The Righteous Man

by Michael Carroll

  Nearby, an apparently normal woman was wrapped in an embrace with an obviously mutant man—he had panther-like paws instead of hands, with long whiskers protruding from an otherwise neatly-trimmed black beard. Next to them, two normal males were engaged in four-way chess with two mutant women. In the far corner, a group of mutants were playing darts while a human kept score.

  The door opened behind him and he turned to see O’Donnell nodding at him.

  “Thought you were going to take it easy,” Dredd said.

  “This is a bar, Judge. That’s what we do here. The whole point of a bar is that it’s somewhere to take it easy. Drink?”

  “No.”

  “I’m astonished.”

  “Who’s on duty tonight, O’Donnell?”

  The red-haired man shrugged. “What do you mean?”

  “Your town is being constantly raided. You must have look-outs posted. An early-warning system of some kind.”

  “Sure, we’ve got look-outs. We patrol the perimeters all night long, the watchtower is always manned, but somehow the Earthers keep getting in.” As he spoke, O’Donnell began to make his way backward toward the bar. “Hanenberger’s too cheap to shell out for an automated alarm system.”

  The panther-pawed man looked up and said, “Hey, Red, you mind what you’re saying about Miss Hanenberger.”

  “Opinions are free, Esteban. You don’t have to like it, but you can’t stop me from saying it.”

  “A kick in the nuts is free too, O’Donnell.”

  O’Donnell sighed. “Seriously? Again?” He looked toward Dredd. “I have to lock this idiot up at least once a month. He gets drunk and starts to believe he can take on anyone in the room. He’s never won a fight yet.”

  “I can take on anyone in the room!”

  The human woman slid down from Esteban’s lap, and quietly sidled away. Now unencumbered, the mutant rose to his full height, which brought him to a little above O’Donnell’s shoulder. He held up his paws, displaying long, sharp talons. “I say we take this outside.”

  “I say you don’t,” Dredd said. “Threatening an officer of the law is an offence. Because I’m new here, you get a warning. Next time, I—”

  Esteban struck faster than Dredd could react, his right paw slashing across Dredd’s chest. Its talons sliced through the tough mock-leather of his uniform and snagged the chain connected to his badge, ripping it from his chest.

  Another slash with the left arm, this one faster and aimed at Dredd’s throat, but Dredd was prepared; he whipped up his right arm, and the talons tore four thin but deep strips across his forearm, cutting straight through to the flesh.

  Esteban carried the movement through into a whole-body spin, ducked into a crouch. Before Dredd could even register what was happening, Esteban had set his right arm down on a small table and kicked Dredd with both feet, one striking him in the chin, the other ploughing into his stomach.

  Dredd crashed backward into another table, smashing it, scattering its occupants and spilling their drinks.

  He recovered quickly, shaking off the shock of the ferocious, unexpected attack. The panther-like mutant was now crouched on the table, snarling at him, claws out and ready to strike.

  O’Donnell began, “Now, Dredd, don’t—”

  Still on his back, Dredd pulled the Lawgiver from his boot-holster.

  O’Donnell jumped in front of Dredd, putting himself in the line of fire. “Dredd, no! We don’t settle disputes with firearms here in Ezekiel!”

  “Yes, we do,” Esteban said.

  “Well, we try not to.”

  Dredd tucked his feet under him, still aiming at Esteban, and stood up.

  “Seriously, Dredd! He’s a good worker and we need him!”

  Esteban smirked. “You have no jurisdiction here, Judge. And there’s no way a damp rag from the city could beat a real man in a fight. Me and Red here have history—any problems between us have nothing to do with you.”

  Dredd holstered his Lawgiver, then looked down at his chest. Four parallel cuts through his tunic, with blood-soaked flesh beneath.

  “They’re so you don’t forget me,” Esteban said. “You ever want any more reminders, come see me. I’ll be happy to oblige.”

  “That’s the last time you lay a claw on me, creep.”

  Standing next to Dredd, O’Donnell said, “Let it go. This is just his way of sussing you out.”

  “I thought you said he’s never won a fight yet?”

