Judge Dredd: Year Two

by Michael Carroll

  “He’s a double-zero. You might as well try to read the Statue of Judgement. But don’t worry, he’s stable. Trust me, it would take a lot to get under that boy’s skin.”

  Seventeen

  Grilled

  “MISS PIPER, THANK you for joining us here on Hound News.”

  “Always a pleasure, Bret. Always a pleasure.”

  Not so much of a pleasure that you could be bothered to come to the studio, Bret Barnet thought as Jocelyn Piper’s holo-presence buzzed in front of him. The mayoral candidate had been booked to appear live, but ‘due to security concerns’ following the rally disaster had rescheduled as a holo-interview. More likely the trillionaire was squeezing in half a dozen more interviews with Hound’s rivals. Still, this would be the one everyone would be talking about, Bret promised himself.

  “And how are you; after your ordeal, I mean?” he began, a softball, sure, but one designed to lull the woman into thinking this was going to be an easy ride.

  “Oh, bless you for asking, Bret,” Piper replied, turning on the home-spun charm. “But I’m fine. Absolutely peachy.” She looked it too. Even through the holo-field, Bret could see she’d been patched up. Photos of the trillionaire covered in blood and missing several teeth had circulated online following the crash this morning. Bret had forwarded them himself at least half a dozen times. Now, her smile was perfect again, new pearly-whites plugging the gaps, the scar on her forehead barely noticeable, buried deep beneath lashings of hyper-heal make-up.

  “There are those,” she continued, “who will stop at nothing to derail our political process, but I’m not about to let that happen. We’re back on the campaign trail, more determined than ever.”

  “And I see that you’ve also offered to pay the medical bills of your supporters injured in the incident.”

  Piper spread her hands in an expansive gesture, diamond rings glistening on at least six of her fingers. “Those people turned out to support me. The least I can do is support them.”

  Bret smiled, giving the candidate her moment. “A kind gesture, and one you can obviously afford.”

  “I’ve been blessed, yes. It’s important to give something back, to contribute. If anything, that’s the core of my campaign.”

  “To contribute. To ‘Make Mega-City Work.’” He made sure to add the inverted commas with his fingers.

  Piper’s expression hardened. “Precisely.”

  Bret let his smile drop. It was time to twist the knife. “It seems to me, Ms Piper, that blessings will continue to flow if you win this election.”

  “That’s kind of you to say. But, yes, the City will prosper…”

  “I’m not talking about the City. I’m talking about you.”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t follow...”

  “At your rally, you pledged that Mega-City One would supply every citizen with a sleep machine of their own. Another kind gesture, and an expensive one.”

  “I’ve looked at the City’s budgets, Bret, and—through diligence and smart accounting—we can more than afford it. Besides, it’ll be an investment in our future.”

  Now he had her. “And an investment in you, Ms Piper. Or should I say in your business empire?” He didn’t give her time to respond. “Does PiperTech not own a controlling share in Somnus Industries, Mega-City One’s foremost producer of sleep machines?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Is there not a conflict of interest in a Mayor committing millions of credits of City funds to purchase items from her own company?” He let that one sink in for a moment. “Or are you considering purchasing sleep machines from your competitors? Sleep machines that you yourself said at last year’s Morpheus Expo are, and I quote, ‘inferior in every possible way’?”

  “Well, obviously, we would have to find the best deal for our citizens—”

  “By buying inferior products? ‘Dangerous products,’ you called them.”

  Piper’s holographic smile faltered. “Look—” she began, a sure sign that a politician was on the back foot. “Somnus Sleep Machines are the best—”

  “So, if elected, you will directly profit from your policy?”

  “I didn’t say that—”

  “Will you be selling your interest in Somnus?”

  “No decision has been made—”

  “And have you actually asked any of your potential voters if they want sleep machines of their own? As we saw at your rally, there is considerable resistance to your policies, not to mention the continued unrest cause by your anti-robot platform.”

  “Bret, I am notanti-robot.”

  “You don’t want them to work...”

  “I don’t want them taking honest citizen’s jobs.”

