GOODMAN UNCONSCIOUSLY CLENCHED his fists when the door to his office opened and Judge Hubert Badger entered.
“Good morning, Chief,” Badger said. He was a dour twenty-three-year-old who’d never spent any real time on the streets. In his final year at the Academy he’d been recommended for a position in Strategies, and had worked there ever since. He had a vivid imagination for a Judge, which Goodman had always found unsettling.
“Badger.”
“Been looking over the Dredd reports... Had some thoughts I want to bounce off you.” Without waiting to be invited, Badger dragged a chair over to Goodman’s desk and sat down. As always, Badger worked without notes, having committed everything to memory. “I’m told that the SJS are going around in circles trying to find evidence of the younger Dredd’s corruption. So far, they’ve come up with nothing. It’s been thirty-three days. Time to shut that down and put their resources to better use.”
“That’s not up to us, Badger. The SJS operates autonomously. You know that.”
“Sure, sure. But a word or two from you might speed things up. Rico Dredd’s scheduled to ship out to Titan on the next transport. I wonder if I might have a chance to spend some time interviewing him before then.”
Goodman didn’t respond to that one. He was all too familiar with Hubert Badger’s grand plans and wasn’t in the mood for any of them.
“Well?” Badger asked.
Goodman sighed. “Badger... We’ve been over this. No one but the SJS gets to talk to Rico Dredd. He is exceptionally dangerous, and the sooner he’s gone, the sooner I’ll be able to relax a little. Request denied. And for the record, any future similar requests must go through the proper channels before they reach this office, at which point they will also be denied.”
“I can use him, Chief.”
“I know you can. Just as I know that Rico can—and will—use you. And he’s a lot stronger-willed than you are. Trust me: fifteen minutes in his company and you’d be signing up to be his second-in-command. Now, is that everything?”
“No. The other Dredd... he’s been making waves over in Sector 198.”
“Elucidate, please.”
“In the month since his reassignment, he’s accumulated nineteen official complaints about his behaviour.”
Goodman nodded. “Sounds about par for the course with Joe Dredd.”
“Sir, those are the complaints from other Judges. Complaints from the citizens are well into three figures. What the hell is he doing over there?”
“His job. Badger, I haven’t seen all of those reports, but I have no doubt that there’s not been a single instance where Dredd’s judgement has been at fault. Am I right?”
“As it happens, you are. But, sir, Sector Chief Benzon has put in a request to keep Joseph Dredd on a permanent basis. A personal note, along with her usual request for a larger budget, says, ‘If you’ve got any more like him, send them my way too.’ Sir, I can’t permit that. I have my own plans for Dredd.”
Goodman toyed with an ornamental antique fountain pen on his desk. “Of course you do, Badger. You have plans for everyone. But most of your plans will never see the light of day... Every sector should be walled off from its neighbours for greater security. Put all Judges in plain clothes to keep the perps off their guard. Sector Zero. Ban education on the grounds that dumb criminals are less trouble than smart ones. Even your better ideas either haven’t been practical or will take years to come to fruition. The Venusian penal colony, head-to-toe body-armour for the street Judges, the Land Raider project... I could go on.” Goodman shook his head. “No, Dredd’s too good a Judge to be taken off the streets, and he’s our last viable link to Eustace Fargo. He stays where he is until the SJS either find some concrete evidence against him, or they conclude that he’s innocent. Which I believe he is. Do you understand me, Badger?”
Without giving the younger Judge time to respond, Goodman added, “Half of the senior Judges are still calling for him to be put down just in case he turns out like Rico, three members of the Council of Five are trying to use him as proof that the cloning programme is more trouble than it’s worth and should be terminated, you want to squirrel him away for one of your frankly implausible long-term schemes... And not one of you seems to have the intelligence to grasp the single most important thing about Joe Dredd!”
“And what would that be, sir?” Badger asked.
“No matter where you put him, the crime rates drop.”
Five
SJS JUDGE GILLEN waited on one of the landing pads on the roof of the Hall of Justice, watching a shuttle touch down. The craft’s hatch opened, and Judge Joseph Dredd emerged. He spotted Gillen and walked toward her.
