Sweet Justice

by Gaiman, Neil

  In this particular crowd it happened to be a skinny runt wearing the insignia of the Dennis Tanner Citi-Def.

  ‘All right, all right,’ he loudmouthed. ‘Let me through here...’

  He broke off and screamed as the diverted duck, travelling about 20 kilometers an hour, hit him slap in the jaw.

  A lot of people would say it was his own fault. For a start, he was a Tanner Blocker so he didn’t really have any right to be in our Block Park (he was visiting a relative, it turned out.) And then he was a Citi-Def member. Let me tell you, these Citizen Defence Corps creeps are all the same – they’re so full of themselves and their responsible work, they’ll interfere with anything. Huh! Where were the Citi-Defs during the war with East-Meg One, that’s what I’d like to know! I mean, Citi-DefXXXXXXXXXXXCENSOREDXXXXXXXXXXXCENSOREDXXXXXXXXXXXCENSOREDXXXXXX.

  ‘Aaaaaaagh!’ The Dennis Tanner Blocker screamed.

  ‘Kwaak!’ squawked the robo-duck. Its neck had snapped on contact with the Tanner Blocker’s face, and its voke-box must have been knocked out of action. This was its final Kwaak.

  And it was that strangled Kwaak that brought me to my senses. My anger vanished as quick as it had appeared – to be replaced by a queasy feeling in my gut so strong I nearly retched. Fear. Fear for what me and Willy had done. Fear for what the consequences would be.

  Willy was scrambling to his feet now and he didn’t need to speak for me to know he felt exactly the same. ’Cos the Tanner Blocker was lying very still on the plasti-grass, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. A girl stooped beside him, shaking her head like she was stunned.

  ‘He – he’s dead,’ she gasped. ‘The – the duck must’ve broken his neck!’

  The duck in question, now completely headless, was flapping round in silent circles like a top-notch boinger, agiley avoiding the couple of giggling senior citizens who were trying to catch it.

  I glanced again at Willy and our eyes locked. I could almost smell his fear. A Blocker was dead – a robo-duck was badly damaged – and even though it was an accident, we knew who was going to get stuck with the blame. US!

  Panic swept over me in an icy wave. ‘Get outta here,’ a voice inside me seemed to shriek. ‘Move! Get away! Run!’

  JUDGED

  My blood felt as cold as a freezipop, and I lost all control. My shaking legs started to run, and I couldn’t do nothing to stop them. I mean, I didn’t want to run away; the real me wanted to stay and explain everything to the Judges who would soon be on the scene. It was the panic that made me run, not me.

  (I tried telling the Judges that too, but it didn’t make any difference. Evidently every citizen is responsible for his own actions and reactions, unless he’s a Futsie in which case Future Shock gets the blame.)

  ‘Let’s move,’ I yelled, and Willy – his mouth hanging open like he’d just seen Conrad Conn in person – came hurtling up the plasti-grass slope behind me.

  We hadn’t gone more than twenty meters when a security robot came buzzing over the brow of the low hill and braked to a halt in front of us. ‘Stop!’ its voke-box blared. ‘Stop! Stop!’

  And like a mugh, Willy the C stopped.

  I dodged past it, then hesitated. ‘Judges have been summoned,’ the robot was saying. ‘Citizens should not leave the area until they arrive.’

  My heart was hammering like a bike cannon on full blast. If we were still there when the Judges hit the scene, they’d nab us for sure. Too many citizens had witnessed the incident– and now this security job would have our images on its vid-tapes. We’d be identified as the perps, and we’d be judged.

  ‘It’s no good, Milton,’ Willy announced wearily, and his resigned, scared voice sounded like it was my own conscience talking. ‘Judges are coming. We’ll never get away. Let’s just give ourselves up, and they might go easy on us. Though they probably won’t,’ he added as an afterthought.

  If I’d been in my right mind, I’d have listened to him. But panic was still surging through me, and the roaring in my ears blocked out the voice of reason. I had to get away from there – get outside the Block, lose myself in the millions of citizens swarming round the City’s streets.

  The security robot moved towards me, raising its arms. I ignored it. Everybody knows that every robot in town is programmed so’s it can never hurt a human being. All a security droid is good for is hollering Judge!

