Dredd stopped in the doorway and turned his head. “What?”
“Carver and his friends have ambitions greater than that. You think Vassell was the only dealer they contacted? Why stop there? They’ve got the supplies to see their plan roll out across half the city.”
Nine
“THEY’RE DOING OUR job for us.”
Novak’s words rang through Dredd’s mind as he burned rubber towards Atlantic Hoverport. Carver and the rest of the creeps truly thought they were on the side of the angels, taking a retaliatory strike against the perps that had destroyed lives, and doing so not criminal-by-criminal like everyday vigilantes—stalking their prey in shadowy alleys, putting a bullet in each pusher and maniac’s head—but by poisoning the source of the problem and letting the addicted do the holy work to themselves. It didn’t matter that anyone that came into contact with the drug was at risk—whether it be a one-time user, a juve experimenting, or a hopeless junkie—because all were guilty in their eyes; all were responsible for feeding the monster that caused so much pain, who had wrenched their children from them. Organised crime was funded by narcotics money, bystanders were murdered in gang conflicts sparked by territorial disputes, decent cits robbed or killed for a few creds to pay for the next fix, babies born with the same chemical dependencies as their parents, tragic lives mapped out already; at every level, its presence caused harm, like background radiation. Carver and co. were intent on wiping them all out, cauterising the infection, purifying the city.
But it was retribution that was colouring their motives, not the Law. Novak had said that the grieving fathers were obsessed, and Dredd hadn’t been slow to pick up the inference in what the Judge had told him: that their fanaticism was only of a slightly different stripe to his own devotion to duty. His mission was to judge and to punish, to administer justice, to enforce control—what were they doing but culling the crims in one fell swoop? Did it matter if a few sleazebags and dopeheads ended up in Resyk? Wouldn’t he end up putting them there himself if they crossed his path, with zziz in their pockets and a las-knife tucked into their belts? Novak had been the kind of officer that couldn’t discern the difference, that Carver’s crew had simply been the guys with the cojones and sense of moral conviction to see it through. When it came down to it, taking the creeps out like this was just one step further from breaking a punk’s arm as you slammed him up against a wall for a shakedown. The scumballs had it coming. Drokk it, he could hear Novak arguing, they were fighting a war here.
Dredd refused to brook the notion. The fathers had long lost any sense of rationality—they’d brutally murdered Croons with cold, premeditated determination, even taking the time to divert the blame, cloaking their activities in the M.O. of one of the very gangs they despised, and were contaminating an entire sector, not caring who was driven insane. Their actions, their all-consuming hunger for revenge, proved they were unhinged, and what they wanted to achieve could never be condoned. He would come down hard on anyone who behaved as self-appointed guardians, slaughtering in the name of their own private vendetta; he felt it was an obligation to reassert the authority of the badge, demonstrate where the seat of power lay. No one outside of the uniform could kill with impunity, no matter who was the target.
Dredd had radioed ahead and checked with Atlantic once he’d left Novak in the hands of Burlough and the SJS: Carver and Tronjer were logged on as having arrived for work at the port. He’d requested that all flights out be temporarily grounded, in case the pair were planning on skipping city, country or even planet, and that a security alert be declared as the reason—nothing to make the perps suspicious. There was no reason to believe that they knew the Judges were on to them, or that their scheme had been broken wide open, and he wanted it kept that way until they were in custody. Helmets were to be mobilised at all exits under the same emergency pretext.
He called up Dane Novak and Biv Hubbly’s addresses—the former was a spivot technician registered as living in Bill Kerr block, the latter rented a bed in John Russo stackers, a kind of halfway house for those of no fixed abode. Hubbly was alcoholic, unemployed and flagged as having been in psychiatric care, diagnosed with acute paranoia and suicidal tendencies ever since his son had been caught in the crossfire of a surf-by gang shooting. Judging by the desperate state of his medical reports, there was no way he would’ve been able to organise something like this without the others’ commitment, and according to the docs his mental condition apparently left him highly suggestible. Dredd mused that he wouldn’t be surprised if it was Hubbly that had wielded the knife in the Croons snuff, being the only one of the four with an arrest record for violent conduct after he’d assaulted a nurse. It would account for the frenzied manner of the vic’s death: a blade placed in Hubbly’s hand, and then the others goading and cajoling him into performing the deed while at least one of them held Croons down. All of them were unstable, but Hubbly was particularly on a hair-trigger. Dredd instructed nearby units to attend both home addresses and apprehend the suspects if they were there, adding that care was to be taken when handling Hubbly.