  “Just a few hours ago there was an incident in Sector 14. A diner, destroyed by robot activists. Were you aware of that, Ms Piper?”

  “I was not, however—”

  “You weren’t? A political candidate unaware of the deaths of at least five citizens as a direct consequence of her policies?”

  “What I’m aware is that, once again, we’re seeing the corruption of the Mega-City One press.”

  Bret allowed himself to scoff at the allegation.

  “This is hardly our fault, Ms Piper.”

  “Isn’t it? Hound News’ owner holds a sixty-eight percent share of the Geppetto Robot Company, does he not? Wouldn’t a ban on robo-workers cause financial inconvenience for him? How much would he be set to lose?”

  “Shut this down,” Bret’s producer warned in his ear-piece.

  “Now, I’m not sure—”

  But the woman wouldn’t let up. She was like a dog with a synthi-bone: “And while we’re at it, let’s consider the integrity of your news service. Didn’t one of your own reporters confess to homicide earlier today?”

  “We’re not talking about Hound News, Ms Piper—”

  “Then perhaps we should. You forget, I was there. I saw Loreen Peston obstructing the work of our brave Judges; Judges who were attempting to quell a riot you say was caused by robo-sympathisers.”

  “I’ve said nothing of the sort—”

  “Bret,” his producer hissed. “The network executives are watching...”

  “I’d like to thank you, Bret, for once again, highlighting the bias of Mega-City One’s press. Perhaps instead of spreading lies about my campaign, you should turn the spotlight on yourself. Something to consider for your speech tonight, maybe?”

  Now what was the woman talking about? “M-my speech?”

  “At the News Anchor of the Year award. You are up against Ken Wallaby of MC-1 Today, aren’t you?”

  Bret’s heart sank. He was up for the award tonight, and expected to win, but for once, he hoped the judging panel weren’t watching his broadcast. This car crash of an interview was the last thing he needed them to see.

  “Ms Piper,” he said, keen to wrap things up. “Thank you again for joining us.”

  She grinned like the cat that had got the alt-cream. “Always a pleasure, Bret. I’m keeping my fingers crossed for you tonight, really I am. I’ve seen the billboards promoting your show, of course. Who hasn’t? We all know how you like to have that face of yours plastered over the City.”

  Eighteen

  Limo-A-Go-Go

  ON THE OTHER side of the sector, Judge Dredd strode into the gallery of MC-1 Today. In the studio, presenter Tommy Shuffleknackers was reeling off the forecast from Atmosphere Control, the high-altitude meteorological station that governed the Big Meg’s weather systems.

  Producer Helen Vince took one look at Dredd’s uniform and stood up so fast that she nearly garrotted herself with her own headphones.

  “J-Judge,” she said, extricating herself from the cable. “Is there a problem?”

  “Ben Peck. I need to know what he was working on.”

  “Which story?”

  “He had more than one?”

  She shrugged. “Sure. Before he... well, before he died, he was working undercover at the haulage firm in th
e day, an oldster care home at night, and the Mega-Force power plant at weekends.”

  “When did he sleep?”

  “He didn’t. Most of the time he used a sleep machine. Pretty much everyone does. Take Ken there...”

  Dredd followed her gaze to the MC-1 Today anchor, who was signing off in the studio, telling his viewers to “Stay Mega” before winking cheekily at the cam-bot.

  “What about him?”

  “He’s been on the air for eighteen hours. Would never manage it without the snooze-tube. Excuse me.”

  She bent over her control, opening a channel to the studio. “Great show, Ken. One in a million. After you’ve had your shut-eye, check out Bret Barnet getting roasted by Jocelyn Piper. Poor spug didn’t know what hit him. Trust me, you’ve got that award in the bag, Kenny-boy. In. The. Bag.”

  Ken gave her a thumbs-up and she killed the channel again. “Sorry about that. News anchors are like kids. You need to keep their egos regularly massaged. But in all honestly, Ken should romp home tonight. After today’s performance, Bret Barnet is dead and buried.”

  “IF THAT WOMAN thinks I’m finished, she’s got another think coming!”

