Judge Dredd Year One: City Fathers

by Matthew Smith

  Dredd accessed the bike computer and called up the file: it was shot at night, so the visuals were crackly and indistinct, and while the equipment had tried to enhance the picture through heat signatures, penetrating Vassell’s closed blinds, it hadn’t achieved much more than capturing five humanoid shapes standing in a loose circle. There was nothing in their manner to suggest that four of them were off-worlders, but there was also the possibility that they could be shapeshifters; after all, Croons had opened his door to them, he hadn’t been intimidated by their presence.

  The telescope had a sonic magnifier, pushed to the max for such a distant eavesdrop, hence the audio was muffled. Dredd strained his ears, trying to pick sense out of the white noise.

  “...want to try it... drokk...”

  “...it’ll be incredible...”

  “...buyers... going to... hit people...”

  “...demand... wait till you get... gonna be payday, my man...”

  “When can... I’m all over...”

  It faded to a hiss as the silhouettes moved further into the apartment. The accents and vernacular had all been Mega-City; no one sounded like a visitor to the area, though such things could be imitated by someone seeking to infiltrate the populace, of course. Vassell appeared relaxed in their company and excited by what was being discussed; clearly, he was impressed by whatever narcotic he was planning on distributing for them. There had been no indication that they knew they were being monitored, and were going to take Croons out before he could relay any information he’d gleaned to the authorities.

  Dredd gunned the Lawmaster’s engine and peeled onto the sked. First things first: to put out an APB on Travest Vassell, and pull the dealer in for questioning. He was convinced the creep was not guilty of murder, but he was partnered up with some newcomers on the scene, and Dredd wanted to know who they were and what they were bringing into his city. Aerial units could be fed Vassell’s mugshot, see if they couldn’t capture him at one of his regular haunts, and Dredd thought he could also swing by the new Psi-Division, ask one of their remote viewers to cast out a line, pick out his face in a crowd. Strange methods, he had to admit, but you couldn’t argue with the results the fledgling department had so far attained.

  Meanwhile, Dredd had an appointment with one of the dealer’s known associates, who he anticipated was going to relish helping the Law with its inquiries. He twisted the throttle and weaved in amongst the traffic, heading downtown.

  Two

  HIS HEAD FELT scratchy.

  Jack Calafaree sat at his desk, unable to concentrate on the words glowing on the VDU before him. His forehead prickled with sweat, yet his eyes were dry. He swiped his brow, slicked his fingers through his hair, and blinked, trying to force some moisture into them, but they remained stubbornly sensitive, as if they’d been forced open under a hot light. He rubbed his temples and looked down at his keyboard, taking deep breaths, then glanced up at the screen: text swam, floaters peeling apart the letters, obscuring them. Nausea began to stir in his belly, his skull starting to chime like a bell.

  Jack swore under his breath, and spun in his chair, away from the computer, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes until stars burst behind them. It didn’t ease the throbbing. One drokker of a migraine was coming down the pike, he thought, but he knew this was different: he felt ill, hot, sweaty, viral. These were the signs that his body was going to begin failing him soon, a machine whose warning bulbs were now flickering.

  He stood and walked a circuit of his office, hoping that he could distract himself from the pain, but the sensations came with him; each footstep seemed to make the top of his head vibrate. He wondered what it could be: a germ he’d picked up on the zoom train that morning? Food poisoning? The latter didn’t seem likely considering how fastidious he was about his diet, and the fact that he ate in some of the sector’s most expensive restaurants several evenings a week. Since he didn’t even drink as a rule, he’d never suffered the debilitating effects of a hangover, which this was what he’d always assumed they would feel like. He ran every morning, used the block gym at weekends; he felt sicknesses like this were a betrayal of his body, an indicator that it wasn’t as honed as he’d like. What was the point of arming your system’s defences against such infections when it fell prey to them as easily as sitting next to some malodorous vagrant coughing out bacteria across a crowded carriage?

