Swine Fever

by Andrew Cartmel

  "Fat lot of good that did you," said Streak.

  Belle turned to look at him. "Stop interrupting," she hissed.

  "But you two infiltrated," said Mac, obviously stung by the remark. "We never expected an infiltration. We were braced for a frontal assault. We thought the Judges might try and raid us, smash down the front door and so on." He twitched his sweaty gaze towards Streak. Streak tried not to look at those fat white eyebrows. They made his stomach turn. "But you two..."

  "Just ignore him," said Belle, "and answer my question."

  Mac's gaze returned to her, the beautiful half-naked tattooed woman who was pointing the gun at him. "What question?" he said politely.

  "This thing is held up by a balloon," repeated Belle impatiently, the gun twitching in her hand.

  "Yes," said Mac, his rheumy old eyes dancing nervously as they followed the gun barrel. "That's right. The station is a toroid design, a fat ring in effect, hanging suspended from a balloon."

  "Well, my question is," said Belle, "what's in the balloon?"

  "Oh, here we go again," said Streak. He sighed and rolled his eyes with exasperation, pointedly turning away to look at their other prisoners, all of whom seemed to be still unconscious. Even the robot.

  "Put a sock in it," said Belle. She looked at Mac. "Ignore him. What I want to know is, what's in the balloon?"

  "In it? You mean the gas? The gas that makes it float?"

  "That's right," said Belle. "Is it hydrogen or helium?"

  "Why, helium," said Mac. "Why do you ask?"

  "She just can't stand to lose an argument," said Streak over his shoulder as he wandered down the length of the cramped control room to check on their other prisoners. The control room was long and narrow, circular in cross section, like a length of pipe just big enough to stand up in. Like a sewer pipe, thought Streak. And it didn't smell much better, because the air conditioning system was interconnected with the slaughterhouse that encased them and the pervading odour of pig, pig excrement and pig blood drifted in, opposed only by the feeble synthetic pine odour of the little green, tree-shaped air fresheners some optimistic soul had used to festoon the control room.

  The control room was a galley-style design, with banks of controls and computer screens running down both sides of the pipe. The labels on the control panels were all in Russian. On the monochrome Tri-D screens above the controls were pigs, pigs and more pigs. Some of them were feeding greedily on a flow of slurry, splashing pale gobbets of unknown origin. Others were in the process of evisceration, silently screaming in terror as whirling blades hacked them to pieces and their blood was sluiced away to serve as, among other things, a component of the slurry for their companions. Others still raced furiously down corridors, being urged along by small electric shocks in the metal floor beneath them, stampeding towards feeding or to slaughter. Some were simply standing still, trying to sleep or play or find some meaning in their little piggy lives in this steel circle of hell in which they had found themselves.

  But all of them, whatever they were doing, were jammed together, jowl to jowl, snout to tail, in as dense a mass as could be physically packed into the metal passages of the slaughterhouse. The more pigs, the more profit. So you were always cramming in the maximum amount of livestock. Streak understood that. He looked away from the screens and scanned the prisoners. The Barkin brothers and the robot were secured along the length of one side of the control panel. Streak kept his gun, a fat-barrelled machine pistol, carefully aimed at them, but they appeared to still be out cold.

  "Yes sir, it's helium, all right," repeated Mac, still eager to please, sweating with fear, trying to smile into the gun that Belle was pointing at his fat face. "And it works like a dream. We float just dandy."

  "All right, all right, so it's helium. But it could be hydrogen, couldn't it?"

  "Oh yes, certainly," said Mac. "Hydrogen certainly does cause a balloon to float, too."

  "He's just humouring you," said Streak.

  "No, no," said Mac, staring into the gun. "The young lady's absolutely right. Hydrogen works perfectly well as a gas in a balloon. It's all to do with valencies, or something, I believe."

  "And hydrogen," said Belle. "It isn't flammable, is it? I mean it's not likely to explode."

  Mac fell silent, momentarily stalled in his campaign to enthusiastically agree with everything anyone said. "Ah well..."

  "Go on, tell her the truth," said Streak. "Tell her you didn't use hydrogen in the balloon because only a fool would." He looked closely at Belle. "Only a fool like Big Blue."

