Down and Out

by Matthew Smith

  “I’m countermanding that programming,” Dredd barked, his voice rising. “You should be receiving new code that overrides all previous instructions. You will now do what I tell you, do you understand?”

  There was a pause. “I... can see that my programming is being rewritten, and I am no longer obliged to execute my current task. May I ask on whose authority you’re acting, as this is highly irregular—”

  “I’m all the authority you need,” the lawman shouted. “Activate standby mode now.”

  “Standby will necessitate the powering down of certain functions—”

  “Just shut down, you stupid drokking machine, before I put a bullet through your core!”

  “Okay, okay. Jeez.”

  The howl of the engines dropped to a low hum so suddenly that Dredd almost overbalanced, disoriented. The wind calmed, too, leaving a rare stillness. For a moment, all he could hear was the steady creaking of the girders as the half-destroyed block twisted on its foundations; then something shifted and the building started to lean precariously, a crack zigzagging through the rockcrete near where he crouched. He braced himself, a vertiginous feeling rising out of his stomach as the skyline swayed above him, and the floor disappeared out from under him. There was nothing left to cling to—what was left of the wrecked apartment was unfolding, dismantling. He was going to fall.

  He refused to let his fear get the better of him. He’d known that this was only going to end one way.

  Dredd heard turbines firing up again and dropped his head in frustration—the ship’s A.I. must’ve rebooted itself. Dammit, he thought he’d stopped it. When he looked up, he found himself gazing up at a hovering H-Wagon, its gantry lowered and a smiling Saunders leaning out from it, one hand clutching the stanchion, the other reaching for him.

  “Come on,” she said, the craft inching closer to the block to allow her hand to clasp his. “Let’s go.”

  She pulled him aboard, just before the back of the apartment chose that moment to crumble into the street. He glanced at the auto-container, which was now stationary, hanging quietly in the air. Saunders followed his gaze.

  “First time an A.I.’s been threatened into doing what it’s told, I bet.” She ushered him into the H-Wagon’s hold. “Do you scare everyone?”

  13.40 pm

  DAX WATCHED FROM some distance as the Judges’ vessel pulled away from Meyer, more of the block’s structure sloughing off like an eroding mountain. Great plumes of dust rose as rubble crunched into the sked. Cuffed to the holding post like this, she could do nothing but watch Strickland fall apart.

  Bonedog came over, seeing her shake her head. “What’s the matter?”

  “End of an era,” she replied sadly.

  The jay that had arrested her had left her here on an HP while he aided with the relief effort. She was small fry, she’d be processed eventually once they’d stopped shovelling ’crete. The badges would come back for her, and when they did the gang would split; until then, they’d stuck around to offer moral support.

  Bonedog studied her. “Why’d you do it, Dax? Why’d you give the bluejay the gun? You said yourself, don’t do nothin’ stupid.”

  She was silent for a moment. “I dunno. Compelled to, I guess. It felt like he knew I had it, and hiding it was pointless. Somethin’ I saw when he was lyin’ there an’ I first picked up the gun. I... I got the sense he’s pretty mean, that I don’t wanna get on the wrong side of him. Like, ever.”

  “Gonna be lookin’ at five years, min.”

  “Yeah.”

  He whistled. “Helluva time to grow a conscience, girl.”

  She laughed bitterly. “Couldn’t help it.” Dax scanned the sky, the H-Wagon just a dot in the distance. “The guilt got the better of me.”

  Ten

  14.16 pm

  BERTRAM GILPIG WASN’T, he believed, an immoral man. He empathised with the unfortunates in society, understood full well the hardships they faced—Grud knew he had to listen to them often enough in the monthly surgeries he endured as councillor. Life for many in Mega-City wasn’t easy: jobs were notoriously hard to come by, drug use was widespread, crime rates were rocketing; no wonder many of them felt angry and helpless, seeing the decades stretching before them with a sense of utter hopelessness. They had nothing to work and strive for, little in the way of creds; years of unemployment beckoned. Offspring could be born in block nurseries, educated in block schools, and spend the rest of their adulthood in front of the Tri-D before they made the final journey to Resyk. Who wouldn’t be pissed at the sheer futility of their existences? Gilpig got that, he really did, and he wished he could do more to help—but the metropolis was so vast and the citizens so numerous that resources were stretched to the limit. They were all survivors of a global apocalypse, waking up to a future in which much of the planet was uninhabitable. Things were going to be tough for everyone.

  No, he was all too aware of the challenges of the late twenty-first century, and liked to think he was sympathetic. If he was going to admit to any fault, it was that he was an opportunist. He saw chances to change things, improve the quality of life for many, and he took them—seized the fire, so to speak. Grand Hall red tape was legendary, and, yes, perhaps he did cut corners to expedite matters, but the people would appreciate the final result: the ends did indeed justify the means. The Strickland estate was a case in point—Justice Department seemed all too happy to let the district fall into ruin, effectively abandoning its residents, but Gilpig felt that was too short-sighted. It frustrated him, this lack of vision, and so he’d decided to nudge progress a little, take a hand in shaping the city’s landscape for the post-atomic age.

