Judge Dredd: Year Two

by Michael Carroll

“Her partner. The girl’s father.”

  Dredd looked down at the girl still clutching his hand as Ruan continued.

  “They thought… they thought if they could get into the city… they could get a better life.”

  Morphy had been right. “Wall-hoppers.”

  “And then... they were found. By a man—no, two men. One with a gun.” She gasped again, screwing up her face. “He shot them. Pain. Fear. They… they shielded their daughter... hiding behind them... the mother… willing her daughter to play dead... so she could get away. So she could escape.”

  Ruan flinched.

  “What is it?”

  “Another shot. The other man. He said he wanted to tell their story, and now he’s dead.”

  “Can you see the shooter’s face?”

  “No... it’s dark and...” Ruan was crying now, weeping the tears of another soul. “There’s so much pain. She’s slipping away...”

  “Look closer.”

  “I can’t see his face. He’s wearing a hat. And he’s doing something… to the body...”

  “To Peck?”

  “Bending over him, pulling something out of his pocket... He’s… doing something to Peck’s face. I can’t see what.”

  Had to be the mask. Ruan went quiet, swaying slightly. The mutant girl pressed herself closer to Dredd.

  Ruan recoiled, but didn’t break contact. “He’s coming towards us... the man with the gun... Oh, Grud, he’ll see our daughter.” Ruan was speaking for the woman now. “Please, try not to breathe, baby. Try not to react. He’ll kill you, like he killed your pa. Don’t—”

  Ruan gasped and pulled away, the mutant woman sighing as the telepathic link was broken.

  Dredd placed a hand on Ruan’s should. “What was it? What did you see?”

  The Psi-Judge looked at the girl, her eyes brimming with tears. “She bolted, ran out of the container. The perp went after her, leaving the mom for dead.”

  She wiped her cheeks. “I saw—I felt—the woman crawl out of the container, leaving her partner behind.” Her bottom lip was quivering, her voice thick. “Every inch was agony, Joe, but she had to find her daughter.”

  “And they’ve been hiding out here ever since.” Dredd reappraised the girl. This little thing had evaded a vicious murderer and helped her wounded mother set up a shelter. She must have been terrified. Unable to communicate, to ask for help. And even if she could, who would help a dying mutie anyway?

  Ruan blew out her cheeks, visibly exhausted. “There’s something else. Something you need to see.”

  “Me? What do you mean? I can’t do what you do.”

  “But I can help you. Take off your helmet.”

  Dredd shook his head. “It won’t work on me, Ruan. I’m a double-zero. No telepathic ability. Just tell me.”

  “No, you need to experience it.”

  Before Dredd could stop her, Ruan touched his face and, in the blink of an eye, Dredd was no longer holding the hand of a scared mutant in a Mega-City One haulage company; he was somewhere else.

  No, that wasn’t right—he was someone else.

  Twenty-Two

  Through the Eye of Another

  THIS JUST WASN’T possible. Dredd couldn’t be here. It was like standing in a dream... in someone else’s dream. He looked down at his hands, expecting to see his gloves, but the hands were not his own. They were calloused, trembling; the thin arms were bruised and scarred.

  His head spun. The walls around him were shifting, their perspective skewed. It was like being drugged.

  Dredd tried to speak, but couldn’t. He gripped his throat—lean and emaciated—but no sound came.

  Dredd... relax.

  Ruan?

  It’s fine. I’m here with you. I’m in your head, as you’re in hers.

  No, he wanted to yell. I can’t be. I’m a double-zero. I’m immune to telepathy.

  No-one is totally immune, Dredd. You just need to know what buttons to press... and I’ve had a lot of practice.

  He whirled around, as if he could escape from Ruan’s touch. Instead he fell, tumbling forward, landing hard against wooden floorboards.

  Except... suddenly, he wasn’t alone. He was in a room, filled with people. Filled with...

  Mutants.

  Mutants everywhere, laying on the floor, huddled in groups. Snoring and grunting in their sleep. Mutants with too many hands, too many heads. And the stink: oh, Grud, the stink. Ripe bodies that hadn’t seen water for months, wallowing in their own filth.