  He staggered back to his desk and yanked open a drawer, rooting amongst the contents for the vial of uppers he knew was in there. That, he had to admit to himself, was his one vice: drugs. They were, in his line of work, a necessity, like a window cleaner’s cable harness or a Judge’s daystick; he couldn’t safely operate without them. No amount of detoxes, low-rad meals or limb-punishing exercise could allow him to do his job as well as several species of stimulant coursing through his bloodstream, whether it be sugar, a rarefied caffeine substitute, or a small quantity of prime zziz. They activated his brain, fired his imagination, enabled him with the confidence and bulletproof self-belief to tackle the city’s money markets. He didn’t consider himself a criminal anymore than the umpteen bozos out there medicating themselves into a stupor to escape the misery of their existence—it was simply what got him through the day. He was addicted, true, but he was also addicted to generating vast sums of creds for his bosses, and no one would ever claim that was unhealthy.

  Jack popped the cap on the container and dry-swallowed half a dozen pills, hoping that once they got his pulse racing it would take his mind off his crunching headache. He was not one for stewing on illness, to stumble back to bed to whine and feel sorry for himself; that was for the weak, for those with a weedy constitution. Better, he thought, to work your way through it, ignore the frailties that your below-par body was susceptible to and prove you were stronger in spirit. You could overcome such trials if you put your mind to it. Or that was the theory, anyway.

  Unfortunately, the fact of the matter was—today, at least—that in practice it was proving a lot more difficult. Nothing was shifting the pain that was crawling around his brain, and if anything it was steadily increasing in magnitude, like a vice tightening its grip. He stared down at his hands holding the pill container and they were shaking, trembling uncontrollably. He’d never had symptoms like these before, of any malady he’d succumbed to in the past. He was starting to feel scared that he was losing possession of his faculties: light was bleeding in from the edges of his vision, giving him the impression that his fingers were lengthening. White spirals, like tiny curlicues of electrical energy, leaped from the tips.

  Jack inhaled sharply, his heart pounding faster, and he dropped the tablets, scattering them over the office carpet. He had to get out of here, hail a cab to take him home. Screw stoicism: he was having a panic attack, or some kind of bad trip. Reaching for his jacket, slung over the back of his chair, he lurched as if the entire building had tilted, his legs jellifying beneath him, and only by propping himself up on the desk did he stop falling on his face. The room expanded, way beyond its possible dimensions, the door telescoping back like it was on rails.

  The door, he thought. His secretary was on the other side of it. She could help him, if he could just get word to her. She’d clearly see that he was having an episode.

  He reached across and jabbed the intercom. “Shareen?” he whispered, his voice croaky. He coughed, cleared his throat. “Shareen, can you come... come in here?”

  “Why, Mr Calafaree, are you all right?” The reply emanating from the speaker sounded somehow mocking to his ears. He shook his head. His senses were shot, he realised, and nothing he saw or heard could be trusted.

  “Please, I’m not... not well. Hurry.”

  He slumped back into his chair just as he heard the door bang open, somehow at the end of a bright tunnel. Footsteps clattered towards him—how could they be so loud on carpet, he dimly wondered—and the next second he felt hands upon him, moving him. There were too many for one person, Jack knew, and they were coalescing
into thicker limbs, like tentacles, wrapping tight around his midriff, squeezing the breath from his lungs. He yelled, struggled to free himself, and lashed out, feeling his fist connect with flesh. The contact galvanised him. He swung again, enjoying allowing his anger free rein, even though he was blind by now, a pale mist shrouding his sight. He wanted to hurt because it grounded him, gave him something on which to focus. All sense of what he was, all spatial awareness, was vanishing, reality trickling down a plughole. If he could concentrate his rage, channel his instinct for destruction, he wouldn’t disappear altogether.

  He heard glass shatter, and screams penetrated the fug. Coolness washed over his skin, and for one brief moment lucidity returned as he found himself gazing at the city spread before him. Then he was flying, wind whipping pieces of Jack away like he was ash, until nothing was left.