  "Big Blue was not a fool," snarled Belle, hot indigo eyes flashing at Streak with rage. It wasn't the reaction he'd hoped for. Her old boyfriend was dead, thoroughly dead, had been a cinder for days as a result of the airship explosion, but it seemed she wasn't over him yet. Streak couldn't help glancing at his own spindly arms and remembering Big Blue's biceps. They had been like boulders. Maybe he should start doing some push-ups.

  Belle turned back to Mac the Meat Man. "What I'm saying is that if you had an airship filled with hydrogen, you wouldn't expect it to blow up in a ball of flame just because someone happened to, say, completely unintentionally, discharge an assault rifle in the gondola of the airship and, you know, just happened to nick the hydrogen balloon with a few... a few... I suppose you'd call them tracer bullets, wouldn't you?"

  "Tracer bullets?" said Mac. "Into a hydrogen balloon?" His face had gone pale.

  "I mean," said Belle, "If the balloon happened to explode, you wouldn't think it was the tracer bullets would you? It's much more likely that the Judges used some secret weapon on us, isn't it? Something that had nothing to do with my tracer bullets. And therefore, at the end of the day, my firing through the balloon had nothing to do with it exploding."

  "Ah, well," said Mac, still gamely looking for a way to agree with her. Streak wondered how he was going to wriggle out of this one. But a fiery hail of lead did tend to cause hydrogen to ignite, as Belle had so memorably demonstrated the other evening. Mind you, Streak didn't blame her for trying to find another explanation. It couldn't be easy to know you'd caused the death of your boyfriend and almost his entire gang.

  If Streak hadn't managed to bundle Belle into the escape pod with him, a microsecond before detonation, the two of them would have been dead as well. He'd astonished himself by grabbing the girl and rescuing her. Many times since then, as their relationship followed its rocky course, he'd asked himself why he'd taken Belle with him into the pod. But the truth was that in the heat of the moment he hadn't even thought about it. He'd just done it, automatically, with an inevitability that was unquestionable and final.

  Mac stared at Blue Belle, eyebrows wagging in bafflement, still trying to formulate a reply. But just then another voice spoke up and let him off the hook. "She fired into the canopy?" There was a whoop of laughter. "She blew you boys up?"

  Streak turned and raised his gun. The blond Barkin brother, the one called Leo, was wide awake. He was grinning at them through a mouthful of bloody, broken teeth. Streak had smashed him in the face with rather more force than strictly necessary when they'd seized control of the control room. Still, Leo didn't seem to hold any ill will against his assailant. He sat up in the swivel chair in front of the control panel where they'd handcuffed him, checked his cuffs and winked cheerfully at Streak. "Your girlfriend isn't much of a shot, is she?"

  "You shut up," said Belle, swinging round to aim her gun at Leo.

  "Keep your gun on the other guy, sweetie," said Streak. "We need to keep all of our prisoners under our guns at the same time."

  "How's my robot?" said Leo. "I hope you haven't damaged him." Leo scooted around in his swivel chair. His black-haired brother was lying limply in the seat beside him, his face also marked with blood, but Leo didn't pay any attention to him. Instead he stared over him, trying to get a better look at his robot, which was secured to the control panel about three metres away where Streak had fastened him with a bicycle lock through the co
nvenient gap in his red metal neck. "Oh, there he is," sighed Leo when he spotted it. The bot rotated its bullet-shaped, red metal head and its circular white eyes flashed as if it was delighted to see its owner.

  "Boyard-27 reporting for duty," said the robot. "Request permission to provide status report."

  "Start with yourself, Boyo," said Leo. "Did you sustain any damage when these tattooed lovebirds busted in on us?"

  "Negative, sir. I am fully operational except I seem to have a bicycle lock through my neck." The bot moved its head, causing a loud clanking sound as the bicycle lock struck against the zero gravity hand grip on the control panel which Streak had found to secure it on. "I am well and truly locked."

  "But you didn't sustain any other damage?" said Leo anxiously.

  "Not even chipped paint, sir."

  "Thank grud for that," sighed Leo.