  The problem was you couldn’t build a better tomorrow without demolishing the old.

  All these justifications raced through his head as he hurried across the spaceport concourse, suitcase in hand. He’d had to pack light—speed was of the essence—and hadn’t even waited for Darlene to come home before fleeing the apartment; he figured he’d drop her a line once he was past Luna-1, explain the situation. Maybe they’d be reunited, but most likely not. He wasn’t going to shed any tears over walking out on twenty-four years of loveless, miserable marriage. This was probably the fresh start he needed: another opportunity he wasn’t shy in taking advantage of.

  More pressing was that he get off-world with the minimum of fuss. Dean Learner was thankfully very far from Strickland, but the reports of the disturbances were filtering back across city, news crews already on the scene and detailing the destruction. It was all going to blow back on him, he knew it. He’d hoped that Rawlings’ crew would have been able to quietly eliminate the Judge and retrieve the datastick, but evidently that had gone south quite spectacularly. He should’ve known better that to entrust a task of that magnitude to others—especially a bunch of dolts like the Russ Meyer Furies—but there was a limit to what a man of his standing could achieve on his own without someone there to handle the dirty work.

  ‘Dirty work’ made it sound so seedy. This was damage limitation. Force majeure. Gilpig had been placed in an unacceptable position, and events had spiralled beyond his control in his attempt to right it. He was a victim of circumstance, really; his best laid plans unravelled by misfortune and the actions of a badge who didn’t know when to just lie down and drokking die.

  He felt his grip on his suitcase handle tighten, aware his anger was resurfacing. He had to be careful—he had a tendency to vent when riled, as his staff could well attest. He didn’t want to draw attention to himself now when he just wanted to slip anonymously out of the city. All it would take is one rant at a jobsworth luggage-handler, and eyes would be drawn his way.

  He slowed his pace, willing himself to calm down, and considered finding a PF—to collect his thoughts, splash some water on his face, relieve his trembling bowels—but he didn’t want the delay. Nevertheless, he could feel the sweat on the back of his neck, between his shoulder blades, in the palms of his hands, and became self-conscious of his breathin
g. He couldn’t afford to panic, he had to act normal. Unsurprisingly, there were Judges stationed throughout the terminal, trained to recognise the signs of a man with something to hide; just their presence was enough to make the most innocent cits soil their Us over imaginary infractions. He pulled down low the baseball cap that he’d picked up on the journey over, and kept his gaze on the polished floor, counting the steps to freedom.

  Gruddammit, he thought, he didn’t deserve this kind of luck. If all had gone like clockwork. The residents of Strickland would’ve had a complete regeneration of their sector (it was unlikely they would’ve been able to afford to continue to live there, but still); his construction contacts would’ve been assured several years’ work; Rawlings would’ve had exclusive territorial rights to all drug distribution amongst those fancy new occupants with their disposable income; and he, Bertram Gilpig, would’ve been creaming a percentage from all of it. It was beautiful, and all down to a couple of well-targeted treemeat-freighter accidents. Everybody would’ve won, in the end, and limited casualties, he guessed. He should be rewarded for this kind of pioneering risk-taking, not reduced to scurrying away like a fugitive.

  He chose to pick up his boarding pass at the automated check-in machine, the better to keep a low profile. As it printed out his details, he glanced left and right at the crowds, envious of those greeting loved ones or embarking on holidays; they knew nothing of what it took to make the hard choices, to gamble everything. He looked forward to a clean slate far from Earth, where he too could appreciate such simple pleasures, and as he plucked the printed card from the slot, he felt it was within his grasp.

  Or it was until a gauntleted hand gripped his shoulder, gloved fingers pinning him where he stood, and he knew that future was about to be snatched away.

  16.02 pm

  JOE.

  Voices in the fog. He’d been here before: a warning of his imminent death.

  “Joe.”

  Dredd’s heavy lids slowly opened. Rather than the mirror-image he expected to see, an older man leaned close, benevolent eyes searching his face with genuine concern. It took a moment to put a name to the figure, his mind fuzzy, his thoughts struggling to coalesce. “Chief Judge Goodman.”

  “Welcome back to the land of the living, son. How do you feel?”

  Strange that he should be asked that question twice in less than twelve hours—he’d probably never hear it again in the next twenty years—and still he didn’t know how to answer it. “Sore,” was all he could muster.

  Goodman nodded gravely. “Meds say it’ll take the rest of the week for you to recover, even with an accelerated healing programme. You did yourself some serious damage.”

  “I wasn’t solely responsible.”

  The Chief Judge’s face broke into a smile. “No, you’re right. There may have been one or two factions at play. You did put yourself in the firing line, though.”