  CHIEF AMONG THE subjects that cadets were taught at the Academy, Dredd remembered, perhaps more important than firearm accuracy, bike handling or applied violence, was how to hold yourself as a Judge. Your bearing is instilled into you from day one until the moment you graduate, and it will separate you from the general populace to a far greater degree than the uniform and the badge. Technical skills can be practised beyond the day you step out into the crowd for the first time, knowledge of the Law can be revised and built upon over the years, but unless the rookie can face the city and project the correct air of intimidation and vigilance, then the criminal element will stomp them back into the ’crete. Perps smell fear like sandsharks sense blood, and have the uncanny ability to zero in on an officer even the slightest bit unsure of himself, using that to their advantage. Let the creeps know right from the off that you’re on their case, and you will save a hell of a lot of time and unnecessary aggravation: a good Judge doesn’t even have to unholster his gun or draw his daystick, in some cases, to get results. Of course, the wiseguys will always need the message reinforced, but most lowlifes buckle under a solid glare and a downturned mouth.

  The tutors insisted that age should make no difference; that the way a Judge carries himself when he’s twenty will be much the same as he does five decades down the line. Experience was without doubt invaluable, but a citizen should respond to a badge equally, no matter how many years were behind it. It was essential this relationship between the people and their guardians was enforced from the start, and the ex-cadet with the newly awarded full eagle would do well to make damn sure that they’re taken seriously the instant they strap on the boots and don the helmet.

  Dredd had a full twelve months on the streets, with nothing to prove, and yet found himself heedful of these lessons as he approached Erikson’s club on Monmouth. He supposed that, in the fullness of time, heading into dangerous territory such as this would become second nature and he wouldn’t think twice about bearding known felons in their lair any more than he would about interrogating a witness or storming a block in the midst of a war. It was his duty to uphold the Law: he would go wherever his presence was required, and where order needed to be maintained. That was his job, his life, what he’d been bred for, and what fifteen years in the Academy had honed him into. There was no question of a faltering of his belief, or a lack of confidence in his abilities: it was merely the unavoidable awareness of his youth that made him double-check his stance and procedure. It was a weakness that he knew he’d have to iron out; as soon as you became self-conscious, it meant your concentration was lapsed elsewhere. A Judge should act without consideration of himself: he was, after all, simply a weapon of justice.

  Stanton Erikson was one of Vassell’s known associates from his YP days, a fellow neighbourhood drinking buddy and habitual user who’d expanded into extortion, gambling and racketeering. He’d pulled mealy-mouth time on possession charges when he was younger, but now carved a—notionally, at least—legitimate career as a businessman and property owner. While publicly he wouldn’t have anything to do with a dealer in narcotics like his old friend, it was understood amongst the clientele that he turned a blind eye to the sale of select merchandise in his club, and Dredd suspected that Vassell wasn’t averse to using it as a safe haven for certain transactions.

  At this hour of the day, the bar was empty besides the twenty-four-hour deadbeats and cardboard city refugees nursing cold cups of synthi-caff and killing time. Dredd could’ve pulled any one of them up and shook them down to see what fell out, but now was not the time. In any case, they knew well enough that he knew their guilt: he could see it in their eyes as they watched him pass, furtive glances up beneath furrowed brows, and the hurried manner of their leaving. He gave each of them a measured stare, something to take with them, letting them be aware that no secrets escaped him.

  “Erikson here?” he asked the serving droid stacking crates, who jerked its thumb wordlessly towards the office door situated at the far end of the bar. A pair of goons peeled themselves from a shadowy alcove and intercepted him before he could reach it; one slipped inside, knocking quietly as he did so, while the other—a mohawked lunk with embossed kneepads and an unmistakable bulge under his left armpit—stood before the Judge, eyebrow raised.

  “Help you, officer?” The creep had the overly polite demeanour of a career criminal that betrayed both an outright lack of respect and invariably something to hide.

  Dredd didn’t answer at first and was instead cocking an ear over the meathead’s shoulder, where he could hear murmured voices emerging from the office. Sounded like Erikson was being prepped. He turned his attention back to Mohawk. “I’m here for your boss. You want to continue interfering with my duty, I can take you in too.”