  Bret Barnet ranted into his watchphone as he stomped across the roof of the towering Hound News building towards the waiting hover-limo. He was wearing a maroon-coloured tuxedo only slightly darker than the flush on his cheeks.

  “Coming on my show, trying to show me up. She doesn’t know who she’s dealing with.”

  As he approached, the limo’s rear door swung open to reveal sumptuous luxury seats—and none of your cheap rubbish either; Bret always demanded genuine mock leather, especially on a night like tonight.

  “You just wait and see. First, I’ll win this award, and then I’ll run a comment piece and tell the world exactly what they should think of Ms High-and-Mighty Piper.”

  He slid onto the back seat, surveying the limo’s comprehensive drinks cabinet. Some of the liquors on offer were legal, most weren’t. By Grud, Bret needed a drink, but he didn’t like drinking alone.

  He raised his watchphone to his mouth, a quizzical look on his face. “Hilary, where’s Susan? She was supposed to meet me in the limo.”

  His PA sounded nervous as she gave him the bad news.

  “Not coming?” he repeated in disbelief. “What? Has she had a better offer?”

  Like that would happen. What could be better than going to the event of the year on the arm of Bret Barnet?

  Hilary dropped another bombshell.

  “She’s going with Ken Wallaby?” This was unbelievable. “But she was my date. I even tipped off the photographers at the Mega-City Gazette. They’re waiting for us on the red carpet.”

  What a day. Bret couldn’t go to the award ceremony by himself. “What about Cindy? Or Miranda?”

  He listened to the long litany of excuses from his PA. At this rate, he’d be forced to take one of his wives.

  “Okay, that new girl with the travel show, what’s her name? Wendy? Wanda, that’s it. She needs the publicity. Have her get ready and we’ll pick her up on the way. Just give the driver her address, will you?”

  Hilary’s next comment had him staring at the front of the limo, and the empty seat in the cab. “What do you mean I haven’t got a driver? I always have a driver.”

  The assistant burbled something about the network’s new contract with a fleet of driverless hover-cars, but Bret cut her off.

  “Whatever. Just make sure Wendy’s ready.” He went to shut off the call, before adding, “And tell her to look good!”

  With a cry of frustration, he yanked the watchphone from his wrist and threw it the length of the car.

  With a whine of its stabilisers, the hover-limo rose into the early evening air. “No date,” Bret grumbled. “No driver. Heads are going to roll for this, mark my words.”

  The disgruntled news anchor leaned forward and poured himself at least four fingers of musk. He slugged it back, grimacing as the coarse liquid burned the back of his throat. Ugh! Drokking stuff tasted like window cleaner.

  He finished it anyway.

  Bret was pouring another glass when the hover-limo lurched to the right. Bret slipped from the shiny seat, landing on the limo floor, the open bottle of musk dropping into his lap.

  “Stomm!” He wiped at the dark stain spreading across this crotch as the spilt hooch soaked into his trousers. “Stupid, drokking...”

  Slamming the bottle back into the cabinet, he clambered back onto the seat. Now he was going to have to go home to change.

  “Driver—I mean, computer—take me home. And make it snappy.”

  The limo’s course didn’t waver.

  “Hello? I said take me home. I need to change, okay?”

  Still the driverless hover-car flew on.

  “Grud on a greenie.” Bret pushed himself forward, throwing out his hands to steady himself on the windows as he tottered towards the computer-controlled cab. The limo banked to the left, clipping a hover-bus. Bret tumbled forward to the floor, whacking his head on a door.

  “What the drokk?” He grabbed the partition between the back of the limo and its non-existent driver and hauled himself up. “Computer, what do you think you’re doing?”

  As Bret looked through the front windscreen, he realised something was wrong. They weren’t heading towards his home, or the awards ceremony.

  “We’re going the wrong way. Computer, do you hear me?” There was no reply. This was the last straw. Uttering at least a dozen illegal curses, Bret scrambled to find his discarded watchphone and dialled his assistant’s number.

  The watch beeped. No signal. How could there be no signal? Everywhere had a signal.