  “Right. He goes nuts, tears the place apart, and it takes eight or nine of us to bring him down. But we do, every time.”

  Esteban said, “Hah, he’s not wrong about that.” He smoothly climbed down from the table, and nodded to Dredd. “You didn’t scream.” He slowly extended one claw toward the wounds he’d made across Dredd’s chest. “I think you’re the first one I ever sliced who didn’t scream, and I know it hurts. Maybe some of you Meggers are tougher than people say.” He glanced toward O’Donnell. “If the woman Judges are as tough as him, could be we got a chance against the Earthers.”

  To Dredd, O’Donnell said, “The Earthers come in hard and fast. Used to be small numbers, three or four at a time, but lately they’ve started hitting us in groups of a dozen. Esteban here’s our best spotter, especially at night, but even he can’t be on duty all the time.”

  A woman approached Dredd from the side, holding his badge and warily watching Esteban. “Judge, you dropped this.” Dredd thanked the woman, who introduced herself as Lauren Featherman. She was a mutant almost as tall as Dredd, with pale grey skin and solid blue eyes.

  “Are you all right?” She tilted her head to the side a little as she examined Dredd’s wounds. “Yeah... you might want to get those scratches looked at.”

  “They’ll heal,” Dredd told her. “Took my inoculations before I left the city.”

  “You can’t walk around with open wounds, Judge. My sister Conra is a medic. Come with me, she’s at the infirmary now.”

  “Lauren’s right,” O’Donnell said. “Best not to take any chances.”

  Dredd followed the woman out of the bar, and across the street to the one other building with a light burning above the door.

  Lauren pulled open the door and called in, “Conra? One of the Judges needs your attention.”

  Conra’s mutation was similar to her sister’s. She greeted Dredd with a calm, professional manner intended to put her patients at ease; that immediately raised his suspicions.

  The medic told Dredd to remove his gloves and armour, and strip off the top half of his uniform so she could get a better look at the wounds. “In no time we’ll have you right as rain used to be... There we go. Careful with the right hand, those look nasty too... Oh.”

  “Oh what?” Dredd asked.

  “Those scars... You’ve seen a lot of combat. Funny, I thought you were fresh out of the Academy. I’ve seen forty-year war veterans with fewer scars than you.” She poked at a mark on Dredd’s right shoulder. “Your armour should have stopped that one.”

  “That happened when I was a cadet.”

  “And this one here on your back?”

  “Broke up a Juve brawl. Five of them were packing guns—I was too busy returning fire to see the one behind me with a crossbow.”

  “And that’s a nasty-looking—”

  “I’m not here to give you a guided tour of my scars, Featherman. Just clean the fresh ones and sew me up if you have to.”

  The doctor sprayed a cold, misty liquid on Dredd’s wounds. “Give that a few seconds to seep in.” She wiped at Dredd’s wounds with a synthcotton pad and stepped back. “That and your inoculations should stave off any infections. I’d advise stronger body-armour if you intend to tackle Mister Esteban again. I’d say he’s responsible for a good ten per cent of my work here.”

  As Dredd pulled on his tunic he said, “And the other ninety per cent?”

  The doctor sighed. “Radiation burns, heatstroke, infected insect bites, animal bites, mining accidents, dehydra
tion, alcohol poisoning, sand-burns, rabies, malaria, food poisoning, fist-fights, malnutrition... You name it, I’ve treated it.”

  Lauren said, “Out here we really are on the edge. The soil is practically dead, our drinking water has to go through a seven-stage filtration process, we’re constantly under attack from either the wildlife or the damn Earthers, there’s no respite from the heat... We have to stick together and support each other in spite of our foibles and oddities, because if we don’t, the community will collapse, and without it we’re dust. Miss Hanenberger knows that; that’s why she stays here in Ezekiel instead of in the city. Here, she’s able to keep a personal eye on her investment.”

  To the doctor, Dredd said, “Figure there’s no point asking you if she’s undergoing treatment for her skin-condition. Records say she’s thirty-four, but she looks seventy.”

