Sins of the Father

by Mitchel Scanlon

  The baby had been crying, on and off, ever since he had grabbed it from the block crèche. The sound was relentless. It seemed to drill into Lucas's head, creating a build-up of pressure at the back of his neck and behind his eyes that made him want to moan in pain. Abandoning his fruitless attempts to console the child, Lucas reminded himself of the reason he had kidnapped it to begin with. The knife lay on the step beside him. The blade was keen and sharp. He only had to pick up the weapon and, with one quick movement, it would all be over.

  One quick movement, and he could stop the baby's tears forever.

  Yet still, somehow, he found he was unable to do it. Unsure of his courage, Lucas had sat in the same place for hours while the child incessantly screeched and wailed at him. It had all seemed so clear back at Lindberg, but once he was alone with his victim in a secluded place the enormity of the act he contemplated had abruptly dawned on him. Chastened, he had told himself there was no other option. There was too much at stake to allow a failure of nerve to dissuade him. He had waited, staring down at the child, hoping the passage of time and the baby's continual noise might somehow combine to give him the strength he needed. Instead, he had felt his courage wax and wane inside him. At times, it felt like he was almost ready, only for his decisiveness to melt away as he reached for the knife. Competing instincts of mercy and ruthlessness warred within him: he did not hate this child, but the bitter consequences if he left his task undone appalled him.

  He was going to kill the Messiah. Even now, the thought made him uneasy. He felt light-headed and sick to the very pit of his stomach. Already, he had heaved up everything he had eaten, a puddle of vomit left festering beside one of the ruined packaging machines on the factory floor. Now, he felt tremors run through him as dry heaves wracked his body. It was almost too much for his mind to process. He was about to set himself against the Lord Grud's grand design. He was going to defy his Creator. He would commit an act of rebellion even greater than sinful Eve's in the Garden of Eden.

  In an attempt to stiffen his waning resolve once more, he thought back over his reasons. When he had first realised the child's true nature, he had told himself he had no choice. The Apocalypse was coming. The world would end. Billions would die, and only Lucas Verne could stand against it. Only he could avert the Final Judgement. He tried to reassure himself that perhaps even this might be some secret part of Grud's master plan. Grud was ineffable: his ways unknowable to the mind of Man. It could be that it was his destiny, divinely ordained, to kill the Christ-child. Why else would Grud have allowed the child to be born into the same housing block where Lucas lived? But even that thought only raised more questions.

  Why? Why would Grud do this to him? Lucas was reminded of the story of Abraham: of how the Lord Grud had ordered him to sacrifice his son Isaac, only to send an angel to stay the old man's hand at the very last moment. Was that it? Was this a test of his faith? Or was he like Job, condemned to suffer needlessly simply because it was Grud's will. The questions assailed him and he could find no answers. He wanted to pray, but all his prayers had left him. He felt forsaken and cast out, until a new thought occurred to him.

  If this was a test, perhaps it worked both ways. If he wished to know Grud's will, then he needed only to strike out against the child and the answers would become clear to him. Grud was all-powerful. If it was His will that the child be saved, when Lucas tried to harm it then Grud's hand would show itself. Like Abraham, Lucas would be prevented from completing the act. An angel would come, or Lucas would be struck blind, or the knife in his hand would turn to a serpent. Whatever the case, Grud's will in the matter would become clear.

  He played the thought in his head. He tested its logic. Finally, he came to a decision.

  He would kill the child. Then, all his questions would be answered.

  From the outside the factory was rundown and decrepit, its dozens of boarded-up windows peering blindly at the night-time traffic of the skedway alongside it. As the two Judges pulled their bikes onto an exit ramp leading to the parking forecourt, Anderson was struck by how quickly the place had been claimed by urban decay. According to the information Bryson had given her during the ride over from Lindberg, Mayor McMunce's McMarvellous Burgers had closed its doors a little under five years ago. It had not weathered well. Where the walls had not already been scarred by juve scrawl and petty vandalism, the paint had peeled away revealing the crumbling grey surface of the plascrete underneath it. Weeds poked out from cracks in the forecourt. Illegally dumped garbage littered every open space. Even the cartoon figure of the company mascot she had seen in Lucas Verne's memories had suffered violation. The statue of Mayor McMunce on the factory roof was missing a limb: the hand which had once greeted passers-by with a cheery wave was broken off at the elbow.

