Whiteout

by James Swallow

  He started to weep with fear, the tears cutting tracks through the dirt on his cheeks. Wess tried hard to piece together what had happened there in the alley behind the Q-Save, but all he came away with were broken shards of memory, little blinks of sensation and feeling that were flat and pasty like the cold munce in his stomach. He pressed at his temples; without warning, a harsh blast of pain and white light knifed into his eyes and he wailed, stamping his feet in agony. Then it was gone as quickly as it had come, and he was panting, coiled there on the tubular metal chair.

  Colour drained from his face - he saw a pale ghost of himself looking back from the glass door in the microwave oven. He looked haunted and gaunt, eyes red with worry. Wess's gaze dropped to the table, and to the gun.

  The petty crook had known instinctively that it was a weapon the moment the steel case had opened to him, there in the derelict toaster warehouse. Nothing built and designed that way could be anything else, a mixture of hard, matte surfaces and box-like protrusions. Vents and gas ports dotted the weapon's flanks, glowing indicators fading in and out in a slow heartbeat of blue light. It was engineered to look lethal, even in repose, as if it might leap off the plasteen vinyl at any second like a mechanical raptor. It fitted into Wess's hand as if it had been tailor-made for him, the grip squirming to conform to him. It felt easy and dangerous.

  Where his fingertips touched the butt, sensor pits invisible to the naked eye found the places where the needles in the carry case's handles had sampled his blood, and spat nanofilament effectors into his epidermis. Wess was unaware of any of this. He only knew on some bone-deep level that the weapon was his. Even a moment of considering how to dispose of it made the munce in his gut threaten to rebel, and instead Wess rocked back and forth in his seat, eyes never straying from the pistol, fretting over his fate.

  "Cortez." He said the name to the lavender-scented air with trepidation, as if speaking it aloud would cause the crimelord to spontaneously materialise there in the apartment like some mythic demon. "C-Cortez is gonna have me dead for this." Wess imagined The Eye, there in his mo-palace, coldly ordering Smyth's execution. He was so far past the point of no return now that he would need a telescope to find it again. Perhaps, he hoped, he could find some way to convince Cortez that someone else had done the killings. But that ploy died when Wess remembered his parting shot to Flex's face over the vid-phone. "Oh, Grud. I'm gonna die. Cortez is gonna kill me..." Whatever fluke had enabled him to dispatch Bob Toes and the others had been just that, and now he would pay for it. If only he'd got the money...

  "This unit can protect you."

  Wess was so startled he jerked off the chair and flattened himself against the cooler cabinet. His eyes darted around the room; there was no one else there.

  "Your termination would be a failure condition. This outcome is unacceptable."

  "Who said that?" Smyth shouted, on the verge of panic. "Who is there?"

  "Your behaviour pattern must be modified if the mission goals are to be achieved."

  Wess's knees turned to water as he suddenly understood where the smooth, honeyed female voice was originating. He fell back into the chair and peered carefully at the gun. "It... You... Talk?"

  "Affirmative, combatant. This unit is capable of verbal communication."

  "Holy spugging drokk..." he breathed, gingerly extending a hand toward the weapon. It wasn't beyond the realm of possibility, Wess reasoned. He'd heard about smart cars, smart toasters, and smart dildos... Why the sneck shouldn't there be smart guns as well? An unexpected smile split Smyth's face. "I knew there was something odd about, uh, about you when I laid eyes on that case!"

  "This unit is a prototype advanced personal offensive and defensive system, capable of variable levels of force projection from minimal injury, blinding and neutralisation up to large-scale target attrition and mega-death."

  "Uh huh," Smyth nodded, catching only one or two meanings. "And you said you can protect me, right?"

  The indicator lights blinked out of sequence. The thing was thinking. "Mutual goal achievement is possible, given certain assurances."

  Wess rocked back. "This is insane. I'm going mad. I'm talking to a drokking handgun!"

  "Your biometric readings do indicate a possible genetic weakness in your mental architecture, but you are not delusional. This unit has selected you as the optimal combatant vector to achieve mission goals."

  He licked his lips. "What does that mean?"

