The Cold Light of Day

by Michael Carroll

  Dredd crouched next to Moeller. “You know what a particle-scan is, creep? You won’t enjoy it. Every square millimetre of your skin is probed right down to the subcutaneous tissue. Your blood is extracted, and while it’s being filtered, nanobots will crawl through your capillaries. Don’t worry—we have ways of keeping you alive while that happens. Your fingernails and toenails will be removed, every hair plucked at the root. Different nanobots will be injected into your lungs to scour the alveoli. And it’s all done without any anaesthetic that might interfere with the readings. The whole process takes hours, and they don’t stop looking when they find something. It doesn’t end until every foreign particle larger than an atom has been removed from your body.”

  “You can’t do that to someone—that’s torture!”

  “No, it’s investigation. And it’s the easy part. The hard part comes when you have to explain the purpose of every suspicious particle. Now, that can take weeks. We’ll do the same to your apartment, of course. Most of your possessions won’t survive the process. All those precious books will end up as nothing but powder. The good news is, if we don’t find anything suspicious we’ll let you keep the powder.”

  Even as he was speaking, Dredd realised what it was that he’d missed. The gap in the bookshelves; the circular impression in the dust. It could have been made by a mug, as Moeller claimed. But it could have been something else, too.

  He hauled Moeller to his feet, dragged him over to the bookcase, pushed his face close to the gap. “Explain!”

  “I don’t under—”

  “You’re going to tell me how Chalk got his hands on a concussion grenade!”

  “How would I know?”

  “Chalk contacted you when he got out. He wanted weapons. You’re the right man for that because you were one of his liaisons back when he was a scavenger!” He forced Moeller’s arms higher behind his back, and the man yelped in pain. “That void in the dust is the right size for a grenade. You sold it to Chalk—that makes you an accessory to murder.”

  “You can’t prove that!”

  “I’m a Judge. I don’t have to prove it. Suspicion is enough.” He pulled Moeller back from the bookcase and spun him around so that they were face-to-visor. “Weapons trading is a class-one felony, Moeller,” Dredd spat. “That means life without parole. And not in a cushy iso-cube. You’re looking at hard labour. The Cursed Earth, or a trawler in the Black Atlantic. Or maybe mining the asteroid belt. You’re strong, fit... You might even last a couple of years.”

  Moeller’s face sagged. “I...” He dry-swallowed. “Promise to reduce my sentence and I’ll talk. I’ll tell you everything.”

  “No promises. No deals. Your sentence doesn’t mean you get to skip the particle-scan... After a few minutes of that you’ll be telling us everything anyway.”

  “Chalk contacted me, when he got out. Tracked me down through a friend of a friend. He told me... Look, what happened five years ago in that town, well, it didn’t go down the way you thought it did. I don’t know all the details...”

  “Tell me what you do know.”

  “Chalk wasn’t just a scavenger. He was a gun-runner. His team smuggled old weapons into the city. You swear to me I won’t get the Black Atlantic and I’ll tell you the names of the assessors who helped them.”

  “I told you,” Dredd said. “No deals.” He paused for a second, then added, “But it can’t hurt your case to cooperate.”

  Moeller nodded. “All right. In that town—whatever it was called—Chalk was working with the mayor. Chalk always knew where the other teams of scavengers were. He’d tell the mayor and they’d send out raiders, take any guns the scavengers had found. Then every few months Chalk’s people would go to the town and load the haul of weapons onto their trucks, take them back to the city. But... I don’t know what happened exactly, but they had a falling out. Maybe the mayor wanted a bigger cut, or something. Either way, when you and the other cadets and that Judge went to the town, the mayor thought that Chalk had sold them out.”

  Behind Dredd, the door to the apartment was pushed open and two Judges entered. “Dredd. You called for a H-wagon.”

  “We’re not done here yet,” Dredd said. “Talk faster, Moeller.”

  “Chalk killed the mayor with his own gun, right? You were there, you saw that. But what you didn’t see was that just before you got there, the mayor was about to kill Chalk. And that gun was part of Chalk’s weapons shipment. All the weapons were always cleaned, but Chalk had taken that one out of the crate to show the mayor. That was the real reason he grabbed it—because he knew that you’d be checking all the weapons for prints and DNA.”