  In an attempt to prevent the perp from becoming alerted to their presence, the Judges had both cut their sirens three blocks earlier. Now, hoping the background noise of nearby traffic would serve to cover their approach, they switched off the engines of their Lawmasters and let their bikes glide silently into the forecourt.

  "How do you want to play this?" Bryson whispered as he eased his bike to a halt beside her.

  "Have you ever communicated telepathically before?" Anderson whispered back.

  It feels like this, she told him, projecting the thoughts into his mind. It's the best way for us to stay in touch without the perp hearing us. I'm letting you know now so you don't freak out when I use it inside. I've tuned in to your psychic wavelength. If you want to send a message back to me, you just have to think out the words in your head and I'll hear them.

  Check, Bryson's message came back.

  His face looked uneasy. It was a common reaction among non-psychics to their first experience of telepathy. Undoubtedly, Bryson did not welcome the idea of a Psi-Judge being able to eavesdrop inside his head. Momentarily, Anderson could tell him she had only established a surface channel of communication between them: the street Judge had no reason to fear the exposure of his unguarded inner thoughts. In her experience though, she realised that if she brought the subject up at all it would simply make things worse. Bryson would only assume she was reading his mind already, and immediately deny he had anything to hide. It was a no-win situation. Justice Department might like to paint them all as happy members of the same team, but sometimes the divide between Psi-Judges and their fellow Judges was so wide as to be almost unbridgeable.

  Closing her eyes, she reached out to the currents of the psi-flux in search of the psychic signature of Lucas Verne. Assuming the perp was inside the factory, once Anderson entered the place she would need to be cautious in her use of her powers. It was difficult to stay aware of her physical surroundings when she accessed the psi-flux: she risked exposing herself to ambush, allowing the perp to sneak up on her while her senses were clouded. Here though, in the relative safety of the factory forecourt, she had Bryson to watch her back and she could use her powers freely.

  The perp's inside, she told him, opening her eyes again. And I can sense the baby. I can't get a definite fix on their location. We'll have to do a pattern search and work our way from the first floor upwards. We should split up to cover the ground more quickly. You go in the back way, I'll take the front, and we'll meet in the middle.

  Check, Bryson nodded. He was already holding his Lawgiver in his hand, cocked and ready.

  Following the street Judge's example, Anderson pulled her own Lawgiver from her boot holster and eased off the safety behind the pistol's trigger. The standard issue Justice Department firearm in Mega-City One, the Lawgiver Mark Two was designed to give individual Judges the firepower to deal with virtually any situation. The gun had six ammunition options: Armour Piercing, Heatseeker, Hi-Explosive, Incendiary, Ricochet and Standard Execution rounds - controlled by an internal selector designed to respond to either vocal commands or a manual selection switch on the side of the magazine. It was also equipped with a non-lethal alternative in the form of a stun-shot energ
y pulse powered by the Lawgiver's own internal power supply. The stun-shot had a limited range, and its effects on its targets could be notoriously short-lived, but where possible Anderson preferred to bring her perps in alive. Especially when, as in the case of Lucas Verne, their psychological condition meant they couldn't be held responsible for their actions. Putting her finger to the selector switch, she set her Lawgiver to stun-shot.

  We go in quiet, she reminded Bryson as they left their bikes behind and began to advance towards the factory. As an extra precaution, she switched off the radio unit on her belt to prevent the noise of any sudden calls from Control from giving them away. The perp's unstable enough already - we don't want to spook him into doing something stupid. And, remember, the life of Garret Cooley is our main concern here. If possible, we take Lucas Verne alive. But if it comes down to having to kill him to save the baby, we go for the killshot. No question.

