Judge Dredd: Year Two

by Michael Carroll

  He watched as the delivery goons were shipped off to incarceration, where they’d be interrogated for locations and details. Surveillance footage would be studied, witnesses canvassed. The old boy, head heavily bandaged, was being similarly hurriedly loaded into the back of a wagon, the attending med-Judge diagnosing him as going into toxic shock, infection running rampant. Given the state of the apartment, Dredd wasn’t surprised. He wondered exactly how much good the cherished ‘Doc’ was actually doing in this stommhole of an operating theatre; for all her laudable intentions, she was surely responsible for many a botched job, killing as much as curing. How many had she seen over the years, the injured and infirm who couldn’t afford the health insurance or didn’t want to draw the attention of the Judges?

  He looked around the rockcrete canyons, at the equally destitute blocks opposite, and pictured Carrington’s patients dying alone and in pain, stitches unknitting, limbs blackening, so far from the reaches of the med-services. Ghosts haunting their own apartments, undisturbed in their tombs until the city finally decided to bulldoze the whole sub-sector. These forgotten citizens were no more than shadows on the wall, the war’s living dead that may as well have been atomised by one of Booth’s missiles for all the mark they made on the metropolis. It was a marginalised existence beyond the reach or control of Justice Department. Dredd felt a restless urge to put it right, but it seemed outside the capabilities of just one Judge.

  He shook his head, turning back inside. Forensics were still piecing together the remains that has been gathered from the doc’s lab. McCready saw him enter, put down a jar of something old and shrivelled, and wandered over.

  “Quite the haul,” he said.

  “What’s the count so far?”

  “At least ten different bodies, in variable states of decomposition. Despite the freezers and pickling solutions, she wasn’t much good at keeping the parts preserved. Some of them date back a couple of years—no wonder the eldster had septicaemia, she was trying to graft some seriously rank tissue.”

  “Working with what she had,” Dredd mused, watching heads, legs and a string of ears being bagged.

  “Yeah, well, Shapiro’s Hottie Emporium this ain’t. Hell, a beefalo slaughterhouse is more hygienic. I’m amazed anyone walked out of here after she’d finished with them.”

  “You managed to run any DNA traces yet?”

  “Still on it. Something of a jigsaw puzzle. I’m fairly sure none of them are local; looks like they were imported from the outlying sectors. We’d be talking about abductions and missing persons logged across city in the last twenty-four months. No easy task.”

  Dredd grunted in agreement. “How long till you come up with some names?”

  “Few hours at least.”

  “Okay, keep me informed.” He cast one last eye around the room, then headed into the welcome fresh air.

  Standard operating procedure would be to conduct some door-to-doors, he thought as he swung his bike around, see who else had benefited (or not, as the case may be) from the ministrations of the good doctor, or at least find out how many were aware of what she was up to. The chumps he’d arrested made it sound like she was a local hero—the backstreet shaman where surgery came with complimentary blood poisoning. Chances are the cits from around here wouldn’t be too pleased to learn that he’d gunned her down, no matter what she’d infected them with, or how many poor saps had to die to keep her in the organ business. Down here there was a protect-your-own mentality; a not unexpected resentment towards the glittering Mega-City crowding the sky overhead that manifested in a closing of ranks. He’d been taught crowd psychology at the Academy, mastered the ability to read a civilian’s body language, but all the same, the cits were alien to him at times: selfish, tribal, gullible. He still found it difficult to gauge their thought processes, understand them. He’d been schooled in the art of pre-empting what their intentions were, but couldn’t say why they did what they did. That was a part of human nature that escaped him.

  Morphy had told him once that flatfooting it amongst the populace was part of being a good Judge—not every case could be solved with a bullet. Sometimes it meant tedious, menial police work that involved engaging with the public, as frustrating and aggravating as that could be. It was meant to build up your people skills, enable you to approach the dangerous on their own terms, defuse potential scenarios with minimum risk. It was typically sage wisdom from an old hand like Morph; perhaps it came from an earlier age, or Dredd was simply too impatient. Whichever, it was an area he struggled with, and looking around him at Strickland’s grey tenements he knew it’d be a lost cause attempting to glean anything from here. It was too closed off, too entrenched. Another piece of advice Dredd found useful was not to waste time.