He heard the screaming crowd a fraction of a second before he saw the reason for it: the cits congregating on Hudson plaza were fleeing a scrawny-looking dult in a blue towelling bathrobe flapping around his bony frame, who was advancing on anyone within swinging distance of the cooking laser he gripped in his right hand. Dredd decelerated and swung off the sked, shouting a warning to the creep to drop the weapon, but once he drew close enough he could see that the man was beyond coherent thought. Eyes rolling, sheathed in sweat, he instantly reminded Dredd of the babbling wreck Vassell had become, and the Judge realised he was another of the poisoned users. He seemed barely conscious of the fact that Dredd was approaching, peering around with jerky bird-like movements as if surrounded by phantoms, and jabbing the laser to protect himself. Dredd yanked hard on the Lawmaster’s handlebars and skidded the rear wheel round in a half-circle, slamming into the perp and knocking him off his feet. He flew several yards before hitting the ground in a heap, but was clearly crazed enough not to stay down; he clambered to one knee, trying to find the energy to pull himself up, hand reaching out for the dropped laser. Dredd didn’t have time for this. He put a bullet through the meathead’s shoulder, spinning him onto his back, where he lay groaning, and then patched through a call for a med-wagon.
“Gonna be at least six minutes until support can be with you, Dredd,” Control informed him. “Getting reports from all over the sector. Futsies are coming out of the woodwork.”
“Not futsies,” Dredd grunted, grabbing a handful of towelling robe and dragging the drooling nutjob towards the nearest holding post on the far side of the square, a thin streak of blood left in their wake. “They’re dust-smokers. They’ve inhaled tainted narcotics. Warn all units that they can’t be reasoned with, and should be treated with utmost caution. They’re violent, hallucinating, and incapable of acting rationally. Terminate with extreme prejudice if necessary, but otherwise incapacitate and deliver to a med facility. They’re straitjacket jobs—they’ll try to take their own lives if we haven’t done it for them already.” He hitched the man up so he was sitting with his back to the post and cuffed him to it, looked around and beckoned to a young woman amongst the crowd of rubberneckers.
“How many cases?” he asked Control.
“Twenty-seven reported so far. No pattern to them, just random crazies popping up all over. Five have already jumped from their apartment windows... Wait, incident register has just leapt to thirty-two.”
Drokk, Dredd thought, how were they ever going to contain this thing? He had to find out who the other dealers were that Carver and co. had supplied, cut off the distribution. He wouldn’t save everyone, he knew that—already percentage numbers were dancing through his head of those affected and those potentially who could be spared the same fate—and it was now a damage limitation exercise. Could they do more to head off a brewing disaster without causing mass panic? An idea popped i
nto his head.
“Control, put an order through to the broadcast division, my authorisation, instruct them to put together a citizen information ’vert, to be released immediately. No specifics, just that a bad batch circulating on the streets is highly dangerous, and anything bought within the last forty-eight hours is to be destroyed. Have them put it out on all channels, repeating every half hour, including public billboards.”
The girl he’d picked out sidled up to him and he impatiently motioned for her to crouch next to him.
“That’s going to need the Chief Judge’s approval, that level of exposure,” the voice in his ear told him.
“Fine, get it,” Dredd snapped. “But move, quickly.” He turned to the woman. “I want you to apply pressure to this man’s wound, keep it there until the med-wagon arrives. Shouldn’t be more than a few minutes.” He stood, adding: “Ignore anything he says, he’s deranged.”
“Er, I’m not sure...” she replied, running her gaze up and down the robed creature rambling and bleeding at her feet.