  “You wouldn’t want me telling anyone your business.”

  Dredd nodded slowly. “Understood. Appreciate the work, doc. Send the bill to the Mega-City One Justice Department.”

  “For a few mils of detox spray and a couple of swabs? There’s no charge, Judge.”

  He left the grey-skinned sisters and crossed the street back to the Brazen Hussy, where he found O’Donnell leaning against the bar.

  “Sure you don’t want a drink, Dredd?” O’Donnell asked.

  “I’m sure. Anything happening here?”

  O’Donnell nodded. “Crowd in the corner over there are getting a bit boisterous. They have a day off tomorrow, so we’re likely to see some action tonight. Two of Hanenberger’s mine security are scheduled to have tonight off, too. If they decide to come in here, we’re definitely going to have to crack some skulls if we don’t want to spend tomorrow morning digging holes.”

  Dredd was about to respond when a wooden chair sailed across the room from one side to the other, crashed into a table and scattered half a dozen drinks.

  O’Donnell said, “And they’re off.” He turned to Dredd. “You want to handle this? And no guns, huh? A few good thumps should be enough to calm them down.”A few minutes later, Dredd, O’Donnell and the barman were the only people left standing in the bar. Everyone else was on the floor nursing their wounds, or had long since fled. To the barman, O’Donnell said, “Give me a sapbeer, Maddox.”

  The tattooed barman scowled at him as he fetched a bottle. “A whole one? Wow. That sure makes up for the fact that no one else will be drinking tonight.”

  “Got to hand it to you, Judge,” O’Donnell said to Dredd, “you don’t let up once you get started.”

  “I’m out of cuffs here, O’Donnell. Find something to tie them up with.”

  O’Donnell opened the bottle of sapbeer and took a long sip. “Nah... let them go. All of them.”

  Dredd grabbed one of the unconscious men by the hair on the back of his head, and raised him up a little. “This one had a knife.”

  “I’m sure they all have knives, Dredd. He’s just the only one who brought his into the game.”

  Dredd let go, and the man’s head crashed back down to the floor. “What the drokk is wrong with you, O’Donnell? You’re supposed to be the law around here!”

  “And it’s your expert opinion that these idiots should be locked up?”

  “That’s your job.”

  “Dredd, Hanenberger will have our knackers on crackers if we arrest everyone.” He sighed. “You’re not getting it, are you? Ezekiel is her town. She owns everything from the streets outside to the sweat under our armpits. You want to know why this damn town is always being raided? Because she won’t shell out the creds for proper security. And you know why she won’t do that, even though she’s got more money than Grud’s agent? Because she wants the people here too scared of the Earthers to leave. There’s strength in numbers, and her numbers run into billions.”

  “Then why am I here?”

  “Because for some reason even she doesn’t understand, it’s all starting to fall apart. The raids are getting more frequent, and more vicious, too. So Hanenberger figured that calling in a squad of Judges would help reset the balance. Instead, we got three of you. That’s upset her more than she’s letting on, I reckon. See, the Hanenberger family has a lot of influence in the city, and they’re used to getting what they ask for. Sure, you’re hard as nails and you know the city law inside and out, but here you’re just a newbie who can’t tell the difference between an actual criminal act and a few drunk miners blowing off steam.”

  Dredd considered that. Something about the town of Ezekiel didn’t feel right. His instinct told him that there was something missing, and it took him a few seconds to pin it down. “O’Donnell, where’s the local school?”

  “We don’t have a school.”

  “Yeah, thought not. Now tell me this... Where are the juves?”

  “You mean kids? Don’t have any of those, either.”

  “No children in the whole town?”

  “No. Miss Hanenberger doesn’t like kids. I figure that’s because she got teased a lot when she was a kid, what with the way she looks. So part of the deal is that folks aren’t allowed to settle here if they’ve got children under the age of eighteen. And if any couple here gets pregnant, they have to leave.” O’Donnell shrugged. “Sounds strange, I know, but it makes sense when you think about it. Kids mean someone has to look after them, safety rules have to be more stringent, there has to be a school and a proper hospital and somewhere for the little buggers to play. But no kids means we don’t get gangs of bored teenagers causing trouble. Believe me, that one is worth its weight in iridium. No graffiti, no joyriding, no bullying... The town where I grew up, the local cops spent most of their time dealing with all the crap kids bring to the equation.”