  He gunned the engine and peeled away, heading for the ramp that would lead him back to the meg-way. Climbing towards the main thoroughfare, it felt like he was rising out of the past, breaking free of the suffocating, clinging taint of the city’s history. He had to admit there was a small, unprofessional sense of relief to be leaving it behind: it made him uncomfortable to see the wreckage the gleaming metropolis had been founded on, and those that had to live amongst it. Of course, he’d been there when the bombs had dropped, him and his brother; he’d seen the destruction that had been wrought, and what needed to be done to save what remained of mankind. He knew Fargo had made the hard decisions—evidently it was to become something of a family trait—but so much had to be sacrificed, and those choices were to inform the future of the city years into the future. To witness the legacy first-hand, down here in Strickland, was to confront the appalling cost they had paid as a species, perhaps even more than the vast wastes of the Cursed Earth—it was what they were prepared to accept on their own doorstep that was the true gut-punch. What they could live with if it was removed far enough from sight.

  Dredd threaded back into the traffic and immediately spotted a limo indicating for the junction back down towards the ghetto. He experienced a moment of dismay: the sub-sector hadn’t finished with him. There was no question his suspicion was aroused; it was far too expensive a model to be innocently cruising through such a district. Either it was lost, or the driver had business down here, and the latter was unlikely to be legitimate. He sighed; if he’d believed in fate it would feel like it was making a point. Since he didn’t, he figured today was simply going to be a challenge.

  He accelerated, veering across several lanes, and hit the downslope. The limo had almost disappeared among the warren of blocks already. He called in its registration and it came back as unlisted; that answered that question, at least. It was definitely up to something, though the owner couldn’t have chosen a more conspicuous mode of transport if they’d tried. Chances were that it was deliberately sending a message, that some level of intimidation was going on here. Dredd’s curiosity was piqued—and, he had to admit, he was pleased at the opportunity. Given the battering his reputation had received recently, a high-profile collar would go some way to returning honour to the name.

  The car was stationary when he turned onto a boulevard between Len McCluskey and Russ Meyer blocks, idling. He radioed in his position to Control, then hit the siren, a single whoop that resounded between the buildings, far louder down here than it would be among the hubbub of the city proper: a piercing, mournful wail. He pulled alongside the driver’s side and tapped the mirrored window.

  It buzzed down, and the meathead behind the wheel looked up at him impassively, a wiry, hollowed-out enforcer that had had cybernetic replacement surgery to his lower jaw, scar tissue stretching up to his right eye. Something had taken a chunk out of him at some point. Dredd felt his trigger finger twitch: he knew a dangerous creep when he saw one, and the guy was eyeing him with little fear. This was a career criminal—unlike the blissed-out organ-couriers, he’d have no compunction about killing. Just those first four seconds before either of them spoke was enough for Dredd to assess and strategise.

  “Help you, Judge?
” The voice was like gravel in a garbage-grinder.

  “Turn the engine off, citizen.” Languorously, the creep did so. “Ask you what your business is here?”

  “Just dropped off my client. I was asked to wait while he visited his associates.” He nodded beyond Dredd’s shoulder at Meyer, behind him. The Judge tilted his head, following where the driver had indicated: the block looked as dead and unforgiving as the rest.

  “Your client?”

  “Mr Gilpig.”

  The name didn’t ring a bell. Dredd hadn’t been on the streets long enough to become familiar with all the underworld movers and shakers, though new ones could crop up overnight, especially if there was a power vacuum to fill. Local knowledge would come with experience. The Strickland estate was one area that was particularly hazy.

  “And who’s he going to meet?”

  The punk shrugged and smiled. “I’m just the ferryman.” He leant back and rested an elbow on the window frame with studied nonchalance that irritated Dredd as much as it was unquestionably supposed to.

  “Out of the vehicle, citizen.”