  "Oh, would you listen to yourself?" said his brother, suddenly looking up. Streak realised that both brothers must have been awake for some time, merely feigning unconsciousness in the hope of deceiving their captors. Sneaky bastards. But Streak didn't blame them as he would have done the same thing himself.

  "Request permission for further status report, sir," said the robot.

  "Permission denied!" barked the black-haired brother. Streak remembered that his name was Theo. He sat up, testing his handcuffs and glaring with hatred at Streak and Blue Belle. He then turned to the robot and glared at it with even more hatred. "Just keep your metal trap shut."

  "Don't talk to him that way," said Leo.

  "You know what I think?" said Theo. "You love that robot more than you do me."

  "I rebuilt that robot myself, with my own hands," said Leo. "I restored him from junk yard scrap. I've got all that time and effort invested in him." He looked at his brother. "Whereas I've got damn all invested in you, bro," he said, and laughed nastily.

  "I need to report urgently," said the robot. To Streak he sounded like a child who wanted to go to the bathroom.

  "Permission denied!" snapped Theo.

  "Don't talk to him like that," said Leo.

  "Could you make all of them shut up for a moment?" said Blue Belle.

  "Shut up, all of you," said Streak, brandishing his gun and trying to sound intimidating. "The lady has something to say."

  Blue Belle stepped forward and cleared her throat. She stood over the two brothers and the robot. "Maybe it was indeed my small mistake that caused our airship to explode that night. But none of that would have happened, none of our comrades in arms or my boyfriend Big Blue would have been killed if not for you two." She pointed her gun first at Leo, then at Theo. The pink laser spot danced from one face to the other.

  "If you two hadn't tried to double-cross us on the meat deal," said Belle, "none of this would have happened." She thumbed the safety catch off. "It was your fault they died." Belle raised her gun.

  "We were only following orders from Mac here," said Leo hastily. At the other end of the room the Meat Man twitched.

  "Now boys," he blustered. "What's the use of pointing the finger of blame?" Belle looked at him and he fell silent.

  "Request permission to report. Urgent," said the robot, sounding more than ever in need of the bathroom.

  "Shut up," said Belle. She turned back to the brothers. They could clearly see the murderous look in her eyes.

  "It's true. It was all Mac's idea. He wanted to corner the market in meat," said Theo.

  "Boys, boys," said Mac. "That's all water under the bridge."

  "He wanted to eliminate all his rivals," continued Theo, "which meant you. It was nothing personal."

  "Oh, stop whining," said Leo disgustedly. Belle moved her furious gaze onto him. The pink laser spot danced onto the blond boy's forehead.

  "You'd better start whining, too," said Belle. "And begging for your life."

  "You're not going to shoot us," said Leo.

  "No? Why not?"

  Leo smiled. "Because you're going to have to take these handcuffs off us and beg for us to help you."

  Belle glanced at Streak. "He's gone crazy," she said. "Fear has caused his mind to snap." Streak wasn't so sure. There was a disturbing note of confidence in Leo's voice. Belle swung back to Leo, pointing her gun at him. "You say you're going to help us," she said. "Help us with what?"

  Leo nodded at the screens behind her. "Help you fight off those Judges who are hurrying along that slurry tunnel, on their way to this control room."

  Belle, Streak, Mac and Theo all swung their heads to stare at the small Tri-D screen, which did indeed show a blurry black and white image of half a dozen heavily armed Judges hurrying along a tunnel, up to their knees in some dark liquid.

  "Oh shit," said Belle.

  "I was trying to tell you," said the robot.

  "How the hell did they get in here?" asked Mac.

  "Maybe they infiltrated," said Streak.

  The smell of the slurry was appalling. Zandonella was in it up to her mid-thighs, wading through the thick, warm resistance of the fluid and trying not to breathe. Ahead of her was the pig, Porkditz, pluckily surging ahead even though his trotters couldn't touch the bottom. He didn't seem to mind swimming through the liquid filth. Indeed, after his initial reluctance to enter the factory farm, the pig had seemed relaxed and almost at home in his surroundings. Zandonella had seen a documentary about prisoners and she remembered that many of them, even the survivors of death camps, had espoused a strange nostalgia for the institutions where they had once been confined. I guess there's no place like home, she thought.