  “How can you expect the town to survive if there’s not going to be a new generation?”

  “We don’t. The geologists reckon there’s only a couple more years’ worth of mining left here. Once the ore is gone, or not worth the cost of digging out, Hanenberger and her people will pack up and go. I heard she’s already bought up a whole new stretch of land somewhere west of here.”

  “And the citizens?”

  “We’ll move on, too, I guess, unless we can find another way to keep the town going. It’s all about the bottom line, Dredd. The Hanenbergers didn’t get rich by investing in lost causes.”

  “Then why are they so desperate to defend the town that they called in Judges?”

  O’Donnell leaned over the counter and found a fresh bottle. “They didn’t. They called you in to defend the mine. As far as that wrinkled old bat Hanenberger is concerned, the people here are just assets. Disposable and replaceable.” He popped the top off the bottle and raised it to Dredd in a short salute. “And that includes you, Judge. You get on her wrong side and she’ll order her mercs to gun you down and not give you a second thought.”

  Eight

  THE LAST TIME SJS Judge Marion Gillen had worn civilian clothes was the day of her fifth birthday.

  She couldn’t directly recall the event, but when she graduated from the Academy of Law, fifteen years later, her father had given her a photograph. “Look how cute you were... And now look at you!” he’d said. “My little girl is a Judge!”

  After six months on the streets, mostly working in the city’s southern sectors, she’d been called for a meeting with the Special Judicial Squad. Her initial fears that she was being investigated turned to surprise when she was told she had been nominated to join the Squad.

  Even receiving the nomination had been enough for most of her friends to begin distancing themselves from her, and once she was accepted, they shunned her completely.

  “No one likes the SJS,” her supervisor had told her on the first day of trials. “And that’s as it should be. In your first year, you will make more enemies than you ever imagined possible. And not just among the citizens. Good, upstanding Judges will go out of their way to hamper your investigations. At the very best, they will despise you. They will try to tear you down in a
ny way they can. They will go after your family. If you haven’t faced at least one assassination attempt by the end of your first year then you’re doing something wrong. You have to be the very best of the best. You must know every letter of the law, and you must give full, unconditional commitment to the job, because anything less will result in your death.”

  The trials themselves had been infuriating, exhausting, demoralising. Twenty-two-hour days of studying, testing, training and evaluations. Every action and every decision Gillen had made since she joined the Academy was questioned and examined. Her Academy records were scrutinised to a level of detail that went beyond microscopic: every test answer was studied, every pause while considering an answer was a cause for suspicion.

  She’d had to justify every arrest, fine or warning she’d issued on the streets, every interaction with other Judges, every round fired from her Lawgiver, every scratch or dent on her uniform. Her memories and emotions were probed and examined by Psi-Judges. Her knowledge of the law was tested over and over.

  She was accused of being an enemy spy on four separate occasions, and subjected to rigorous psychological and physical torture in order to extract the truth.

  And she had come through it all, passed every test, and was now one of the elite. The Judges who judge the Judges. One of the few final arbiters of the law in a city of eight hundred million people.

  But today, as she walked along a shadowed street and hundreds of citizens passed her by without a second glance, she realised that to them she was nobody, just another face in the crowd.

  She didn’t like that she was unarmed—she had to be; if she was found carrying a weapon, everything would fall apart—and that made her uneasy.

  The civilian clothing didn’t help. She’d avoided anything too flashy or encumbering—no high heels, nothing too tight or too baggy, nothing that restricted her movements or obscured her vision—but she missed the familiar weight of her armour and helmet, the comforting sensation of the Lawgiver in her boot-holster.

  Ahead, half-hidden in a doorway, she spotted the citizen she wanted. She’d spoken to him before, but was reasonably sure he wouldn’t recognise her without a helmet or uniform.