“Don’t worry, he’s no threat now. Your assistance is greatly appreciated, citizen.” He jogged back to his bike before she could protest any further.
WHEN HE REACHED Atlantic Hoverport, he had to pick his way through a Judicial perimeter, helmets turning away traffic, bundling angry cits into the back of catch-wagons if they chose not to comply immediately. A vast electronic bulletin board on the side of the terminal stated that all flights were suspended following the discovery of a suspect package. While half the units were keeping travellers from entering, the other half were denying those that were seeking to leave, claiming no one could be released until camera footage had been studied. Unruly crowds formed on either side of the blockade, but the Judges kept them in order, individuals occasionally pulled out and made an example of. A few swift blows with a daystick and the loudest voices fell silent.
Dredd pushed his way into the building, surveying the scene. Dejected-looking passengers sat in departure lounges staring glumly at the information displays, while the droids behind the check-in desks patiently dealt with enquiries. Juves ran riot as their parents argued. It was chaos, but it was contained. The place was locked down and no one was going anywhere, much to their obvious chagrin. Now it was a matter of finding the creeps he was looking for.
“Dredd, it’s Mansell, over at Russo stackers,” his radio barked. “Hubbly’s dead. We found him in a PF cubicle with his wrists cut.”
Dredd didn’t pause but continued to cut through the throng, heading for the security offices. Bud Tronjer worked as a guard at the facility; that would be his first port of call. “How long?”
“Meds reckon he’s been dead between six to twelve hours. Thing is, they’re not convinced it’s suicide. Bruising on the arms suggests he was held and there’s a suspicion from the angle of the wounds that a third party may have held the knife.”
Dredd quickened his pace. Could Carver and Tronjer have realised that Justice Department was on their case, and started cleaning house? Hubbly was potentially the weak link, the psychologically unstable of the four, and the one most likely to crack under interrogation. Then again, maybe Hubbly had been showing signs of guilt and remorse, making noises about confessing, and his friends acted to shut him up before he ruined their plan. He didn’t doubt for one second it was them that had performed the deed; the faked suicide was their M.O. all over. No one was safe, it seemed, from their psychotic ruthlessness.
“Control, who’s been dispatched over to Bill Kerr?”
“That’d be Neary and Phelps.”
“Patch me through.” There was a brief second of dead air. “Neary—Dredd. Any sign of Novak?”
“Negative. His wife’s here—says he didn’t come home last night, hasn’t been seen since yesterday. We’re pulling her in, see what she can tell us, but my instinct is she knows nothing.”
“Get forensics to tear that apartment apart. He may have something incriminating hidden from her.”
“Wilco.”
Dredd wrenched open the door to the sec-office, several startled faces glancing up from the CCTV monitors to greet the new arrival. “Tronjer—where is he?”
“Bud?” the nearest uniformed man replied, scratching his beard. “He’s, uh, working the crowd at gate six. That right, Phil?” He cocked his head over his shoulder.
“Yeah, rota says that where he should be,” another said.
“Show me,” Dredd demanded, indicating the screens. The guards parted to allow him access to the bank of monitors, one of them pointing at the stocky, burly figure casting an intimidating eye over a clearly restless mob of frustrated holidaymakers. He was holding a finger up to his ear, his mouth moving, evidently having a conversation as he studied the comings and goings before him. “You all have comms, I take it?”
“Yeah,” the one known as Phil answered, a little bemused, “though if he was talking to one of us, we’d be picking up the chatter. He must be using another channel.”
“Speaking to someone at the hoverport still?”
“Oh, yeah, they don’t have that much range. Listen, why do you want Bud anyway?”
“He’s got information pertinent to a case of mine.” Dredd spun on his heel and made for the door.
“Hey, Judge,” one of the sec-men called after him, “what’s the deal with this supposed suspect package? We’re all in the dark here; no one’s telling us anything.”
“Just keep the cits under control,” Dredd muttered without looking back. “It’ll be over soon. But until then, the situation should be considered dangerous.”