Forty-seven days had passed since his brother’s arrest: the longest the brothers had ever spent apart.
Dredd stopped in front of her, and nodded. “Gillen.”
“How’s Sector 198?”
“Hot. Uncomfortable. Dangerous.”
“So you’re enjoying it, then?”
“Why are you here, Gillen? I was told that I wouldn’t need a chaperone.”
Gillen nodded toward the building’s entrance. “Walk with me, Dredd.” He fell into step beside her, and she glanced up at him. Stoic, that’s the word, she thought. Nothing gets to him. “I heard you’re breaking a few arrest records over in 198.”
Dredd didn’t respond.
“Sector Chief Benzon tells me you’re one of the hardest-working Judges she’s ever seen. I know Benzon—she doesn’t dole out the praise too easily. Now, that’s got some people thinking that maybe Joe Dredd is on the level after all. And others are saying that you’re trying too hard, that you’re hiding something. Are you, Dredd?”
They paused at the building’s security doors long enough for the automated scanners to confirm their identities.
“I have nothing to hide,” Dredd said. “But I understand why you’re still looking.”
Gillen walked ahead of him into the Hall of Justice. Even at this level, she could hear the murmur of crowds many floors below.
Ten minutes later, in the Hall’s cavernous but rarely-used main courtroom, Gillen kept a close eye on Joseph Dredd as his brother was escorted through the hushed crowds.
Even though Rico was cuffed hand and foot, the six escorting Judges had their Lawgivers drawn and ready. No one was taking any chances. They led him to a chair in the centre of the room, and stepped back.
This was the closing session of the three-day hearing into Rico’s case. Gillen had been present for every second of the hearing. Ten separate reports had been presented, compiled from hundreds of interviews with Judges, witnesses, perps and victims. Not one report had concluded anything but guilt on Rico’s part.
Gillen leaned a little closer to Dredd and whispered, “Just so you know... There are eight snipers and twelve autoguns targeting your brother right now. And just about the same number watching you.”
Dredd nodded. “I’ve seen them.”
“As Rico’s only living family member, you have the right to speak with him before the sentence is issued.”
“Fine where I am.”
“You sure? The odds are you’ll never see him again.”
“I’m sure.”
A minute later Chief Judge Clarence Goodman entered, with little fanfare. Gillen admired that about the Chief; his predecessor, Solomon, had been the sort who expected everyone to stand when he entered a room.
The Chief Judge stepped up to his podium and waited a few moments for the room to settle, then nodded to one of his assistants. The assistant told Rico to stand.
The Chief regarded him for a second, then said, “Rico Dredd, on the charge of the premeditated murder of citizen Virgil Alain Livingstone, this board has taken your testimony, witness statements and the physical evidence into consideration.”
Judge Gillen realised that she was focussing almost completely on Joe Dredd’s demeanour, though she wasn’t sure what she was expecting. So far, anyone unfamiliar with the s
ituation would have been forgiven for thinking that Joe and Rico had never even heard of each other: he hadn’t displayed any reaction.
The Chief Judge continued: “We have concluded that citizen Livingstone’s death was unintentional, and on said charge this board finds you innocent.”
All around Gillen, other Judges began to whisper: this was not what many of them had been expecting. She looked up at Dredd’s face, half-expecting to see a slight smile. Nothing. Not the slightest flinch.
A voice from behind them said, “Jovis... Joe, is that you?”
Gillen and Dredd turned to see Judge Gibson easing his way through the crowd.
Dredd nodded to him. “Gibson.”
As Gibson moved to stand next to Dredd, a lot of the other Judges nearby seemed to realise who he was, and began to subtly sidle away.
“So,” Gibson muttered as he removed his helmet. “Poor old Rico. You doing all right?”
“Can’t complain.”
“You can’t complain!? Joe, you see what’s happening down there?”