  He gagged, turning over, realising that his thin arms were draped over someone. The girl from the depot. She was snuggled into him, fast asleep. His daughter... No, the woman’s daughter. This wasn’t real. This wasn’t happening to him.

  No Dredd, but it happened to them. This is how they lived before they came to Mega-City One, if you can call it a life.

  He was standing now, in some kind of workhouse... a factory. He couldn’t remember moving, and yet here he was, in front of a conveyor belt. Mechanical components jangled as they passed, the woman’s hands checking the ever-moving supply for flaws. It was so hot. Dredd’s mouth was dry and his body ached from standing for hours. It was hard to focus, hard to see the component numbers he was supposed to check off from the list beside the conveyor belt. But he needed to check them, that much he knew, otherwise the girl wouldn’t eat tonight.

  The same number, over and over. Unit 74141/KS. The digits blurred as sweat dripped into his eye. The noise was unbearable, machines roaring like monsters all around. He wasn’t wearing ear protectors, none of the mutants were: standing shoulder-to-shoulder, checking, processing, discarding faulty units and packing the rest in wooden boxes. No respite, no breaks, no water.

  This is how they spent their days. Like slaves.

  The girl wasn’t with him. He didn’t know where she was. He looked around, searching for the woman’s daughter among the mutants. Someone shouted behind him: a man, much bigger than the woman Dredd was inhabiting. He was a norm, with broad shoulders, a snarl on his lips and a long, tapered crop in his hand.

  “Get back to work, scum.”

  The crop came down hard, lashing across Dredd’s back.

  He couldn’t cry out.

  When he opened his eyes again, he was trudging through the factory, carrying a box that was far too heavy. No antigrav trollies to help the mutants, just weary muscles and empty bellies.

  The girl was in front of him now, walking in line, similarly laden. At least she was safe. How could they expect a child to carry this much? It wasn’t right.

  Dredd stumbled and fell forward, hitting the floor, the contents of the box spilling across the floor.

  More shouts. More pain.

  It was like being in a dream, flickering and jumping from one place to another. Never anywhere better. One minute he was at the conveyor belts, the next passing his hard-earned rations to the girl, a meagre helping of gruel mixed with sawdust to bulk it out. Then he was trying to sleep in the crowded, overpopulated rooms. Holding the crying daughter tight, looking into the eye of the woman’s partner, wondering how much more of this they could take.

  He blinked, and he was shoving his way through a crowd of fellow mutants, his heart hammering in his narrow chest.

  That’s it, Dredd. Keep going.

  Why wouldn’t the others let him pass? What were they looking at?

  You need to see why they did it.

  The crowd parted and Dredd saw another mutie woman lying in the dirt ahead. He dropped to his knees by the body. By the still body.

  You need to see why they came to the Meg.

  The woman was dead, her solitary eye gazing sightlessly up to the factory roof. Dredd had never seen her before, but knew immediately who she was.

  The mutant mother’s sister, her body exhausted, her heart giving out. There was a shout from behind, the sound of running feet. Dredd turned, to see the mutie girl pushing through the crowd. No. He couldn’t let her see her aunt, not like this. Dredd tried
to stop her, but the girl fought past him, sinking to the floor as she saw the body, tears streaming from her eye, her heart breaking.

  Dredd heard the mutant’s thoughts. He understood, then, why they had smuggled themselves in the container, making the long and perilous journey to the Big Meg.

  We can’t live like this. We can’t die like this.

  We have to get away...

  DREDD SWATTED RUAN’S hand from his face and stumbled back, backing into the shelves behind him, knocking a pile of plastic folders to the floor. He was back at Dependicorp, in the storage shed, Ruan kneeling beside the woman whose memories he’d shared, her daughter huddled into them both, looking up at Dredd with a single wide eye.

  “That was... unacceptable.” He swallowed, willing himself not to vomit.

  Ruan didn’t apologise. “I needed you to see why they came here. What they escaped. These are the people we shut out, Dredd. The people we shoot down as they try to slip over the Wall.”