  Agreed, Bryson nodded again. You ready?

  They had reached the outskirts of the old factory building. It was time for the two of them to go their separate ways. Anderson drew a deep breath, found her centre, and started to move towards the building's front entrance.

  Ready, she told him. Let's go.

  She only hoped they could come through this one without anybody having to die.

  Inside, the factory was even more of a shambles than it appeared from its exterior. The chain and padlock holding the front doors closed had been broken open, indicating that was the way Lucas Verne had gained entrance. Sneaking soundlessly through the broad inner expanses of what had once been a busy factory floor, Anderson found she was alone in a dark and ominous environment in which every shadow seemed thick with implicit menace. She had a flashlight clipped to her belt, but wary of alerting the perp to her presence she was forced to forego its comfort. In its place, she relied on the dim radiance of street lights and moonlight that came in through the gaps between the boards covering the windows to guide her. It was slow and cautious work. The floor was strewn with rusting debris: a single misstep might cause her to reveal her position, or worse, slip and twist an ankle. The foreboding shapes of the factory machinery around her offered the perp a hundred different places in which to hide. The silence was oppressive. Uncomfortably, it occurred to her that if the perp had wanted to choose the perfect spot in which to ambush a Judge, he could not have picked a better location.

  Suddenly, the silence was broken. She heard the distant noise of a baby crying.

  Straining her ears to home in on the sound, Anderson was led past a row of dented munce bins and a broken conveyor belt to an area where the factory's right wall turned a corner and opened out into the even broader expanses of what she guessed was the old main production line. Ahead, she could see a vague light. Drawing nearer, she saw it was coming from a metal staircase leading up to a second-storey gantry. Partway up the staircase, on a half-landing where the stairs turned back diagonally on their way to the gantry, she could see a man cradling a baby.

  It was Lucas Verne.

  Careful to avoid noise and stay to the shadows, she moved closer. Verne had hung a porta-light on a hook over the staircase railing, and as he paced back and forth on the landing with the baby in his arms Anderson saw the glint of a knife in his right hand. The perp seemed agitated, as though wrestling inwardly with some weighty dilemma.

  Keeping them in her line of sight, Anderson advanced quietly toward the stairway until she reached a point where Verne was well within range of her Lawgiver. Given the fact he was holding the baby, it was clear she couldn't use a stun-shot to subdue the perp. According to the warning guidelines issued by Justice Department with the Lawgiver Mark Two, a stun-shot intended to disable an adult contained enough electrical amplitude to kill a child - never mind a three month-old infant. Equally, even as she switched the ammunition selector on the gun's magazine to allow it to fire standard execution rounds, she realised any attempt to kill or wound Verne would be just as risky. The staircase landing he was standing on was at least five metres above the ground. If she shot Verne and he dropped Garret Cooley, the fall would likely kill the baby. It seemed the safest course would be to try to persuade the perp to surrender.

  An idea occurred to her. If she could surreptitiously perform a telepathic scan on Verne without his knowledge, she might gain insights that would make it easier to talk him down. At the same time he was obviously volatile, while the scan would cloud her awareness of the physical world and interfere with her ability to respond if he suddenly tried to harm the child.

  She needed backup. Fast.

  Bryson. Sending out a telepathic summons, she felt the presence of the street Judge's mind on the other side of the factory. I need you here now! I've found the perp. He's on the landing of a staircase by the north-east wall. Get over here as fast you can, but keep it quiet and make sure you stay out of sight.

  Affirmative on that, Bryson responded. There was a pause. Yeah, I can see a light up ahead. I should be there in two minutes.

  Up on the landing, the perp had abruptly stopped pacing. Forewarned by a sudden sense of disquiet, Anderson gently eased the flashlight from her belt and crept towards the foot of the staircase. Her instincts told her the perp had reached some kind of decision. She saw a movement in the hand that held the knife as Verne brought the blade closer to the baby's throat. Bryson was still at least a minute away.

