Black Atlantic

by Peter J Evans

  Bane felt the hairs on her arms and the back of her neck bristle. Can-Rat might not have been much of a sailor - he was too short and slender for the physical demands of life on the Black Atlantic, and seawater brought out his allergies - but, either due to some telepathic mutant ability or just keen senses, he always seemed to know when something bad was about to happen. Bane kept him on board as a kind of canary - if Can-Rat got nervous, so did she.

  "Don't worry," she told him. "Almost there. We'll be gone soon..."

  The grab hesitated, waiting out a swell, then as Golgotha rolled back down it dropped, splashing heavily down onto the object. For a second Bane thought it was going to skate right off the slick surface, but Dray had been working the cranes for years. The grab scissored closed and came up in a single, soaring motion, showering the deck with grubby spray. Bane closed her eyes against it for just a moment, and when she opened them again the object was hanging a few metres above the deck. They had it.

  It looked a lot like a coffin, actually. If the underside of the thing hadn't been a maze of sophisticated support pipework, she might have gotten nervous and dropped the thing right back over the side.

  No, she told herself, no one was that stupid. Even a corpse could fetch a price if you sold it to the right people.

  Dray was lowering the object onto the deck, and the others were moving towards it, eager to see what they'd picked up. Bane noticed that Orca had emerged from the drive room and was bouncing towards her. For such a huge man, he moved with surprising grace and lightness, as if he weighed almost nothing at all. Bane knew that wasn't true, but she also knew that his layers of protective blubber were thinly wrapped around enough muscle for three normal men. Orca's weight didn't slow him down because he had more than enough strength to carry it. A few people had found that out the hard way. As far as Bane knew one of them was still alive, but his family had to feed him through a straw.

  Orca reached the object as it hit the deck and bent to study it. Bane joined him. "What do you think?" she asked, watching him running his fingers lightly over its glossy shell.

  "Good quality," Orca muttered. "Mega-City workmanship, possibly, or a Hondo-Cit copy." His fingers moved across a flat panel at one of the shorter ends. "Maybe some kind of lock?"

  "I'll get a wrench and a prybar," said Angle happily. Bane shook her head.

  "Wait. We'll get more for this if we don't wreck it." She turned back to Orca, who was studying a fine, barely visible seal that ran completely around the object. "What would you put in a box like this?"

  "In a hermetic cask? Something perishable. Something you want to keep fresh till you need it." He paused, stroking his cascade of chins. "Food, perhaps. Med-supplies more likely."

  "Paydirt!" Angle whooped. "We'll get top cred for Mega-City meds on the Sargasso! Right, cap?"

  "Right. We keep it sealed, make it fast and head for home." Bane couldn't help but smile. If Orca was right, the chest's contents would earn them good money in the dockside markets of the cityship. And the meds might even save some lives. Everybody wins.

  Good news at last. Things had been tough for a while, with pickings so slim some trips had brought in barely enough to cover Golgotha's mooring fees, and the little ship still needed fuel and spare parts, despite Orca's genius for repairs.

  Abruptly, Bane glanced around. Can-Rat was back at the rail, staring out across the murky water. She trotted over to join him, and was startled to see that the furry mutant was shivering violently. "Grud, Canny, what's up?"

  "I dunno." He turned to face her, his muzzle twitching with fear. "I think something's coming..."

  "Captain?"

  "Dray? What is it?"

  "Not sure. Something funny..." She heard Dray tapping at a control. "The signal's stopped, cut out as soon as it hit the deck. But there's another one."

  "Another signal?" Bane grabbed the rail and leaned over, scanning the inky water. "What, another coffin?" She was liking this less by the second. Can-Rat was spooked, more caskets were popping out of the Atlantic every second - what next?

  "Hold on." Dray said, over her headset. "I've got another contact. It's weird. It only just appeared, even though the radar puts it nearby and closing fast."

  "Another scavenger?" suggested Orca, next to her so suddenly that she jumped.

  "Maybe." She was looking around wildly, trying to see what was coming, but the weather was closing in again. The oily spray was being joined by wisps of yellowish fog, and the swell was getting worse. A storm was coming.