  “And Chalk didn’t want us to know that the reason his DNA was on the gun was because he’d already handled it.”

  “Right,” Moeller said, nodding. “The others with Chalk... They were part of his crew. They’d sided with the mayor. They wanted Chalk out of the picture as much as the mayor did. But when you rescued them, none of scavengers could say anything about the others without implicating themselves. If you hadn’t arrested Chalk, he’d have taken his revenge on them a long time ago.”

  “So that’s who he’s targeting. His former colleagues.”

  Moeller was staring at the floor. “He asked me for weapons. The grenade was the only thing I had. I don’t deal weapons, never did. I had the grenade because, well, in good condition they’re worth about seventeen thousand credits to a collector.”

  “I want the names and locations of the people Chalk is targeting.”

  “And you’ll reduce my sentence?”

  “No. But delay any longer and I’ll increase it. Only offer you’re going to get, Moeller. Start talking.”

  Thirteen

  IN HIS OFFICE in the Grand Hall of Justice, Chief Judge Clarence Goodman had one of his desk’s monitors tuned to the race—with the sound muted—while through the others he conducted the afternoon situation reports.

  Standing on the other side of the desk, Goodman’s assistant Judge Brannigan read stats from a datapad. “Reported crimes are down on the average day, sir. Down quite a lot, actually.”

  “A quarter of the population is on the streets watching the race,” Goodman said. “Same thing happened the last couple of years. When they get home and discover that their pockets have been picked or their homes have been burgled, we can expect a massive surge in reports. Instruct the call centres to double-up on staff for the next twenty-four.” Goodman turned to the screen showing Sector Chief Daniel Mendillo. “Where are we on the sector sixty-three diner shootings?”

  “Judges Amber Ruiz and Joseph Dredd were investigating,” Mendillo said. “Ruiz has been injured, shot by an unknown sniper. Likely the same perp from the diner, but that’s not been established yet. She’s alive, but her condition’s still critical. Dredd’s carrying the investigation alone. He’s established that the killer’s targeting former colleagues. Right now he’s en route to the closest.”

  Goodman sat back. “Dredd... Good Judge. What sort of back-up are you giving him?”

  “Tech support, forensics... Nothing on the streets, if that’s what you mean. We just don’t have the helmets.”

  Goodman glanced at the monitor displaying the race. “The killer picked the right day for it. Which makes me think that it’s not a coincidence.”

  “Yes, sir. Dredd suggested the same thing.”

  Goodman leaned closer to the screen showing Mendillo. “I’m the Chief Judge. Eight hundred million people rely on me to make good decisions. Do you comprehend that?”

  “Sir?”

  “You think this office is so far above the streets that I can’t still have my finger on the pulse? I know what’s going on. I’m not a drokkin’ idiot, Mendillo. I see the reports before you do, and I know how to interpret them. A lot of other Judges are blaming Dredd for this. They think that Pendleton and Collins would still be alive if Dredd had executed Chalk five years ago.”

  Mendillo hesitated. “He did have that option,
sir. It was his decision not to exercise it. Any fallout from that is—”

  Goodman thumped his fist on the desk. “Enough! I’ve looked at that case. Dredd’s judgement was sound then. Ruiz stood by him, and so do I. If a Judge can disarm and disable a perp without killing him, then that is the Judge’s first obligation. Joseph Dredd is no more responsible for Chalk’s actions than I am. I’m aware that our resources are stretched thinner than usual today, but you will make damn sure that Dredd receives all the support he needs. Even if that means we have to pull Judges out of crowd control and replace them with Sector Chiefs. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Any Judge who knowingly hampers Dredd’s investigation will find themselves being interviewed by the SJS. Any Judge, Mendillo.”

  Mendillo nodded. “Understood, sir. I’ll see to it personally.”

  “Do that,” Goodman said. “Or I’ll see to it personally.”

  SEAMUS “SHOCK” O’SHAUGHNESSY felt his pulse quicken as he pushed harder on the accelerator. His Blenderbike curved slowly but smoothly past Aposcar Kresky’s brand-new Honda-Davidson XM940 and slipped into tenth place.