  “We do as we’re ordered,” he grunted, trying not to show it as he clung to the shelves.

  He never wanted to experience anything like that ever again.

  “She needs our help, Joe. They both do.”

  Dredd’s head eventually stopped spinning. He stood, activating his comms.

  “Dredd to Control. Two mutants located for deportation.” He could feel Ruan’s eyes on him, condemning him even as he spoke. “One requires medical attention. Recommend they be assigned to Harborville.”

  “That’s a rog. Wagon dispatched to your location. Stand by.”

  Then there was no way to avoid Ruan’s gaze; she was standing right in front of him, staring him down. “How could you? After you’ve been in her head. Don’t they deserve better? Don’t they deserve our help?”

  Shoving past her, he strode from the building, his stomach still churning.

  “We’ll help them out, Ruan. Out of the city, back to where they belong.”

  Twenty-Three

  Friends in Low Places

  WITH CAMPBELL ARRESTED, the foreman’s assistant—a bright girl with purple hair and a face full of piercings—found herself in charge of the depot. Her name was Samira, and she’d never wanted to be boss, especially now. At least Campbell’s chair was more comfortable than her usual seat, although she didn’t have much time to relax. No sooner had she sat down than jumped up again, as Judges Dredd and Ruan marched into the depot office.

  “The boss ain’t going like this,” she told them, nodding out the window. The entire depot was awash with Judges, checking each and every container. Once one mutant refugee had been found, the Department wouldn’t rest until they were sure there weren’t any more wall-hoppers trying to sneak into the Meg.

  “She’ll like it even less when we fine her for allowing mutants to enter the city,” Dredd told her. “I need to see your records.”

  “What records?”

  “All of them. A complete list of every company that uses your firm, in both Mega-Cities.”

  “At both ends of the line? You’re kidding me.”

  Dredd pointed at his chin. “Does this look like a face that kids?”

  “I’d do what he says,” Ruan said, backing him up, although Dredd hadn’t even looked at her since they’d left the mutie and her mother with the clean-up team. He couldn’t, not after what she’d put him through.

  Samira threw her hands in the air. “Fine. I don’t get paid enough for this stomm, anyway. Computer, give the Judges anything they want.”

  “Your co-operation is appreciated, citizen.” Dredd leant over the screen embedded in Campbell’s desk. “Before you go, tell me everything you know about Ben Peck.”

  Samira shrugged, popping a tab of chewing gum into her mouth. “Not much to tell, other than the fact we knew the lying toe rag as Greg. Greg Weld.”

  “That was his cover.”

  “If you say so. He kept himself to himself.”

  All the time Dredd was opening and shutting files on the screen, checking and dismissing potential evidence.

  “No friends.”

  “Not especially. As I said, he was a bit of a loner. Except for Kell, I guess.”

  Dredd looked up. “Kell?”

  “Kell Sanchez, one of the other exo-lift operators. I saw them a few times in the canteen, heads down, as thick as thieves.”

  “Like they were conspiring?”

  “That’s a strong word. I reckon they were planning to meet, though. They kept checking their watches. I thought at the time that Weld—I mean, Peck—should watch himself.”

  “Why?”

  “Let’s just say Kell has friends in low places.”

  “Is he working tonight?”

  She shook her head, popping her chewing gum. “No-one’s seen him for days. Not since Tuesday.”

  “The day Peck was killed.”

  “I guess so, yeah.”

  Dredd nodded once and returned to the screen.

  “Am I done?” Samira asked.

  “You can leave. And dispense of that gum in a responsible manner, or you’ll be looking at a hundred days in a cube.”

  “Jovus,” the woman muttered under her breath as she turned to leave. Dredd let the expletive slide. He was too busy scrolling through the customer list.

  “You never let up, do you, Dredd?” Ruan commented, checking employment records on another monitor.

  “The Law never rests. You know that. It’s good to remind citizens that we’re watching them.”

  He reached the bottom of the list.

  “Anything that looks familiar?”