Down in the centre of the room, the Chief Judge looked around with a slight scowl until the room settled back into silence. Then he continued: “But Livingstone’s death was not unavoidable. Rico Dredd, you abused your position as a Judge for personal gain, and in doing so you put the life of citizen Livingstone—and countless others—at risk. A Judge’s first duty is to serve the citizens, and in that duty you have failed.”
“They’re railroading him,” Judge Gibson said. “Look at this drokkin’ circus. You’d think he was the only Judge ever caught with his hand in the register! Joe, we have to do something!”
“No,” Dredd said. “We don’t.”
“He’s your brother!”
Dredd turned toward his old friend, and for a moment Gillen thought that Dredd was on the edge of losing his temper, something she was certain she never wanted to see.
But Dredd simply said, “He’s a lawbreaker,” and turned back to watch the hearing.
At the podium, the Chief Judge said, “Rico Dredd, this board finds you guilty of conduct unbecoming a Mega-City One Judge. Specifically, multiple counts of extortion and theft, and deliberate actions that led to the manslaughter of citizen Virgil Livingstone.” He looked around the room. “If any Judge present has anything to say before I pass sentence, speak now.”
Judge Gillen became uncomfortably aware that everyone present was now looking at Joe Dredd. Even the Chief Judge had turned to look toward him.
“Well?” Gibson whispered. “Say something!”
The seconds drew out and Joe Dredd remained silent and immobile.
The Chief Judge cleared his throat and the moment was broken. “Very well. Rico Dredd, you are dishonourably discharged from the Justice Department, and sentenced to a period of not less than twenty years’ penal servitude.”
Gillen half-expected an outburst from Rico, a tirade of abuse at the incompetence of the Justice Department, but there was nothing from him but that look of pure contempt on his face, the same expression he’d worn throughout the entire hearing.
The Chief Judge said, “The time for appeals, submission of evidence or pleas for clemency on any grounds has now passed. Clerks, file and seal the records—this hearing has ended. Escort the prisoner back to holding. The galleries are to be cleared, all Judges present return to duty.”
After one last, brief look at Rico, and another at Joe, the Chief Judge strode out of the room.
As the guards escorted Rico after him, Gibson whispered to Dredd, “You are one cold-hearted bastard, Joe! Why didn’t you say something?”
“Why didn’t you?” Dredd asked.
Gibson glowered at him for a moment, then sagged. “You’re right. He knew what he was doing. He deserves punishment. That’s another one gone from the class of ’seventy-nine... A bunch of us are getting together tonight. Just an hour or two, to chew the fat and talk about the old times. You in?”
“No.”
“Yeah, thought not.” Gibson put his helmet back on, then patted Dredd on the arm. “Be seeing you, Joe.”
Dredd and Gillen watched him go, then Gillen said, “Shuttle’s waiting. I’ll walk back with you.”
“There’s no need.”
“I’m not offering out of sympathy,” Gillen said. “I’m going to make damn sure you do get back on the shuttle. Rico’s case is closed, but yours isn’t.”
“I understand that.” He looked down at her. “But you’re wasting your time, Gillen. You can’t find evidence that doesn’t exist.”
“Everyone’s guilty of something, Dredd. That’s just human nature.”
“Then what are you guilty of?”
“I’m not the one on trial.”
Dredd began to walk away. “Nor am I.”
“Yet.”
Six
“HMPH,” JUDGE MONTAG said as she followed Dredd and Ramini out of the ore-processing factory and into the warm, dry night-time air of Sector 198’s south-side.
Dredd turned back to face her. “What’s that?”
Montag unclipped the cartridge from her Lawgiver. “Just an observation. Outside of the shooting gallery, this is the first time I’ve emptied an entire clip.”
Ramini pulled off her helmet and ran her hands through her sweat-drenched greying hair. “It won’t be the last time.” She looked back toward the factory. “Think we got them all?”
“We did,” Dredd said. For the better part of a day, Dredd, Montag and Ramini had been tracking the organ-legger Wylie Quartermaine and his gang, resulting in a fire-fight at the factory. Quartermaine’s people had brought heavy weapons: by Dredd’s estimation, the damage to the factory was likely to run into millions of credits.