  I took off again, and ran full pelt down the other side of the slope. A couple of citizens dived out of my path – luckily for them. And me, I suppose. I gave a sigh of relief when I saw I was headed directly for the Block Park’s Buggy Park, the plasticon wayby where those citizens too tired, poor or lazy to walk from their apartments could park their vehicles.

  They ain’t much, these Block buggies – just a meter-square box with a tiny hover-engine fitted, big enough to carry a couple of people to the Block’s remoter areas.

  But to me, the buggies spelled freedom.

  A guy with a biotronic arm was just starting his buggy up when my crazy run brought me skidding to a halt beside him. He looked up in surprise – just in time to see my fist hammer out at him. It hurt me almost as much as it hurt him. I sucked at my knuckles as I pushed his unconscious form out of the buggy-box and jumped in myself. I grabbed the easy-to-use control stick in my good hand and hauled back on it. The buggy shot skyward.

  I levelled out about 20 meters up and glanced down to see what was happening. Willy the C was still on the slope, on his knees now, sobbing violently and beating his fists on the plasti-grass. The security robot was rolling in tight little circles, still yapping about Judges and stop. Knots of people were standing around watching, though a lot of adults were hurrying their kids away. They knew how easily trouble can spread when it starts, I guess.

  And then I heard it, a keen high-pitched wail that sounded like it came straight from Hell. A Lawmaster siren. Judges in the Park! ‘No, no – they mustn’t get me!’ I was gibbering to myself and my trembling hand just couldn’t get the control stick to function. But I had to get out of there, find somewhere to be alone, somewhere I could clear my head, grab time to think about how this whole crazy mess had come about...

  ‘Lawbreaker!’ The Judge’s voice cut through the confused babble of my thoughts like a lase-knife through munce. ‘Give yourself up. You will not receive a second warning.’

  There he was below me, sitting astride his massive Lawmaster as if he and the machine were part of each other. Even through my terror, my mind registered the calm authority he exuded, the somehow soothing menace of the Lawgiver gun in his right hand.

  With an effort, I wrenched my eyes away from the awful, hypnotic sight of him. Looking up I saw blue sky... blue sky and freedom. I gave an involuntary yell – if I could just make it to those clouds up there before he fired, if I could just do it, I might be safe!

  I yanked hard back on the control stick and the buggy responded with maximum elevation at maximum speed... and smashed with an ear-splitting crash into the plastic and metal wall underneath the deceptive holopix! The ground rushed up to meet me, then everything went black.

  I woke up to find myself here, in a Juve-Cube medical bay. Seems I broke some ribs, fractured my leg and suffered bruising and concussion when the buggy hit the ground. The medico tells me I’ll be as good as mended in a couple of days.

  Small consolation. I’ve been judged and sentenced for a number of crimes: damaging Block property (one duck); manslaughter of the Tanner Blocker; conspiracy to leave the scene of a crime; assault on a citizen; piracy of a Block buggy and destruction of same; and damage to a very expensive holopix wall.

  I’ll be moved into a Juve-Cube soon as my injuries are healed. It’ll be my home, and mine alone, for the next ten years.

  I’ve tried to tell them it was all a mistake, an accident. I didn’t mean any of it. I just lost my temper. But I guess the Judges hear that excuse pretty often, ’cos it hasn’t made any difference. Ten years... it’s a long time. I’ll be 24 when I get
out. With a little luck I’ll be able to use my time to learn how to keep my temper in check. I won’t make that mistake again.

  You guys reading this don’t know how lucky you are. You’re free. And if you take my advice you’ll stay free.

  How? Simple, really. Just remember: even if you’re provoked real bad, never lose your temper.

  THE END

  JUSTICE DEPARTMENT: PASSED FOR CIVIC CONSUMPTION IN THE INTERESTS OF THE LAW

  JUDGE HERSHEY: SWEET JUSTICE

  By Neil Gaiman, Judge Dredd Annual 1988

  THE MEET

  The Old Man had promised Jamie some sugar. All Jamie had to do was meet him in the alleyway under Stephen King Block, late on Saturday afternoon.