  As far as Zandonella could determine, the slurry consisted of the waste matter from all the pig pens in the factory farm, combined with blood and entrails from the abattoirs, and a choice selection of garbage, including hospital waste, dredged from the smoking crater of the municipal dump below.

  Beside her the tall figure of Dredd made his way through the slow-flowing muck. Behind her, Darrid, Carver and the Karst sisters followed. Dredd suddenly signalled for them to stop. "The tunnel branches here," he said. "We have to decide which way to go."

  "Why don't we split up?" said Darrid. "I could take the sisters and-"

  "Negative," said Dredd. "We stick together." He looked at Zandonella. "Which route does your friend suggest we follow?"

  Zandonella looked at Porkditz floating in the filth. He gazed up at her with intelligent little eyes as if to ask her what she wanted. But how was she to convey her question to him? Zandonella pondered for a moment before moving forward.

  She kept her eyes on his as she waded past him, to the point where the tunnel was divided by a thin vertical wall, turning it from one circular passage into two semi-circular ones. Zandonella set off down one tunnel and then came back, walking against the steady warm flow of the stinking ooze. She moved to the second tunnel, went down it a short distance, then came back again.

  She looked at Porkditz. He looked at her. For a moment she had the eerie sensation that something passed between her and the animal, a sense of common understanding. And then Porkditz set off, swimming with energy down the tunnel to their left. Zandonella hesitated for a moment, looking at Judge Dredd.

  "Right then," said Dredd. "Looks like we've got our answer. Everybody follow the pig." They all turned and started striding through the thick flow of muck once again, pursuing the twin pink ears of Porkditz.

  In no time at all they came upon a structure bolted to the steel wall on their right. In a cylindrical cage a series of small jutting platforms rose upward at geometric intervals.

  "Steps," said Zandonella. "A spiral staircase. Going up."

  "Taking us to the control area," said Dredd. "Good. That's exactly what we wanted. This is where the perps will be. Everybody check their firearms."

  Porkditz was already paddling eagerly towards the staircase. Zandonella wondered how he would manage to negotiate the structure, but the pig scrambled onto the bottom step with ease, and promptly began to ascend, shaking the slurry off him as he went. She
waited for the shower of muddy droplets to stop and then followed, the filthy ooze flowing off her own boots and leggings. The metal steps clanked underfoot. Porkditz scampered ahead of her. They ascended up into the darkness of what had been an access shaft in the old space station. After a ten second ascent they came to a point where the shaft widened and a glowing panel was set in the wall. A metre below the panel the spiral steps broadened out to form a landing.

  Dredd was following close behind Zandonella. "Don't touch anything," he said. The pig had hopped up on his hind trotters and pressed his front ones against the panel. There was pneumatic sigh from the wall, a flow of less tainted air, and a large rectangle of light appeared on the wall.

  "Airlock," said Dredd. "I'm primary through it. Watch my back." He went through the door, moving like a panther. Zandonella went after him, followed by the pig and the other Judges.

  The room that opened out before them was about twenty metres long but seemed smaller. It was cramped by the presence of two large space shuttles with Russian markings. Both vehicles were sitting on ramps that aimed them at large circular airlocks set in the outer wall of what had once been the space station.

  "Escape craft," said Dredd. "This is the launch chamber. Darrid, you stay in here and stand guard."

  "Why?"

  "Because we don't want anyone escaping," growled Dredd impatiently. "The rest of you, we're going up that other staircase, over there. We're going to see what's above us. Be ready for anything." He moved swiftly up the spiral staircase, vanishing into the shadows above. Zandonella hurried after him, Porkditz trotting along at her heels. He seemed eager to reach their destination, whatever it might be.

  Judge Dredd had reached the next landing above. Here was another illuminated panel with cryptic markings. Dredd reached out without hesitation and pressed the controls to open the airlock. Zandonella and Porkditz joined him just as it sighed open. Behind them, the other Judges clattered up the stairs. Porkditz gave a little squeal of anticipation.

  As the airlock swung wide, Zandonella squinted into the space that was revealed. It was a large room lit with the ruddy red glare of heat lamps. A gust of warm air carried an overwhelming animal smell from within. Porkditz squealed again but now the sound was lost among countless similar squeals. The red glare was confusing.