Ramini said, “I just hope to hell that whatever we recover from Quartermaine’s funds is enough to cover the cost of this.”
“It doesn’t have to,” Dredd said as he headed for his Lawmaster. “Factory’s owned by the Hanenberger family. They’re billionaires—they can afford to personally absorb the cost of the damages. Their factory’s security was weak. If it had been better, Quartermaine wouldn’t have tried to hide out here.”
Ramini followed him. “Hah. You’ve clearly never met the Hanenbergers, Dredd. They’re the wiliest, most ruthless family in the sector. They pay the bare minimum, they cut every corner they can, and they skirt the edge of legality without ever stepping over it.”
“So we move the edge,” Dredd said. He nodded toward the bullet-riddled factory, where four teams of Med-Judges were now carrying out the members of Quartermaine’s gang, most of them in body-bags. “Fences are three metres high... We draft a new law, effective yesterday, stating that for a building of this size security fences should be four metres minimum. Means the city’s not responsible for their weak security.”
“Yeah... It doesn’t really work like that.”
“It works like that if we decide it does.”
“NOT A CHANCE,” said Sector Chief Benzon the next morning. “I had the Hanenbergers’ legal team chewing my ear off all night. They’re blaming us, and they want compensation or they’ll just pull out of this sector completely.”
Ramini began, “Sir, let me talk to them—”
Benzon shook her head. “No. If the Hanenbergers pull out, we wave goodbye to a huge source of revenue, not to mention all the jobs that would be lost.”
“You’re allowing a corporation to dictate judicial policy.”
“No, I’m allowing them to believe that’s what’s happening.” Benzon glared over her desk at Ramini. “You, Dredd and Montag... you’re being reassigned.”
“Sir, working together, Dredd and I have made a significant impact on the crime statistics in the sector.”
“I’m aware of that. But the Hanenberger Corporation is asking for greater security for their iridium mine in the Cursed Earth. They’ve got a town there, about five hundred people, pretty much self-governing. But both the town and the mine have been hit by raiders ten times in the past t
wo months. In exchange for keeping their ore-processing factory in the city, they want me to give them thirty Judges. I can’t spare that many. I’m sending them you three.”
“Just us?” Ramini asked.
“Best I can do,” Benzon said. “You’ll work with their local law-enforcement, help shore up their defences. Right now we need the iridium and the Hanenbergers’ support more than we need you.”
THE TOWN OF Ezekiel had been established a little under one hundred kilometres north-west of Sector 198, in a natural canyon that allowed access to iridium deposits and provided some shelter from the Cursed Earth’s ferocious radiation storms. The only safe way to reach the town from Mega-City One was in a shuttle: the stretch of blighted land between the canyon and the city was littered with the burnt-out, sand-blasted remains of a dozen Hell-Trek convoys.
But even flying to Ezekiel wasn’t without hazards; experimental gravity-warping weapons deployed during the atomic wars had created huge, unpredictable aerial pockets of near-zero gravitation that impeded an aircraft’s instrumentation and often carried fast-moving air-borne streams of detritus—rubble, dead trees, abandoned vehicles, truck-sized boulders—that had been whipped up by powerful magnetic storms. These regions, named ‘death-belts’ by the pilots stupid or brave enough to navigate them, had been known to last for months or even years before fading out, slowly depositing millions of tonnes of debris across the landscape.
Now, Dredd was looking down on a particularly large death-belt as the Hanenberger Corporation’s shuttle passed the half-way point to Ezekiel.
“Spectacular, huh?” the pilot said to Dredd. “I’ve flown this route ten times and it still scares the crap out of me.”
The pilot—Brian O’Donnell—was a couple of years older than Dredd. A large man with unruly red hair, weather-beaten skin and strong hands, he had been quick to point out that his primary job was Ezekiel’s deputy sheriff. “I keep the town running. And we were doing fine until these raiders started showing up. They hit fast and hard, raid our supplies, sabotage the equipment... I don’t know if they’re new or just the same old guys who’ve always been around, but something’s working them into a frenzy.”
Judge Dredd: Year Two Page 4