  Jamie, who at seven considered himself quite old enough to cope with strange old men, wandered down there. He had hidden a table-knife in his sock, in case the Old Man started to turn nasty, and he had stolen a container from his mother’s bathroom cabinet, in case the Old Man could come up with the stuff.

  The Old Man –that was all the name he seemed to have – had lurked in the underpass for years; a raddled, grizzled old wreck with raw red eyes that stared nastily out of a dirt-etched face. If that was what sugar did to you, Jamie wasn’t sure he wanted it... But the Old Man was undoubtedly an addict; while Jamie just wanted to try some sugar, just once, just to see what it was like. He knew he’d be able to cope.

  The Old Man was standing in the shadows of the underpass, leaning by the wall, his mouldering coat seemingly a part of the garbage mound beside him. He was standing perfectly still.

  ‘I’m here,’ hissed Jamie, from ten paces away. You didn’t get too close to the Old Man unless you had to – the smell was worse than the garbage.

  The derelict said nothing, made no movement, just stared straight ahead with dry, papery eyes.

  ‘I said I’m here. You said you’d have something for me...’

  Something scared Jamie. Perhaps it was the rustling, a strange clicking and chittering that seemed to emanate from the figure of the Old Man; perhaps it was just his unnatural lack of movement. The boy grabbed an empty synthbeet can from the garbage pile, flung it at the Old Man, and turned on his heel, prepared to run.

  There was the sound of soft tearing as the can hit the still figure and sank in. The Old Man’s eyes jerked open, and as Jamie watched, two heavy black tears trickled down the Old Man’s cheeks. Or at least, the boy thought they were tears, until they scuttled, on tiny insect legs, out of the light, into the man’s hair.

  Then Jamie started screaming.

  When Judge Hershey found him, a quarter of an hour later, he was still standing there, staring at an old overcoat. Hershey had examined it; it contained the paper shell of what had once been a human being, and a number of stunted black spiders.

  The Old Man was the third sugar user she had found like that that Saturday, and she didn’t like it at all.

  BRIT-CIT BOUND

  It had taken eight hours to get clearance, eight hours during which Hershey prowled the Grand Hall of Justice corridors, inspected her equipment, reviewed the case files, and waited. She was quite prepared to verbally dissect anyone who so much as said hello, but no-one did, which made her even more irritable.

  She thought of the perps vanishing into Brit-Cit like spiders scuttling into a garbage pile, and her lips tightened.

  It was almost midnight when Chief Judge Silver called her into his office. ‘I’ve spoken to the Brit-Cit Chief Judge, and the International Justice Council...’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And they want to talk to you, Hershey.’

  Hershey flicked the hair out of her eyes impatiently. There were times when the thought of the International Justice Council, the cadre of Judges that administered matters of jurisdiction and international law, would have caused her a second of apprehension. Now she thought of...

  (spiders)

  ...and a cold flame of anger burned inside her. She sat down, opposite the bank of screens, and said, ‘Go ahead.’

  The screens came to life; the top screen showed about half a dozen shadowy faces in helmets and uniforms of as many designs; Hershey could not make out any faces. The bottom screen showed a large man with a huge moon-face, a bronze lion on his shoulder, and a star-shaped beauty mark on his cheek. He was the first to speak:

  ‘So you want to come to Brit-Cit, eh, Judge Hershey?’ His accent was soft and strange.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Nobody tell you we’ve got Judges of our own over here?’

  ‘I know that... sir.’

  ‘Don’t you think we’re capable of finding one little sugar dealer?’

  Hershey took a deep breath. ‘That’s not the issue any more, sir. Have you looked at the records of this case?’

  One of the figures on the top screen broke in. ‘We’ve seen the records, Judge Hershey. What we query is the need for your involvement. Clute will undoubtedly be tracked down by Brit-Cit Judges...’

  ‘With respect, sir,’ broke in Hershey, ‘this is my case. I broke it. I had Clute identified, and I was there when those people started to... started to...’ She paused. ‘I think this is big. I think it could be a matter of planetary security. And there is nowhere that crummy little perp can hide, be it Brit-Cit or anywhere, I can’t track him down and beat the truth from his lousy little hide! Does that answer your question, sir?’