  “Not to me,” he said. He encrypted a copy of the directory, then spoke into his comms. “Control, I’m sending you Dependicorp’s customer index, every transaction for the past five years. I need them checked against the registry for anything suspicious.”

  “Roger that.”

  “What do you expect to find?” asked Ruan.

  “No idea. That’s why we’re looking. There’s every chance the place is clean, but if muties are using it as an entry point...”

  “‘I don’t want to hurt you.’”

  “What?”

  “That’s what Peck said to the mutants.”

  “In the woman’s memories...” The thought still made Dredd’s skin crawl.

  Ruan nodded. “‘I just want to tell your story...’ Do you reckon that’s what he was investigating? Mutant refugees?”

  “Perhaps Kell Sanchez knows something about that. You got his address?”

  Ruan brought up Sanchez’s profile.

  “Got it. Edwyn Warwick Block.”

  “We should pay him a visit. The teks can finish up here.”

  She rose to join him as he marched towards the door. “Still want me with you?”

  “We can talk about what you did later. In the meantime, as long as you’re useful, you’re by my side.”

  Twenty-Four

  Crash Site

  OUT ON THE street, Morphy and Lint were monitoring the clean-up of Bret Barnet’s crash site. The press was out in force, and Morph had already arrested three camera crews for pointing their holo-lenses where they shouldn’t.

  Not that there was much to see. Like Url’s Diner, there was precious little left of the hover-limo, and as for Hound News’ top anchorman... well, he’d read his last bulletin. What wasn’t smeared on the side of busted screen 1,000 metres above their heads was a charred husk, barely enough for the tek boys to identify through DNA records.

  His time in the sleep machine had done wonders for Morphy’s aching muscles, but the failure to get enough evidence from Truss still rankled. He’d had an idea when he’d emerged from the snooze-tube. Like most places in this city, most eateries had CCTV. Url’s would be no different, and if they subscribed to a remote security service, the footage would be backed-up off site. From what he gathered, the Truss brothers spent most of their time in the diner. If Jamie had met with a conspirator, it would have been there. He’d asked Control to trace any security
vid backups from Url’s Place. The chances of finding something significant was slim, but it was worth a shot.

  Lint walked over to him. The Tek-Judges were already starting to pack up. “We’re almost done here. Shall we get back on patrol?”

  Morphy didn’t answer. He’d spotted a juve, no more than eleven years old, sneaking behind the cordon to grab a shard of twisted limo bumper from the floor.

  “Hey! Stop, you little punk.” The kid was already running, twisted metal still in hand, destined to be sold at online auction or some such. The Meg’s celebrity-obsessed populace would buy anything, especially grisly mementos of a famous fatality.

  Morphy had barely drawn his Lawgiver when Lint scooped up a buckled anti-grav hub and flung it after the little ghoul. It soared through the air like a frisbee, striking the kid on the back of the head. The juve went down hard, Lint already looming over him to carry out sentence.

  The boy turned over onto his back, scuttling away like a crab. “P-please... don’t…”

  Lint stopped suddenly, and swayed on his feet. The juve took the opportunity to run.

  Morph checked on his rookie. “Lint? You okay?”

  The trainee pushed him away, his face like chalk. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

  “You don’t sound it. Do we need to get you checked out?”

  Lint shook his head. “It’ll be those damn sleep machines. I just had a... dizzy spell, that’s all.”

  “Control to Morphy.”

  Still concerned over his young charge, Morphy accepted the call.

  “Morphy here. You got something for me?”

  “We’ve found that diner’s security footage. Your dead Fattie sure was there a lot. It’s like the spug never went home.”

  “But did he meet anyone?”

  “Only his brother.”

  Morphy’s heart sank. He thought he had been onto something. “Stomm.”

  “Sorry, Morph.”

  “Wait up,” said Lint. “Jamie said that his brother arranged the protest, not him. It would be Oliver Truss who made contact.”

  Morphy slapped Lint on the arm.

  “Good thinking, kid. Control, check for footage of Oliver Truss in the diner, without his brother. See if he meets anyone.”