  The lights blinked again. "Interrogative; you wished to terminate the targets that surrounded you earlier? This unit sensed the threat condition and enabled you to achieve an interim mission goal."

  "You helped me kill Toes and the others?" Wess took a moment to process this new information. It had all happened so fast, but now he thought about it, he had felt strange, as if something was pressing him forward, a phantom hand at his back.

  "Manipulation of ocular sensitivity, adrenal gland system and nerve conduction were temporary; this unit will permanentise these bio-physical modifications in due course."

  A wild laugh bubbled up from Smyth's chest. "Grud on a greenie! This is real!"

  "Affirmative, combatant. Nanometric processes are ongoing. Your recent ingestion of foodstuffs will assist this functionality. Interrogative; regarding threat designation 'Cortez'. Do you wish to develop elimination protocol for this target?"

  "Do I want him dead, you mean? Hell, yes, but there's no way I'm going anywhere near that creep. Him and his scumbags, I hate 'em all, but they'd rip me to bits, super-duper popgun or not." Wess ran a nervous hand through his hair.

  "Your evaluation of the mission outcome is in error, combatant," said the weapon, and for a second Smyth thought he could detect an air of arrogance in its synthetic voice. "Target Cortez and associates can and will be eliminated, if parallel mission goals are met."

  Smyth sat down next to the gun. "What do you mean by that?"

  "This unit has a series of mission goals to achieve. Combatant also has a parallel series of goals. Combatant assistance in achieving unit goals will result in unit assistance in reaching combatant's goals."

  "You want me to kill someone for you?"

  "Affirmative. In return, threat designation Cortez and his scumbags will also be cancelled."

  Smyth gave in to the compulsion to pick up the pistol, taking the heavy weapon in his hand, turning it so the pasty light from the bio-lume lamp in the ceiling made it glitter like black glass. "That sounds like a deal we could make, maybe."

  "Combatant confirms," said the gun. "Commencing bio-data merge."

  Darts of fire surged into Smyth's body and he choked off a scream, the veins and muscles in his body rippling and turning rigid. Colour bled out of his vision, definition fading and evaporating until everything was a glowing, dimensionless wash of white.

  Traffic crossing the Danny Jackson Bridge slowed to a crawl and then, finally, a total halt as a spindly robo-crane rig worked with rescue teams to remove the hulk of a jack-knifed drone hauler from the middle three lanes. Vehicles streaming out of Sector 202 were being diverted as far back as the Sunshine Synthifoods turn-off, but for hundreds of citizens - including a lot of staff from West 17 - it was too late. They were trapped in the logjam for the next few hours.

  The driver of the canary-yellow Vektor slabster kneaded the steering yoke with sweaty hands. He glanced back once or twice at the shape of the Test Labs building, the tip of the dark spindle still visible over the arching framework of the suspension bridge. With effort, he swallowed down the worry boiling in his chest and leaned forwards to toy with the car radio. When he returned to his seating position there was a Judge standing by the passenger side door.

  He jumped. He couldn't see their face, just a piece of torso from waist to shoulder. The officer - a woman, athletic and well-muscled underneath the leathereen bodysuit - was turned slightly away, so her badge wasn't visible. A green glove tap-tapped on the window, and then made a twirling motion.

  The driver bl
inked and licked his lips. He hadn't even heard the sound of the Lawmaster coming up alongside him. Gingerly, he rolled down the window and craned his neck. "Can I help you, Judge?"

  The woman moved like lightning, from a casual, relaxed stance to instant action with no apparent intervening motion. Suddenly she had the door open and she was sliding into the seat next to him, the blunt shape of a Mark II Lawgiver pistol leading her in. His eyes fell to her badge and he felt ice form in the pit of his stomach.

  "Oh. Vedder." He saw his face reflected in the visor of her helmet; old before his time, a promising scientist worn down by the things he had seen... and done.

  The Judge held the gun in a deceptively lazy grip, level with his stomach. A vague smile played around her lips. "Just 'Vedder'? Is that any way to greet an old friend?" She purred his name. "Hollis, I'm disappointed."

  "Are you here to kill me?" He bit out the words.

  "Always the drama with you, isn't it? No, I won't kill you. Not unless you do something very stupid."