  "Can we get the other casket aboard before they arrive?"

  "I don't know. Depends how close they are." She glanced back to the casket, still held firmly against the deck by the crane grab, and then went sprawling across the deck as Can-Rat barrelled into her from behind. She yelled in surprise and protest, but never heard her own shout. It had been drowned out by the explosion that blew a head-sized hole through the gunwale, just where she'd been standing.

  The other ship was almost on top of them.

  It loomed out of the rising fog, all flat panels and sharp edges. Stealth plates, she thought frantically, radar-absorbent ceramic. No telling how long the ship had been following them, guns trained, waiting for them to pick up something worthwhile.

  Can-Rat had just saved her from being blown in half.

  Dray was yelling in her ear, telling her to say something, let him know she was okay. Golgotha's deck was up at a wild angle, so steep that she started to slide across it. Dray was hauling the ship around, trying to make a getaway before the stealth ship could fire again.

  She saw the port gunwale coming up to meet her, but then Orca's massive hand closed around the hood of her slicker and hauled her back upright.

  Bane scanned the deck, trying to see whether everyone was okay. Can-Rat was huddled behind the object, keeping its bulk between him and the other ship. She couldn't see Angle at all. "Where's the kid?"

  "Stern," Orca shouted, raising his voice above the rising bellow of Golgotha's engines. Dray was opening the throttles up, putting speed into the turn. "Said something about the guns."

  Bane groaned. Golgotha had a pair of twin-linked spit guns mounted on a crude swivel behind the bridge. They would make a lovely noise, but the shells they fired were soft headed, designed for use against Black Atlantic wildlife, not stealth-armoured ships. If he opened up with those, the other vessel would shoot straight back at him. He was going to get himself blown to bits.

  "Stay here," she yelled at Orca, gesturing at the casket. "Stay behind that thing and keep Can-Rat with you." With that she began scuttling towards the rear of the ship, keeping low to avoid drawing any more fire. The stealth vessel wasn't using up a lot of ammo. So far it had only fired the one shot.

  There was an almighty noise and the light portside crane splintered in half, toppling drunkenly over the side. Two shots, Bane corrected herself, ducking under the splash. She wondered what kind of gun they had mounted in that thing. Whatever it was, it was big.

  Not scavengers, then. Pirates. Tooled up and ready to make their profits the fast and bloody way.

  The ship had completed its turn. Dray slammed the throttle open and it surged forwards. Bane, halfway along the portside companionway by that point, had to grab a rail and hang on as the deck reared up behind her and threatened to spill her into the stern.

  Seconds later the spit guns opened up with a hellish racket.

  She scrambled to a halt at the stern rail, trying vainly to cover her ears with one hand while hanging on for dear life with the other. Angle was hunkered down behind the guns, and as Bane watched he squeezed both triggers and sent another stream of shells thundering towards the pirate ship.

  She saw figures on the deck scattering. Angle, to his credit, wasn't trying to damage the ship. He was aiming at softer targets. "Just keeping their heads down," he shouted, loosing off another volley. "If they're too busy ducking, maybe they can't spend so much time steering."

  There was a dull sound from the p
irate ship, and a puff of smoke. Part of the stern rail disappeared. Bane heard bits of it whining past her head.

  "Okay, you drokkers!" Angle screamed. "You asked for it!"

  The next time he opened fire, he was aiming lower. Bane almost told him not to bother, but then realised she had forgotten how accurate he had been with the magoon. Despite the wild pitching of Golgotha's deck and the surging motion of the pirate ship, he put his next volley directly down the throat of the stealth vessel's big gun.

  Bane didn't hear the explosion, but she saw it. A narrow slot between the stealth plates at the pirate's prow suddenly vomited smoke and fire. Seconds later, more smoke began to billow out from all the forward vents and view ports. The stealth vessel was swiftly engulfed in a greasy, flame-shot cloud.

  "YES!" Angle stood up, leaning out over the guns. "Who's your daddy, eh boy? Who's your drokking daddy?!"

  "Keep your head down, daddy." Bane hauled him back down. "They might send a thank you back with something smaller."