  He sighed and clambered from the car as Dredd dismounted his bike. He was bigger than the Judge has assumed; he had a good four or five inches on him, and what Dredd had mistaken for scrawn was lean muscle. He could’ve injured his face playing aeroball, he had the physique for it.

  “Turn around, hands on the roof.” The creep slowly complied. Dredd patted him down, pulled a snubnose from a shoulder holster—“I’ve got a licence for that,” the driver said without looking round—and wrenched a wallet from his back pocket, which he flipped open, glancing at the ID within. “Control, what we got on a Buzz Calhoun, 1154/67 Emily Pankhurst?”

  “In and out of the juve cubes: gang rumbles, mainly,” came the reply on his comm after a moment’s pause. “Did a five-stretch for assault, 2072. Received an extra year for knifing an inmate while inside—Bill Bigley, the Night Glider Murderer. No outstanding warrants, been clean since then.”

  So much for the aeroball theory. Dredd tossed the wallet onto the car roof just beyond Calhoun’s reach, tucked the snubnose in his belt. “You know it’s illegal for a convicted felon to possess a firearm?”

  “That’s not what the guy who sold it to me said. Anyway, Mr Gilpig insisted it was a, y’know... requirement o’ the job.”

  “Ignorance of the law is no excuse. Neither is incitement.”

  “Incitement?” Calhoun shot a look sharply over his shoulder.

  “You drive a Foord Optimum down here onto Strickland, you’re asking to be jacked. That’s incitement to commit a crime, punishable by six months.”

  “Hey, whaddya think I got the gun for? It’s a preventative measure. An’ who exactly am I meant to incitin’?”

  “You think a set of wheels like this would go unnoticed?” Dredd had no doubt multiple sets of eyes were watching them from many different apartments right now. “I hadn’t come along, the natives would’ve stripped it in five minutes. Let me guess: Gilpig likes to make a statement, right?”

  “I s’pose. I only worked for him for the last coupla months.” He tried to turn around and Dredd shoved him back against the car. “C’mon, man, gimme a break. I’m just a chauffeur; I drive the boss to where he wants to go. I ain’t doin’ no harm to no-one.”

  “Which makes a change, regular cube-bunny like you,” the Judge remarked, then unhooked a pair of cuffs and slapped on them on Calhoun’s wrists, to which he groaned and swore under his breath. “A year for the possession with intent—let’s call it eighteen months, all in.” Dredd spun him around, his prisoner glaring at him. “Reckon I’d like to have a word with your employer, too, when he deigns to show his face.” The creep didn’t reply, just breathed furiously through his nose. “In fact,” Dredd added, “I’ve got grounds to conduct a search of your vehicle right now. You want to save me some time, let me know if there’s any more contraband inside?” No answer. “Well, then.”

  Dredd yanked him to one side so he was standing next to the Lawmaster, hands bound behind his back, and walked around the front of the limo to the passenger door, which he threw open. It was spotless inside, the cream plastex interior buffed until it shone. He pulled out the glove compartment and a couple of drawers hidden beneath the seats, but they were conspicuously empty; it was if the car had just rolled off the factory production line. He remembered when he’d called in its registration it had come back as unlisted, which suggested it may well have been driven straight from a showroom. Untraceable, clean... Dredd didn’t like it.

  “Keep everything spick and span, huh?” he said to Calhoun, who was watching him run his gauntleted hands along the dashboard and between the sun-visors. Dredd cast a glance at his prisoner then unsheathed his daystick and began to sweep it over the upholstery, poking the end into the soft padding at intervals. Nothing. “Let’s try the trunk.”

  He strode to the rear of the limo and popped the back open. Same story: vacuumed methodically, spare tyre still gleaming. He prodded around, but couldn’t feel anything untoward. Except... the polished rubber betrayed a flaw—he caught a glimpse in the reflection, a tiny tear in the lining behind the lip of the trunk that he wouldn’t have seen otherwise. He reached in and felt a flap of material had come loose; he pushed deeper with his fingers and a small oblong-shaped object dropped into his palm. Holding it into the light, he saw it was a plain, unmarked zipdrive, the kind you could buy at any mega-mart. He twisted it between thumb and forefinger in front of Calhoun.