  Hollis looked away from her. "What do you want, then?" He could smell her, there in the closeness of the car, and all the old reactions came flooding back to him. A glimpse of red hair pressed against his face, tugging the golden zipper down with his teeth; muscular breasts against his chest, her hot breath in his ear... He shook his head, crushing the sense-memory into nothing.

  "There was a time when you were happy to see me," she said, as if reading the thoughts in his mind. "When you looked forward to it."

  A hot spike of anger cut through him. "I was an idiot to ever get involved with you! I was just a plaything for you... A way for you to amuse yourself during the project downtime!"

  She cocked her head and pursed her lips. "Hmm. No. No, Hollis, that wasn't it at all."

  "What do you mean?" His annoyance faltered a little, and the fear returned to replace it.

  "Our liaisons. I admit, they were pleasurable, but I didn't do it just for the sport, you understand? It was part of the assignment. I thought you knew that."

  "No... I..."

  She smiled at him and patted his leg, even as she kept the gun on him. "Hollis. You were such a high-flyer at the start. We had to keep a lock on you. Don't feel bad. It was just work."

  "Yes, of course," he managed. "Work." The scientist felt heavy and leaden. "What, then? What is it that you have to say to me here in the middle of a traffic jam instead of the office or a vid?"

  "This is more discreet. Things have become very complicated recently," she was off-hand, but he knew from experience that there was a razor hidden under her words, "and the COE are going to ensure that no one is compromised in the clean-up operation. I wanted to tell you that personally, Hollis. I wanted you to hear it from my lips."

  "Then why the gun?"

  "Dredd was at West 17 today. I don't want him sticking his chin in where it doesn't belong. I don't want him encouraged in any way."

  Hollis blinked, not trusting himself to say anything for fear of making a mistake.

  "It's in your best interests not to do something, oh, I don't know, dramatic. Frankly, Hollis, your attacks of moralising were one of the things I liked the least about you."

  "I..." He spoke carefully and quietly. "I have nothing to say."

  "Good." Vedder holstered her gun. "You have a great deal of value to Mega-City One. You've got such a brilliant intellect. It would be a shame to spread it all over the sidewalk." The Judge left him there, fingers still clutched to the steering wheel, hands slick and wet.

  For the most part, Judges kept to their own kind while they were off-duty. Precinct command centres and Sector Houses of all sizes and shapes had residence levels mixing the more typical sleep machine dorms with barracks for junior officers, and private quarters for the upper-echelon seniors. It was a cast-iron rule that all Judges were required, at the bare minimum, to take a mandatory eight hours of uninterrupted, non-induced sleep at regular intervals.

  Among the changes brought in under Chief Judge Goodman prior to the 2100s was the concept of the "Block Judge". Justice Department analysts had noted that citizens saw their law enforcers as faceless and unapproachable sentinels - some insisted that they were not even humans - and so Goodman had billeted senior Street Judges in citiblocks across the Big Meg as a form of outreach program. Living side-by-side was meant to show the common citizens that Judges were people too; but for the most part, it turned up more crime for the designated Block Judges to find among their new neighbours.

  Dredd had lived off-precinct for a few years, down in a small and sparse apartment on the midlevels of Rowdy Yates Block. He was back in Sector digs now, having turned the place over to Judge Rico, a younger officer transferred in from Texas City. Rico, like Dredd, was clone-stock from Chief Judge Fargo, and he gained a degree of satisfaction from knowing the place had gone to "family". In truth, Dredd had always had his issues with the de-segregation of the Judge/Citizen divide, firmly falling on the side of opinion that said the law and those it protected weren't to mix. Such familiarity bred contempt and invited the possibility of abuse; and this thought was foremost in Dredd's mind as he entered the lobby of the Seaborne con-apts building.

  Samuel Seaborne Block couldn't have been further from Dredd's old place at Rowdy Yates if it tried. It was a luxury skyscraper, one of the Super Sixty series, largely populated by high-profile citizens with well-paid jobs and members of MegWest's bureaucratic apparatus. Dredd knew from past experience that at least two key figures in the upper reaches of MC-1's construction industry lived here, leasing entire floors of the block for their own mansion-plexes. It had its own security cadre of bouncer-meks, along with transparent armourplas shielding over the entire building and concealed stunner turrets to deter the lesser class of citizen.