  For a second Angle stayed where he was, shaking with fierce exhilaration. Then he sagged back. "Grud," he whispered. "Er, cap?"

  "Mm-hm?"

  "That was fun. Can we do that some more?"

  The Golgotha powered due north until the pirate ship had been left on the far side of the stern horizon, when Dray throttled back to preserve fuel. Back on the bridge with him, Bane cranked the sensor net - another of Orca's jerry-rigged but remarkably sensitive creations - to full gain. The output screen filled with dots indicating inorganic debris on or near the ocean's surface. Solid gold to a scavenger under normal circumstances, but right now Bane was content to let it go.

  There was an odd, flickering contact at the edge of the sensor net's range - the pirate vessel, its stealth shielding less efficient while it was on fire. It kept its position until it had left the scope. "Picking up the other casket?"

  "Casket or caskets, yeah." Dray rubbed his chin, making a grinding sound against his scales. "Disappointed?"

  "Nah. Something tells me one of these things is enough." She yawned and stretched. Night had fallen while Golgotha was fleeing the scene and the excitement had taken all the strength from her. "I'm going to turn in. Tell Can-Rat he's got the next watch."

  "You sure you want to trust him up here on his own?"

  "He'll be fine," Bane replied. "Just think of him as an extra early warning system."

  Dray gave a half-amused, half-sceptical snort and went back to his instruments. Bane ducked through the aft hatch and found her way to the crew quarters. Hammocks swung lazily from the low ceiling and Bane dropped gratefully into the nearest.

  Golgotha was running well, the bilges were empty and the decks were clear. Orca had taken the casket down into the forward hold, where he had locked it down firmly and covered it with tarpaulin. It would stay there until they docked with the cityship.

  Not long now, Bane told herself. They had outrun the storm as well as the pirates. At this course and speed, they should be back in dock within a day and a half.

  That thought was enough to comfort her, and the gentle rocking of the ship took her the rest of the way into sleep.

  Down in the darkness of the forward hold, the casket lay and waited. Beneath its armoured carapace, machines tirelessly monitored the condition of its contents, logging their readings onto wafer thin data crystals. The support system continued to pump nutrient solutions around the inside of the shell; the temperature was kept constant and the final data downloads ran through their checksum routines.

  And the timer, built into the lock that Orca had noticed on deck, kept counting down the seconds, just as it had been doing since the casket had been sealed.

  As Gethsemane Bane fell asleep, the counter read just thirty-four hours, forty-nine minutes and a steadily decreasing handful of seconds.

  A day and a half.

  4. BREAKFAST TO GO

  The best time for a crime swoop, Dredd had decided long ago, was dawn or even earlier. The worst excesses of the Graveyard Shift tended to fade out by four-thirty, and the day's hardcore perps wouldn't have roused themselves yet. This wasn't to say that Mega-City One in the early hours was a crime-free zone - that wasn't going to happen in Dredd's lifetime - but there was a dip in the graph before the sun came up.

  Besides, a groggy citizen was a poor liar.

  The doors on Les Dennis Block's eighty-seventh floor had been recently repainted; the last time Dredd had been here they were uniformly grey. Now they were uniformly green, which was as close to urban renewal as Les Dennis was likely to see in a while. Dredd strode up to number three-twenty, rapped on it hard, and waited. A few seconds later the door began to rattle: a full complement of latches, bolts and security chains were being unlocked behind the plasteen.

  When the door finally opened, it only did so partway. Dredd saw a handspan of nervous, blinking citizen behind two more lengths of stout chain. "What-"

  "Marcus Elizabeth Bropes? I'm here to search your apartment."

  Bropes swallowed, nodded hard and eased the door back towards the frame so he could get the chains off. Dredd noticed how careful he was not to close it fully - that would get it kicked off its hinges in a heartbeat. The man had been swooped before.

  Dredd pushed past Bropes and into the apartment as soon as the chains were down. Typical place: everything made from extruded plasteen, from the walls and the furniture to the half-dozen tacky souvenirs on top of the Tri-D. A table with one chair, facing the screen. Bropes had been in the middle of a bowl of Synthi-Flakes and a beaker of juice.