  “Care to explain this?” The creep shrugged, and the Judge glanced again at the memory stick before placing it in one of his pouches. “The less you talk, the harder it’ll go for you. The teks’ll soon take it apart, make no mistake about that. Don’t think we won’t discover its secrets.” Calhoun just watched Dredd as he drew nearer. “Control—”

  With frightening speed, the perp impossibly brought both bound arms over his head and lunged at the Judge, wrapping the cuffs around his throat and pulling tight. Dredd stumbled back and tried to shake him off, choking as the monofibre restrainers cut deep into his neck, but Calhoun was seemingly equally as strong as he was, capable of maintaining the pressure. Stars danced before his eyes, and raw panic flashbulbed in his head before the training reasserted itself.

  Dredd slammed his elbow into his attacker’s midriff once, then again and again, until he felt the cuffs slacken slightly, then smashed the back of his helmet against the bridge of Calhoun’s nose. He toppled backwards, bringing Dredd with him as both men crashed to the ground. The Judge managed to get his hands under Calhoun’s and push upwards, easing his head under the creep’s grip, then swung round and delivered a piledriver blow to his jaw, his fist skating off the metal casing. The punk had the temerity to grin before lacing his fingers together and punching Dredd in the side of the skull; his helmet softened much of the blow, but there was still enough force to send him tumbling to the side. His ears rang. He hadn’t received a strike like that since his cadet days when a rubber bullet ricocheted off his visor. Then, he’d spent several hours in the infirmary with concussion. Now, he was outside the training arena and fighting for his life with no available back-up.

  “Control—” he started again, but Calhoun was up on his feet and brought a boot crashing down on the lawman’s head again, snapping his comm mic. All he heard was static, until it was broken by the unmistakeable crack of a rib buckling when Calhoun stomped on him a second time. He rolled, felt the snubnose in his belt, and reached for it, bringing it to bear before the perp punted it from his hand, the weapon skittering across the sked and into the shadows.

  Calhoun grabbed hold of his own right hand with his left and twisted, his right arm detaching at the shoulder—it was cybernetic too, the joint popping clean from its metal housing. Gruddammit, Dredd thought, admonishing himself; he should’ve checked his prisoner more thoroughly. He’d screwed up big-time here. The creep put his foot on his right wrist and pulled, the hand unlocking so it was free of th
e cuffs. He advanced on the Judge.

  Dredd drew his Lawgiver and fired from his sitting position; the SE slug passed though Calhoun’s abdomen, but it barely slowed him. He aimed for the head and pulled the trigger again, splintering a section of his metalwork. By that point, the perp was on him, his left hand closing over the gun, and thrusting it towards Dredd’s chin. His strength was incredible, like nothing the lawman had encountered before; pain shot through his arm as the bones in his fingers fractured, Calhoun squeezing harder until the Lawgiver was released from his grip. Calhoun flipped it and pistol-whipped the Judge repeatedly: muscles in his cheek tore and cartilage ground. Blood filled his mouth. Dredd’s left hand went for his boot-knife and stabbed it into the creep’s thigh, which was evidently still fleshy, as a crimson fountain followed when he pulled the blade free. Calhoun grunted, and Dredd drove it up to the hilt again, the rockcrete beneath them now slick with both of their blood.

  The punk changed tactic and grabbed Dredd’s injured hand and wrapped it around the Lawgiver butt, threading his finger into the trigger guard. He pushed the barrel backwards, aiming it at the lawman, and fired: the first shot ploughed through his shoulderpad. Calhoun pushed further, and Dredd resisted with all his might, but felt his energy sapping. The second shot entered the shoulder just above his clavicle. He grimaced; he’d taken a bullet before, but never at such close range. His skin felt as if was aflame. Fear, very human and very real, rose up in him—these could be his last seconds on Earth. All that had been invested in him, those precious genes that were the building blocks of justice, was about to be rent asunder.