He slalomed through the people, resisting the urge to unholster his Lawgiver as a means to get them out of his way; he couldn’t risk a stampede if they anticipated a bullet festival. He saw the signage for gate six and made a beeline for it, catching a glimpse of Tronjer still talking animatedly into his mike as he paced. Dredd slowed and tried to ease his way amongst the crowd as he got closer, but the guard changed direction unexpectedly, turned his head and fixed the lawman directly in his sights. For a long, frozen moment, they stared at each other, both caught by surprise, each instantly and simultaneously knowing that the game was up.
“Get out! Get out now!” Tronjer yelled into his headpiece and drew an electroshock weapon from his hip without hesitation. The cits around them jumped at the creep’s sudden exclamation and panicked, shoving their way to escape, pushing Dredd aside as he drew his Lawgiver. He fired, but the aim was compromised, his SE round shattering the stun-gun a millisecond before the stun-pulse hit him full in the chest with the force of a construction-mek’s wrecking ball. He was knocked onto his back, his ribs feeling as if they’d been crushed, his heart and lungs constricted. A couple of other cits collapsed too, bowled over on the periphery of the blast, and fell either side of him. He struggled to breathe, skull pounding, vision hazy; as if underwater, he was aware of screams echoing, and hundreds of pairs of legs scissoring past. He grasped his Lawgiver firmly and pulled himself to a sitting position, swinging the gun to bear on where Tronjer had been a fraction earlier.
But the man was gone.
Ten
NO, NOT GONE. There.
Dredd saw Tronjer pushing through the crowd, the congestion slowing him as he fled back into the main body of the hoverport, angry shouts from those that were being unceremoniously barged to one side punctuating his escape, and the Judge hauled himself to his feet, head swimming as he stood. The effects of the stun-pulse lingered, his eyesight blurry, a tightness still wrapped around his chest, making breathing painful. He took a step forward and the strength briefly left his leg, the muscles protesting; he wobbled for a second, feeling disarmingly vulnerable. He counted himself lucky that he’d managed to shoot the creep’s weapon the moment it had discharged, knocking it fractionally off-target: if he’d taken the hit as was intended, he’d be unconscious for at least several hours, with possible lasting nerve damage. The reduced charge was not unlike being smacked in the face with a dayst
ick without the benefit of a visor, an experience he was unfortunately acquainted with during his many hand-to-hand training sessions at the Academy. Then, his ears would ring for days after a blow to the head; now, his skull felt as if it was swaddled in cotton wool, an ache combined with a seeping numbness.
Dredd instinctively raised his Lawgiver in Tronjer’s direction, but knew he couldn’t fire; his vision was too unreliable. He lowered it with a grunt, knelt to check the pulses of the two cits that were lying pole-axed nearby, then straightened and started to limp in pursuit.
“Are... are you all right, Judge?” an eldster to his left nervously asked.
Dredd glanced at her, aware of the perspiration dripping from his nose and chin, conscious of what he represented, of what must not be diminished or seen to be broken. “I’ll live,” he replied through gritted teeth, and set off at a steadily increasing pace.
Tronjer couldn’t escape, couldn’t make it through the cordon, and all flights were grounded, but clearly Carver was also somewhere in the complex, and together they must have a plan for getting past the barricades. Dredd staggered on, following the pointed fingers of aggrieved bystanders, and caught sight of the security guard running towards the baggage-handling area. He spurred himself to double his efforts. He knew he could—standard procedure was probably should—call in back-up to assist, cut down the ground that needed covering, but pride stayed his hand from radioing in the request; pride and more than a little determination. This was his case—he would see it through to completion. What message did it send if they mobilised the heavy mob to bring a pair of lawbreakers to book? If there was to be respect in the Law, it had to be seen to be delivered robustly by the badge, that a couple of meatheads like this were no match for a Mega-City Judge. Perhaps it was a stubborn streak, a leftover from his clone-father; a desire to do things his way, a tenacity for passing judgement by his own hand.
Judge Dredd Year One: City Fathers Page 9