  Coming up was a section of the route that the riders had nicknamed The Crowbar. The name was coined by racing pundit Murray Strider, who—when pressed for an explanation--said, “this is the one that separates the men from the boys.” Strider’s comment had him immediately blacklisted by the Mega-City One Association For Wimmin And Grrlz Who Ride Bikes, but that had only served to boost his profile, which was why he’d said it.

  The Crowbar was a thirty-kilometre stretch that wove through the blocks of sector 192, a zig-zagging mess of short runs connected by right-angled turns. Recommended maximum speed through The Crowbar was one hundred KPH, though most riders were expected to take it at less than half that speed.

  This was where Shock intended to take the lead. Right now, Napoleon Neapolitan was eight positions behind him, and his custom-built two-wheeler was untested on such a tricky route. It certainly didn’t look like it could corner worth a damn: its wheels were too large and its centre of gravity too high. With a little luck, Napoleon would take a turn too fast and end up with his skull driven into his chest cavity.

  Shock’s comm-link buzzed into life, and his race-planner Amanda Quisling asked, “You read me, Shock?”

  “Loud and clear, boss.”

  “Just heard that De Oro is going to try to take The Crowbar at full speed. He reckons his machine is up to it.” Jules Castel De Oro was in fourth position, riding a tank-tracked Vista Tachyon. “So, you know, watch out for flying debris and body parts.”

  “Gotcha. How are the rest of the team doing?”

  “They should be on your screen, Shock.”

  “That just tells me where they are. What’s the mood like back there?”

  “Gardiner and Clayton are going to pull in front of Sharry Bean in about four minutes. They’ll slow her down—that should give McHattie a clear run past her. He can open the throttle then and should be able to move into fifteenth.”

  “Cool. What about Jaunty Monty? He disappeared off the list a few minutes back—haven’t had time to check.”

  Quisling paused. “Jaunty’s gone, Shock. Mutie clipped him as he was taking Hangman’s Turn.”

  “Damn... He’s dead?”

  “Yeah. Sorry. I know you were friends. He left instructions... His winnings are to be divided up among the survivors on the team. That’s twenty grand apiece, right now. Small consolation, I know.”

  Shock spotted an oil slick far ahead and eased to the left to avoid it. “What do you mean, winnings?”

  “Jaunty bet against himself. He always did. He put fifty grand down that he’d not make it to the half-way point. Got four-to-one from The Smilin’ Aztec.”

  “Why the hell would he—”

  “Because if he wins the race, he doesn’t care about losing the stake, and if he loses the race, he wins the bet.”

  Shock laughed. “Damn. That’s smarter than I ever gave him credit for. No wonder the drokker was always happy. Should have done the same thing myself.”

  Quisling said, “Shock, you’ll hit The Crowbar in ninety seconds. Come out of it in one piece.”

  “That’s the plan.” Shock shut off the comm-link and focussed his attention on the road ahead.

  Here, as he approached The Crowbar, temporary seating had been erected on either side of the road, packed with thousands of cheering fans, each of whom had paid at least two hundred credits for the privilege. When it came to the Mega-City 5000, the citizens weren’t afraid to spend good money in the hope of seeing their favourite biker, even if it was only for a second or two as he or she zoomed past.

  Directly ahead of Shock, the independent rider in ninth position—Gavin Sable—slowed way down. Shock cruised past him, then nudged his bike to the right and drew parallel with Tiana Valdivia in eighth, just as Valdivia had been edging to the right side of the track in order to take the first corner of The Crowbar.

  This forced Valdivia to slow down and draw back. On Shock’s monitor, Valdivia fell into position right behind him, and Shock pulled his first dirty trick of the race. It wasn’t technically against the rules, but it was the sort of thing that very much divided the fans. He flipped a switch on his controls and his Blenderbike’s rear brake light came on.

  Valdivia, thinking that Shock was slowing down, reacted by hitting her own brakes. It was a simple idea and Shock grinned to himself as he saw the gap between them immediately widen.

  That should have been the extent of it, but Valdivia had been taken completely by surprise. She’d hit the brakes too hard, and her bike wobbled, and wavered. Its front wheel suddenly flipped to the left and then Valdivia was in the air, tumbling, her bike shedding jagged metal fragments as it spun and crashed along behind her.

