Rootmaster squirmed to the edge of the couch and peered down at Porkditz. Zandonella could see that the old boar was becoming dangerously angry. What was Porkditz up to? She prayed that he knew what he was doing.

  "Your happiness is less than nothing," sputtered Rootmaster. "It is the droppings from the anus of a diseased old sow, shortly to die. It stinks, it spatters, it revolts me. Better you should suffer than be happy. Suffer for the cause of the cabal. Exult in our glorious deaths, in our victory which will strike a blow like a killing hammer against the vile longghouls."

  "True, my happiness is nothing, mighty master, but what of your own and that of my brave brothers?" Porkditz nodded at Ripped-Ear and Splatter-Pattern. "Sure such courageous members of the cabal deserve blessed rapture in their final moments in this life?"

  "Pleasures of the flesh mean nothing to the brothers of the cabal," snorted Rootmaster. "We are above such primitive gratifications as rutting with this sow." He stared at Zandonella with his mad fanatic's eyes. "I assume that is what you are suggesting. A last orgy with this pitiful, inferior creature."

  "On the contrary, master," said Porkditz quickly. "That was not what I had in mind at all."

  "What then? A last meal? Are you suggesting that we rip out the intestines of that longghoul and feast on them?" He glanced over at Blue Streak, who was lying motionless on the other acceleration couch. He looked at him thoughtfully. "The brothers and I had a huge feast before we set off on this mission. But still..." Rootmaster licked his chops.

  "No, master," said Porkditz hastily. "As tempting as that is, I had something far better in mind."

  "Far better? What, then? Speak, little shoat."

  "Mighty warrior, I was speaking of the delicious drink that is being carried on this vehicle."

  "Delicious drink? What nonsense is this?" For the first time Rootmaster sounded intrigued and Zandonella felt the first faint stirrings of comprehension and hope.

  "I saw it in the rear of the craft, and smelled it, when we were hiding there in the darkness."

  "Nonsense," said Rootmaster. "There is nothing back there but the bodies of our brave brethren, churned into meat and packed into metal turds for the longghouls to devour."

  "I beg to correct you, oh mighty boar. There are indeed many metal turds containing that disgusting and obscene confection. But there are also a few boxes of the delicious drink I mentioned. It is the finest and most cherished drink that the longghouls have created for themselves. I learned of it in my time among them." He looked across at Zandonella, a quick surreptitious glance. She remembered sharing her gin martinis with Porkditz back at her con-apt. It seemed a long time ago now, in another life. But all that mattered was that Porkditz had a plan and she was beginning to guess what it was.

  Rootmaster glanced over at the brown and white pig who came towards Porkditz. "You lie," said Splatter-Pattern. "There is nothing back there but the metal turds full of meat."

  "I beg to correct you, brother," said Porkditz evenly. "There are many bottles of this fine concoction."

  "He lies," snarled Splatter-Pattern.

  "Go back and check," Rootmaster said, licking his lips. The young boar headed for the rear of the cockpit, shooting a poisonous look back at Porkditz. He disappeared through the open door into the shadows of the cargo hold.

  "If you are lying, if you are trying some kind of mischief..." Rootmaster left the rest of the statement to their imaginations. A moment later there was a dry scraping noise as Splatter-Pattern came nosing back, pushing one of the cardboard crates in front of him.

  "This is the drink," he said. "I can smell it."

  "Then root some out," ordered Rootmaster. Splatter-Pattern looked at the crate for a moment and then lunged forward and began to chew savagely at it, sending scraps of cardboard flying. A row of litre-sized bottles were revealed through the cardboard, each adorned with an image of a drunken London Palace Guard that owed more to enthusiasm and imagination than painstaking historical research. The logo on each bottle read "Jumpin' Juniper Gin". Zandonella's heart pounded in her wide, low-slung chest. She had pieced together Porkditz's plan. Would it work?

  Splatter-Pattern stuck his snout in the box and rooted out two bottles and sent them spinning across the floor of the cockpit. The plastic bottles bounced with the loud thump of sealed liquid.

  "Thank you oh mighty brethren," squeaked Porkditz. "Now if you will just allow myself and the lowly sow to drink our fill..."

  Rootmaster ignored him. "It is I who shall drink." He hopped down from the acceleration couch and waddled over to the nearest bottle.