  Loengard's apartment was on the lower face of the tower, but it was still an impressive size. Dredd rapped on the door and waited.

  The Tek-Judge was in workout fatigues instead of standard uniform, a set of light trousers and a black T-shirt with the department eagle on the breast. His face clouded the instant he recognised his unannounced visitor.

  "Dredd? Let me guess, you've decided to run a crime sweep?"

  "We need to talk," Dredd replied, carefully watching Loengard's face for even the slightest recognition of those words. There was nothing.

  The other Judge walked away, leaving the door open. "Come on in, then. But make it quick. I want to get some solid rack time before daybreak."

  Dredd followed Loengard in, scanning the room. The place was plain, largely unadorned except for a couple of houseplants and a cabinet of awards. He noticed a shelf with some actual paper books on it and leaned closer. "These real?"

  "Of course," Loengard snapped. "Family heirlooms."

  "Must be worth a lot."

  "They are." The Tek-Judge sipped at a synthi-caff and crossed to the window. "So, are you here because you want to start a book club or because you've got something else on your mind?" Loengard glanced at Dredd, framed by the large glasseen panels. The Seaborne con-apts had a great view of the city wall and the haze of the Cursed Earth beyond it.

  "You've got it good, Loengard. Smart pad, high profile. Bet you get to mix with a lotta top-dog cits living here."

  The cup came down on the table with a sharp snap. "I've earned my privileges, Dredd! This city would be dead a dozen times over if it wasn't for technology that I helped to develop!"

  "No doubt," the other Judge said mildly, approaching the window. "Nice view. I'll bet it helps you keep your mouth shut about things when they go off-book, too. Right?"

  Loengard snorted. "What are you fishing for, Dredd? I told you before at the labs, there's nothing I can tell you about that truck, so stop wasting my time and drop it!"

  "I know you're involved." He threw the comment out at the other man. "I've seen the files. Vedder's in the frame and now so are you."

  "Vedder?" Dredd saw the millisecond flinch when the COE agent's name left Loengard's lips. "Whatever the drokk th
at woman touches is a tissue of lies!" It was then Dredd knew he had the Tek-Judge.

  "You've got a choice. Either you can play it straight and come down to Justice Central with me right now, or else we do it the hard way and I call in the SJS."

  The other man's voice rose. "I'm not going anywhere-" He stuttered into silence. "Wh-what the drokk is tha-" Loengard's attention was suddenly drawn to something outside the window.

  Dredd caught the smell of molten polymers in his nostrils, harsh and acrid. With a wet pop of boiling air, a fist-sized hole appeared in the window of the apartment, the hot edges singeing a rip through the mesh curtain. "Get down!"

  Loengard reacted, but not in the way that a seasoned street veteran would have. Years of deskwork and lab duties had slowed the Tek-Judge's reactions, and he hesitated before diving for the bathroom door.

  There was a second shot, following up the first silent discharge that had melted through the armoured glasseen. Dredd saw a dart-shaped plasma projectile lance inward, skipping off a wall panel at a perfect ninety-degree ricochet. Dredd's artificial eyes captured the bolt as it deflected again and sank into the meat between Loengard's shoulder blades. The Tek-Judge's chest exploded outward, catapulting bone and lung matter across his shelves of tastefully arranged award plaques.

  Ignoring the sizzle of burned flesh, Dredd drew his gun and chanced a look over the lip of the windowsill. The city looked back at him; there were hundreds of places for miles in every direction from where a sniper could have fired.

  BULLSEYE

  It was raining in Sector 88, a firm and constant rush of grey water induced by Weather Control's high-atmosphere drones. It was an old trick of the Judges; when the clouds opened, most folks wouldn't even consider venturing outside their homes, let alone their citiblocks, and so the threat of prowling street crime dipped sharply. That wasn't to say that crime itself dropped off during the rain - just the percentages of types of crime. When bored, disaffected citizens couldn't go outside, they just turned their frustrations into misdemeanours that could be committed indoors.