  Valdivia came down head-first with a noise loud enough to be heard even over the gasps of the crowd.

  Shock didn’t directly see what happened next—he was already past the next corner and gaining on the rider in seventh place—but the TV cameras caught every moment of it, and relayed it to his bike’s screen.

  Gavin Sable was moving too fast to safely avoid the debris from Valdivia’s bike. His front wheel collided with the fuel tank, crushing it, spraying the road with the high-octane compound.

  Aw crap, Shock thought. Just one spark and—

  A shard of Sable’s bike, later determined to be a drive-shaft, crashed down onto the road’s surface. The fuel erupted, a massive ball of white-hot flame that turned the rest of the bike—and much of Sable’s body—into burning shrapnel.

  It was the biggest single-crash accident in the race’s history: ten riders killed within seconds, six of them muties.

  Shock forced himself to keep calm, telling himself over and over that it wasn’t his fault. Valdivia had been too close, she’d over-reacted to the brake-light trick. She should have been a better biker, Shock told himself. Who the hell allowed her to participate, anyway? There ought to be laws about that sort of thing. If you’re not up to standard, you shouldn’t be permitted to enter the race.

  As Shock neared the end of The Crowbar, his screen showed him that Napoleon Neapolitan had come through the crash unharmed, his bike’s oversized wheels allowing him to ride over most of the debris with little damage.

  Shock’s screen flickered and Napoleon’s face was glaring out at him. “You did that, Shock. That’s six of my men wiped out. Screw the rules. Screw the race. You’re a dead man riding.”

  Fourteen

  RILEY MOELLER HAD given Dredd a list of five names, all former scavengers. Dredd recognised the names of all except one, Winston Fierro. Five years ago, when everything fell apart for Chalk in Eminence, Fierro had been temporarily seconded to a team combing the undercity, the ruins on top of which Mega-City One had been constructed.

  Of the five, only Dean James Squire and Rhea Kinsley were still operating as scavengers. They had both applied for and been granted leave to r
eturn to the city and watch the race.

  Fierro and the others were now unemployed, their contracts terminated one by one as the constant scouring of the Cursed Earth had picked the wastelands clean of useful materials. “All three of them are still in the city,” Control told Dredd.

  The closest to Moeller’s apartment was Marshall Rose, resident of James Blocker Block. Control confirmed to Dredd that Rose was at home: thirty minutes ago he’d gone online to order a Mega-City 5000 souvenir thermal underwear set during one of the race’s many commercial breaks.

  Dredd was minutes away from the block when his radio buzzed. “Dredd? This is Judge Franklyn, at Blocker... It’s not good news. Rose is dead. So’s his partner and three friends who were with them watching the race. Not more than a few minutes, I’d say—blood’s still dripping down the walls. Perp came in through the door, shooting. Took Rose down with a large calibre. Likely the same point-seven-six recoilless from the diner. We’re pulling the block’s security cams and I’ve called for back-up to run a door-to-door on the block, but I wouldn’t hold out any hope.”

  Dredd was already veering off into a cross-street. “Acknowledged, Franklyn. Stay on the scene until forensics can identify the friends.”

  Dredd checked his bike’s screen. The next closest potential target was Avril-Jane Morante. He called up her citizen’s ID card, showing a stocky woman with blonde hair: Dredd recognised her as one of the other hostages from the mayor’s warehouse in Eminence.

  Should have been a full investigation, Dredd said to himself. There had been no reason to suspect Percival Chalk of anything beyond the killing of Mayor Genesis Faulder, but as the only Judge present, Ruiz should have ordered a complete background check on the other hostages. Sloppy work. Even if Ruiz had been beaten and tortured, she should have known better than to believe their side of the story without checking it out.

  Avril-Jane Morante’s block was on the west side of Sector 179, and right now Dredd was sixty-four kilometres away in Sector 55. On a normal day, it would take him twenty minutes to cover that distance. Today, traffic was a lot lighter because everyone was watching the race... But Sector 179 was cut right down the middle by the fastest stretch of the Mega-City 5000.