  "You won't like it," said Porkditz quickly.

  "I shall be the judge of that." Rootmaster bit into the plastic bottle and it burst open, the clear fluid gushing out, splashing into his mouth. The old boar swallowed a mouthful, licked his chops and then bent his head to lap out the remaining contents of the ravaged bottle. "It's good," he murmured, looking at the other bottle that had spilled from the crate, his eyes full of piggy calculation. After the briefest of pauses he trotted over to it, bit into it and drained it with a few, swift greedy swallows. He knocked the torn bottle aside with his trotter and sent it spinning across the cockpit.

  "More," he said, looking at the young boars who were watching his drinking with avid interest. Rootmaster's gaze seemed slightly askew, but his voice was powerful and clear and commanding. "Get me more of that drink. And help yourselves."

  Porkditz spoke quickly and nervously. "But surely you three brave brothers don't need to drink any more. Leave it for myself and the sow."

  "Greedy little shoat. You want it all for yourself. Just for that you shall have none."

  "None," quavered Porkditz. "But it was my idea."

  "At least you have contributed to the cabal and our fight against the longghouls. That is more important than satisfying your own selfish thirst. You have helped in our cause, offering refreshment to brave soldiers. For that you should be grateful, and gratitude should be enough."

  Porkditz turned his long, handsome face towards Zandonella. One of his eyes flashed shut then opened again. She could have sworn he had winked at her.

  "Given up your identity parade?" snarled Judge Dredd.

  O'Mannion shook her head. "I've left Judges Norbert and Westhope in charge. Their orders are to station themselves beside Zandonella's med-bed and let me know if any of the pigs walking past show any kind of response to her sleeping body."

  "Sounds like a plan," said Dredd. "Why didn't you stay yourself and supervise?"

  "Because I think you're right. I think Zandonella is out there on that rogue shuttle." She walked across the control room and joined Dredd. The pale green readout flashing across the computer screen was reflected on Dredd's stony countenance. O'Mannion glimpsed a stream of Russian text, broken into blocks, followed by entries in English that looked like addresses.

  "What are you doing?"

  "We can't trace the shuttle, but we can hack into the farm's business files, and we've got a list of addresses for deliveries."

  "Of course. They're in the black market meat business. That's probably where the shuttle is going. It's a brilliant idea. Who thought of it?"

  "It's not so brilliant," said Dredd sourly. "There are hundreds of addresses here."

  "So what are you going to do?"

  Dred
d's face was grim. "Cover all of them."

  The entire cockpit stank of gin. Blue Streak lay on the acceleration couch, going in and out of consciousness. He was vaguely aware that he was in the shuttle and that it was on autopilot, hurtling through the air with a bunch of escaped pigs on the loose.

  Somehow the animals had found their way in, escaping from the mainstream farm tunnels and getting into the launch chamber. They'd got on board the craft and got loose during the flight. And one of the bastards had bitten his arm, clear through to the bone. The pain danced up his arm in bright red flashes that filled Streak's brain and caused him to black out briefly before waking again to wait for the next fat red throb.

  Blue Streak was vaguely aware that he was in shock as a result of the bite. And those stinking pigs were milling about freely in the cockpit as he lay there, injured and helpless.

  As he drifted in and out of consciousness, Streak saw the pigs basically having a party. They had somehow managed to push one of the crates of gin out of the cargo hold, tear it open and chomp into the bottles. The flimsy plastic bottles gushed gin and the greedy mindless pigs lunged forward and lapped it up. Soon they were as drunk as lords.

  At least, three of them were. The little one and the sow didn't join in the drinking. The other pigs got more and more drunk, finishing all twelve bottles and then dragging out the second case of gin, tearing into that, chomping into the bottles, lapping it up and finally rolling around the floor in a total drunken stupor.

  As they did so, the little pig and the sow edged towards the controls of the shuttle. They peered at the flight panel curiously, their fat heads and long snouts bowed over it. He prayed that they wouldn't accidentally hit any of the buttons.

  But then the sow jerked her head abruptly forward and triggered something on the control panel. From the flashing lights and the audio alert, Streak could tell that she had triggered their distress beacon. Oh well, it could be a lot worse. It wouldn't affect their flight or the autopilot, it would just send out a mayday signal.