  “Heeeeyyy,” the goon answered, mock hurt, bravado and idiocy an unhealthy mixture. “Mr Erikson’s a busy man. Ain’t right that he’s hassled like this. Listen”—he reached into his back pocket and produced a wallet—“how about we settle this nice and discreet, like?”

  He’d barely finished speaking before he was swung and slammed against the bar, the hand holding the wallet yanked up behind his back until he dropped it. He hissed in pain. “What the drokk...? It was just a suggestion.”

  “It was an attempted bribe,” Dredd replied in the creep’s ear as he kept him pinned over the countertop.

  “Never stopped any of you jay-boys before.”

  “Then I guess you picked the wrong Judge. Perverting the course of justice carries a statutory six months’ encubement.” He reached into the perp’s jacket and pulled free the hand cannon nestled there, smacking it down next to Mohawk’s head. “I trust your licence for this is up to date too?”

  “Cut me a break—”

  “I’ll cut you nothing, meathead.” Dredd produced a pair of cuffs and fastened them round the clown’s wrists, wrenching him upright and forcing him into a nearby chair. “Stay there until I’m finished. I’d advise you not to do anything stupid unless you want the two-year sentence you’re currently looking at increased.”

  “I apologise, Judge,” a voice offered to his left, and Dredd turned to see Erikson emerging from his office, the other gorilla in tow. “My employee was not acting on my orders, I assure you.”

  “Seems to me that if the first thing a creep does is reach for the creds, he’s used to making pay-offs. Just how many are in your pocket, Erikson—council members, tax officials?”

  Erikson shook his head and made an empty-handed gesture. “As I say, that is not a business practice I associate myself with.”

  “No, you’re a regular Mr Clean these days, aren’t you, citizen?”

  “Was there a reason for this visit, Judge Dredd?” The club owner was implacable. “I believe we were raided only last month—where nothing incriminating was found, I might add—so surely we can’t have come to Justice Department’s attention again already?”

  “A name from your past—Travest Vassell. He still frequents this dive, I take it?”

  Erikson shrugged. “A lot of people come and go, Judge. I don’t see—”

  “Stow the act.” Dredd took a step closer to the other
man, aware that the muscle hovering at Erikson’s shoulder was bristling. “You’re fooling no one. You want to protest your innocence, you can explain down at the nearest Sector House why two of your men are carrying unregistered firearms.” He locked stares for a second with the other bodyguard, noting a thin sheen of sweat coating his brow—he’d surmised correctly, it seemed. “Or shall we take it in there?” Dredd continued, nodding towards the office. “Go through some paperwork—I’ll call down O’Brian in Accounts Division, set him on your files.”

  “Enough, enough,” Erikson replied testily, closing his eyes in a long, languid blink. “Vassell—yes, he still comes by of an evening. Or he did; I haven’t seen him for a week or so.”

  “What does he deal when he’s here, do you know?”

  “I couldn’t tell you, Judge, and you can lie-detector me on that. If we see each other, we shoot the breeze for five minutes, reminisce, then I’m circulating, playing the good host. Anything Travest gets up to on these premises, I’m not privy to—and frankly, I don’t wish to know.”

  Dredd sensed he was speaking the truth. “Bearing in mind that you are the property owner, and anything that goes on within these walls is your responsibility, that’s a rather lax attitude to take.”

  “I have my staff to oversee security and criminal matters. If anything escapes their routine surveillance, well... nobody’s perfect, are they?”

  “You say you haven’t seen Vassell for a week,” Dredd said, changing tack before he lost his temper. “What do you remember of your last meeting?”

  Erikson pursed his lips and thought for a second. “Nothing out of the ordinary,” he answered. “Travest was in fine form, happy. Said he was working on a deal that was going to make him rich.”

  “He didn’t elaborate?”

  “No, just that he was acquiring a bulk stock of merchandise. To be honest, he’s been saying that he’s going to be a millionaire for years. That fabled golden deal that was always just around the corner.”