  "You're up early, citizen."

  "Uh, I have a job, Judge." Bropes was still in his night things, skinny white limbs emerging from T-shirt and shorts, red hair mussed and flattened from sleep. "I'm a pointer, down at Brendy's Pad-Mart."

  "Pointer?"

  Bropes nodded. "I point at things. Things in the Mart. Like pads, and stuff." He demonstrated, aiming a long finger at the beaker. "Draws people's attention to the products, makes them want to buy more."

  "A laudable career, citizen. Committed any crimes recently? I'll know if you're lying."

  "No Judge, no crimes. I couldn't be a pointer if I had a record."

  The swoop took less than ten minutes. Bropes stood quietly to one side as Dredd went though his possessions. He didn't have that much: his clothes, souvenirs from various sightseeing tours, a collection of kneepads, all from the Pad-Mart where he worked. "Staff discount."

  The apartment was clean. Dredd checked a couple of the kneepads against Justice Department records, but the sales were on file, and Bropes even had the receipts. Against all the odds, it looked as though he'd stumbled across a model citizen.

  Still, he had to ask. "What's up with the middle name, Bropes?"

  The man looked downcast. "The bot at the registration office had a malfunction. Pa always said he could see it sparking, but Ma wouldn't let him reregister me. Said she wanted a girl..."

  "I see." Dredd got a feeling he was going to be regaled with Bropes's life story if he stayed any longer, and he needed to be back on the street. He headed for the door. "Thank you for your time, citizen. Enjoy your breakfast."

  He was halfway out the door when it hit him. Breakfast.

  He spun on his heel and was back at the table in two long strides. "Mind if I try a Synthi-Flake, Bropes? Hear they're pretty good."

  Bropes was gaping. "I-"

  Dredd took a single flake from the bowl, sniffed it, put it in his mouth. And spat it back again. "Wondered what you were spending your wages on, Bropes. Give it up."

  Bropes sagged, like a puppet without its strings. He raised his bony arm and pointed at one of the souvenirs on the Tri-D. "Power Tower Tours," he whispered.

  The flimsy plasteen tower came apart easily in Dredd's gloved hands, and a tiny amount of white powder flowed out into his palm as he tipped the remains. He didn't even need to taste it. "Life not sweet enough for you, citizen?" He crushed the replica Power Tower in one fist. "Code twenty, sect
ion two. Possession of an illegal substance with intent to use: two years."

  "Two years? For sugar?"

  "And compulsory rehab. Marcus Elizabeth Bropes, you've pointed at your last kneepad."

  How could he have missed the sugar?

  Dredd tooled his Lawmaster along Mandelson Overpass, disgusted with himself. He'd almost been out of the hab, and there was a bowlful of sugary Synthi-Flakes sitting right there on the table the whole time. The souvenirs should have been the first thing he looked at, crushing every one searching for contraband. Instead, he'd almost made a mistake.

  Almost let a guilty man go free.

  Dredd pulled the Lawmaster over to the side of the overzoom and gazed out over the city. He couldn't afford to make mistakes. No street Judge could. What was wrong with him?

  Was he getting old?

  No, he wasn't ready for the Long Walk just yet. He didn't like to admit it, but the plain fact of the matter was, there was something on his mind.

  Project Warchild.

  Depending on who you asked, Elize Hellermann was either a scientific visionary on par with Newton and Einstein, or a borderline psychotic with no morals or scruples whatsoever. Everyone who worked with her could agree on one thing, however - her brilliance.

  She was persuasive, too. Despite only being a member of Tek Division's civilian scientific staff, she had managed to convince at least one Chief Judge that a research into intelligent bioweapons was a justifiable use of resources. And once she had funding, she had spent the next fifteen years working on a modification - some might say perversion - of Justice Department's cloning procedures.

  Cloning was an integral part of the Justice Department, used in the selection and shaping of suitable Judge candidates. But Hellermann wanted to take it in a new direction. She wanted to build soldiers, warriors, programmable monsters that could be dropped into the most violent, crime-ridden areas to pacify them without human loss.