  But the top screen had gone blank. The Brit-Cit Chief Judge nodded at her, then his screen blanked out as well.

  Hershey looked up at Silver. ‘Well?’

  ‘It was agreed in principle half an hour ago, but they wanted to get a look at you first. Get on your bike, Judge Hershey – you’re going to Brit-Cit.’

  She was out of the room before he finished the sentence.

  ARMOUR PIERCING LOOK

  Three hours later, Hershey saw the Silver Lions of Brit-Cit for the first time, as they loomed out of the neon night. A face flickered onto her Lawmaster’s communicator.

  ‘Judge Hershey? This is Judge Armour. Welcome to Brit-Cit. I’m half a klik ahead of you – lock your Lawmaster to mine and follow me to Scotland Yard.’

  ‘Scotland... that’s north Brit-Cit, right?’

  ‘Uh, right. But Scotland Yard’s the Justice Headquarters in south east Brit-Cit.’

  ‘Oh.’

  She flipped the Lawmaster onto remote, and followed the British Judge down the narrow Brit-Cit roads. Six lane highways. Hardly room to move.

  Armour’s face appeared on the screen. ‘Never been to Brit-Cit before, huh?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, I’ve never been to Mega-City, either, so I suppose we’re equal. I did a shift on the Atlantic Plex, though. Worked with a few Mega-City One Judges. You know Dredd?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Quite a Judge. Impressive sort of bloke.’

  ‘Bloke?’

  ‘Oh, uh, chap, uh, man. Person.’

  ‘I see. Yes, he is.’ Hershey sighed under her breath. She was only three hours from home; you would have thought they could have spoken English.

  ‘Jolly good,’ said Armour.

  They pulled up in front of Scotland Yard. It was an impressive building compared to the blocks around it – few of them even half the size of a Mega-City Block – but Hershey found herself comparing it to the Grand Hall of Justice; in comparison it was poky and quaint. She climbed off the bike. Armour was waiting for her by the entrance, a giant of a man with a black velvet star stuck on his chin. She removed her helmet and shook out her hair.

  Armour’s jaw dropped. He grinned. ‘Gosh! Nobody told me you were going to be so attractive. I can see this is going to be a pleasure.’

  Hershey had perfected a number of stares over the years for people who attempted to treat her as anything other than a Judge. They ranged from pitying, to the chill, through to the arctic. Now she let loose a look that was positively sub-polar; Armour gave an involuntary shiver and looked away. He tried to smile once more, but his facial muscle
s seemed to have forgotten how. She walked in to the British Hall of Justice, and the Brit-Cit Judge followed her in.

  They travelled up in the elevator in silence, until Hershey said, ‘That thing on your chin. What’s it for?’

  ‘It’s a beauty patch. They’re very fashionable. In Brit-Cit.’

  ‘“A Judge,”’ quoted Hershey from memory, ‘“should be clean, upright, and stern. No more. We are not in a beauty contest.”’

  ‘Judge’s Manual?’

  She shook her head. ‘Dredd.’

  ‘Oh.’

  The Brit-Cit Chief Judge, whose Brit Territories’ flag name badge told Hershey his name was Jones, was sitting in a large easy chair. He looked up as Hershey came in. She gave him her slightly cold look (which produced a sensation not unlike a fridge door being left open), and stood by his desk.

  ‘We’ve never had anything like this before, lass,’ said Chief Judge Jones. ‘Outside Judges coming in, like. I hope we’re all going to get along.’

  Hershey raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m looking for Clute. Severian Clute. He’s a small-time Brit-Cit sugar dealer. He’s positively identified as the man who sold each of the... victims their sugar. By the time we had a positive ID on him he had taken the zoom-tube back to Brit-Cit.

  ‘Whatever he’s selling, isn’t sugar. It looks like pure crystals, apparently tastes like the stuff. But it’s deadly. Probably alien. I want him brought back to Mega-City One, and I want the source – whatever it is – of this stuff put out of action for good. On that basis I need the full co-operation of the Brit-Cit Judges.’

  Chief Judge Jones got up, revealing himself as quite overweight, something that Hershey had never seen in a Judge before. He stared out of the window. The lights of Brit-Cit flickered and twinkled beneath them.