  The limo lurched again, ramming into the side of a flying fuel tanker. The driver blared a horn, but that didn’t stop the computer scraping along the full length of the tank with a noise slightly worse than rusty nails on glass.

  “What are you doing? That tanker’s full of—aargh!”

  Bret was thrown into the bar as the limo swerved carelessly across at least three air-lanes, narrowly missing a rocket-bike. Bottles and glasses smashed to the floor as the car veered back and forth, the computer’s proximity sensors seemingly not registering any other vehicles.

  Bret thumbed the control panel mounted on the door to his left. It didn’t respond. Neither did the one on his right. Stupid lump of stomm!

  As the limo bucked and weaved, he stumbled towards the cab, leaning across the partition to reach the main computer console.

  “Must be some kind of emergency communicator,” he said, randomly jabbing at buttons. He’d just hit a red switch when the limo performed a perfect loop-the-loop that threw Bret around the interior like ice in a cocktail shaker. Shards of broken glass shredded his already tattered tuxedo.

  He landed with a yelp on his back, on the ceiling. The limo was flying upside down.

  “Hello?”

  Bret’s dazed head snapped up. A tinny voice was echoing around the car’s interior as it narrowly avoided a head-on collision with a mobile library.

  “This is the Limo-A-Go-Go customer helpline. My name is Sheila. How can I help you?”

  “Yes!” Bret cried, scrambling up to look imploringly at the dashboard computer. The inverted features of a girl wearing far too much make-up stared back at him from the screen. “Your limo’s gone crazy.”

  Sheila’s mouth dropped open, a chewed globule of bubble gum tumbling from her lips in amazement. “Okay. Hey, you’re Bret Baker!”

  “Barnet. Yes, yes, I am.”

  “My mom loves you!”

  “Get this limo under control and I’ll take her to an award ceremony.”

  “Really?”

  The hover-car shunted into the back of an airbus, the bonnet crumpling with the impact. Bret rolled forward along the ceiling at the exact point that the limo decided to right itself, dropping him into what would have been the driver’s seat.

  “Mr Baker?”

  “It’s Barnet. Br
et Barnet!” the anchorman yelled. “Now, get me out of here!”

  Nineteen

  No Cause for Concern

  BACK AT THE MC-1 Today studio, Dredd’s conversation with the producer was interrupted by a call from a researcher in the newsroom.

  “There’s trouble on the Eastern Air-way. Hover-limo out of control.”

  “Sorry, I need to see this,” the producer told Dredd, instructing the researcher to send the footage to the gallery’s main monitor.

  “This is important.”

  “So is the news,” the woman replied, as the image of a battered limo appeared on the screen. The car’s bonnet was a twisted concertina of crushed metal, once-gleaming paintwork largely scraped away.

  Dredd activated his comm. “Control, are you seeing this? Hover-limo flying against the flow of traffic on the Upper Eastern.”

  As he watched, the car ploughed into a citizen wearing a wing-suit, knocking him out of the sky.

  Beside him, the producer snapped at her assistant, a spotty kid with the chunkiest glasses Dredd had ever seen. “Do we know who’s in that thing?”

  The assistant thumbed a control and the image zoomed into the limo’s cracked windows, the newsroom computer enhancing the grainy image to bring the limo’s occupant’s features into sharp relief.

  Dredd recognised the face. So did the producer.

  “Oh, my Grud. It’s Bret Barnet.”

  “MR BARNET? MR Barnet, can you hear me?”

  Grateful that Sheila had at last grasped his name, Bret steadied himself against the dashboard. The hover-limo was skidding from left to right, bouncing off vehicles as if he were in a vast pinball machine.

  “I’m here. For now, at least.”

  “Limo-A-Go-Go would like to apologise for your experience today.”

  “Apologise after you get me out of this death-trap!”

  “Not a problem, sir. I’m pleased to say that your limo is not malfunctioning.”

  The car threw itself around a shoplex, turning so sharply that Bret smashed his elbow through an already weakened window. Air rushed in through the broken glasseen, forcing Bret to shout to be heard.