  “Only place a Judge should be, I would’ve thought, sir. What’s the latest on Gilpig?” Dredd tried to sit up in the bed, and for the first time became aware of the state he was in—his torso was encased in bandages, his right hand in a brace. Movement fired hot needles beneath his skin so he eased back down on the pillow. He touched his head and felt a hard dome encircling his crown.

  “Skull fracture,” Goodman explained. “Quite a bad one. The doc was worried there may have been some pressure on the brain. Could’ve affected your perception. Did you experience anything like that?”

  —You failed, Joe—

  “Nothing I couldn’t handle,” Dredd replied. “Gilpig?”

  “Local units picked him up a couple of hours ago at the spaceport, trying to flee off-planet. He’s in custody now, spilling his guts.”

  “The hack code...?”

  “We’re looking into that. SJS are conducting a top-down review of Tek-Div, seeing if they can plug the leak. Gilpig says he dealt with a middle man—it’ll be a matter of following the money.”

  Dredd nodded slowly, looking down at his hands. A killer headache was forming behind his eyes.

  “Joseph,” Goodman began, breaking the brief silence. “Saunders submitted her report. She’s suggesting you broke protocol.”

  The younger man glanced up. “When?”

  “You broke rank, entered Meyer in no fit state to enact judgement.”

  “I was trying to save lives.”

  “I understand that, son. But a Judge is more than a mere man or woman—they’re a weapon. The damage you sustained made you a potentially malfunctioning weapon. Perhaps you’re unaware how dangerous that could be.”

  “I was in control.”

  “So you believed.” Goodman softened his tone. “But judgement can be impaired. You... you should know that.”

  Dredd dropped his gaze. “I’m not Rico.”

  “That’s a matter of biological debate,” the Chief Judge said with a chuckle, which faded as Dredd stared at him. “But now you’ve got more to prove than anyone on the force. That the bloodline’s secure. That you’re street-ready. That you’re not Rico.” He smiled sadly. “You’re your own man, Joseph.”

  Dredd didn’t reply.

  Goodman turned to leave. “Oh, Control wanted to pass on some info. Apparently there’s been a lead in the organ-legging outfit you were investigating—Breyer in Sector 12 found a stash of limbs in a locker off Portman. DNA traces. File’s ready for you when you get out of here.”

  “Thanks.”

  The older man lingered by the door. He paused then said: “You’ll make it, son. You’re stronger than your brother.”

  Wasn’t that the truth.

  About the Author

  Matthew Smith was employed as a desk editor for Pan Macmillan book publishers for three years before joining 2000 AD as assistant editor in July 2000 to work on a comic he had read religiously since 1985. He became editor of the Galaxy’s Greatest in December 2001, and then editor-in-chief of the 2000 AD titles in January 2006. He lives in Oxford.

  JUDGE DREDD: YEAR ONE

  Mega-City One, 2080. Judge Joe Dredd’s first year on the streets as a full-eagle Judge. Bred for justice, trained in law, Dredd’s no helpless rookie, but he’s not the seasoned veteran we know either. Three tales follow the first adventures of the future city’s greatest lawman. With an introduction by the Mighty Tharg!

  CITY FATHERS

  The brutal murder of a Justice Department-sanctioned spy uncovers something new and dangerous in the sector’s murky black market. Unless Dredd can stop it, chaos will be unleashed.

  COLD LIGHT OF DAY

  A savage killing spree results in the deaths of two highly-regarded Judges, and many consider Dredd to be responsible: a decision he made five years earlier – while he was still a cadet – has come back to haunt him.

  WEAR IRON

  “Wear iron, that’s the rule.” Paul Strader is a stick-up man, and a stone cold professional. But when he gets in over his head, he has to risk everything on the word of a corrupt lawman and break every rule he has. Every rule but one

  www.abaddonbooks.com

  As the Judges cart Rico Dredd away for questioning and exile on Titan, his clone-brother Joe comes under scrutiny. They’re cut from the same cloth; can Joe Dredd be trusted? An investigation begins, and Dredd is shipped off to an iridium-mining town in the Cursed Earth, which has come under pressure from mutant raiders.

  But everything is not as it seems. When the reason for the raids becomes clear, Dredd will have some tough decisions to make.

  www.abaddonbooks.com

  You know about me. I’m Rico Dredd, Joe Dredd's big brother. I'm the clone that went bad, that brought shame on Judge Fargo's legacy.

  I was a Judge, the best the Academy of Law ever turned out. The very best. But after less than a year on the streets of Mega-City One, I was brought down, taken in. It was Little Joe who caught me; second-best Judge there’s been.

  Broken, sentenced, stripped of office, I was shipped out to the brutal moon Titan, to do my twenty year
s' hard labour. Yeah, you know about Rico Dredd.

  But do you know what really happened? Why I did it? What it was like, out there on the edge of space, doing time in the Bronze?

  Truth is, mister, you know stomm about me.

  www.abaddonbooks.com