  For better or worse, it looked like she would have to deal with the situation on her own.

  "Anderson, Psi Division!" Stepping out of the shadows she turned the flashlight on, training the beam on Verne with her left hand as she aimed her Lawgiver at him with the right. "Lucas Verne, you are under arrest! Drop the knife and put the baby down. Now!"

  In response Verne stood motionless, his knife still hovering near the child's throat. Spotlighted in the glare of the flashlight, his eyes wild, his hair and beard in disarray, he looked the image of an Old Testament prophet. His brow creased in thought, he stared at her in silence.

  "Did Grud send you?" he said at last. "Are you His angel?"

  Awaiting her reply, Verne fell silent once more. The baby had stopped crying, as though waiting for her answer in the same state of expectation as his captor. Briefly, Anderson wondered whether she should try to play to the perp's delusions. But the stakes were high and she had no way of knowing how Verne would react. If she claimed to be an angel would he surrender, or would it make him more likely to harm the child? She decided her best course of action was to follow the procedures they had taught her at the Academy Of Law. Command the situation. Bark out orders. Don't give the perp time to think. Make it clear compliance is his only option.

  "Drop the knife! You are under arrest! Put the baby down and step away from him! Do it! Now!"

  "Are you an angel?" the perp was persistent. Her commands, and the fact she was pointing a gun at him, did not seem to faze him. "Is this a sign? Did Grud send you to save the child? Did He send you to stay my hand?"

  Stalemate. It was as though the perp hardly registered the danger of the situation, as though the real world had less weight to him than whatever psycho-drama was playing out inside his head. There was a glassiness to his expression: he wore the unresponsive thousand-metre stare of the confirmed fanatic.

  "Did Grud send you?" he asked her again. "Are you an angel?"

  Anderson didn't like the way this whole thing was going. It felt like the perp was building up his courage, his emotions slowly burning, getting ready to explode in a violent crescendo at any moment. The knife was barely a centimetre away from the baby's throat. Conflicting strategies warred within her: should she try to talk him down, play along with madness, or take the shot and pray for the best?

  She saw movement at the periphery of her vision. It was Bryson. The street Judge was on the other side of the staircase. He had worked his way behind the perp, his Lawgiver raised to aim up at Lucas Verne as he moved to take a position just below the landing. Verne had not noticed him yet: he had eyes only for Anderso
n.

  "Are you an angel?" the perp demanded. He was growing impatient, and Anderson realised the time for a decision was fast approaching. Whatever she was going to do, she needed to do it quickly. "Are you an angel? Tell me."

  Bryson, she contacted the street Judge telepathically. She kept her eyes on the perp, wary of any sudden movements. I need you to advance until you're standing directly below the perp. And holster your weapon. You're going to need both hands free.

  What are you planning to do?, Bryson asked her. But she had no time to answer him. On the landing, his back turned to Bryson and still unaware of the street Judge's presence, Lucas Verne was becoming angry.

  "Are you an angel?" he shouted, his body shifting in ill-concealed agitation. As he moved, his knife inched closer to the baby's throat. "Tell me! Tell me now or-"

  "I'm an angel, Lucas," she said, silently hoping she could play the role right. "My name is Cassandra. Grud sent me with a message for you. He says the baby is not the Messiah. You don't need to hurt hi-"

  "Liar!" Verne roared at her. "You're a liar! Grud didn't send you! Do you think you can fool me?"

  He lifted the baby in his arms, jostling the child awake. Disturbed, the baby resumed his crying.

  "Do you think I don't know that this is the true Messiah?" Verne was raving now, spittle flying from his mouth as his words rebounded in harsh echoes from the walls and machinery around them. "You think I don't know what that means? Billions of people are going to die. The Apocalypse is coming, and I'm the only one who can stop it! Me! Lucas Verne! It's up to me to save the world! I see that now!"