Judge Dredd Year One: City Fathers

by Matthew Smith

  “Is it unusual that you haven’t seen him for this amount of time?”

  “Maybe. He usually puts in an appearance most weekends; I can’t think of a time when he hasn’t... He’s missing, I take it? I’m presuming that’s what this little chat has been about.”

  “Vassell’s wanted in connection with a murder case, but has seemingly gone to ground. He comes by here, it would be in your best interests to let us know.”

  “Now who’s offering incentives?” Erikson murmured, smiling at the cuffed Mohawk sitting glumly to Dredd’s right.

  “Not so much an incentive, more a stark choice,” Dredd said, dragging the bodyguard to his feet. “I find out that you’ve been harbouring Vassell or impeding the investigation, I will come down here and have this place torn apart brick by brick, and you will never see daylight again.” He turned and marched towards the door, pulling Mohawk behind him.

  “You play hardball for someone so young, Judge,” Erikson called out, laughing, as Dredd stepped back onto the street.

  HE SNAPPED MOHAWK to a holding post and called it in for pick-up, taking the opportunity to see whether there had been any confirmed sightings of Vassell; Control responded in the negative. The operator added that several members of the ICU had been arrested and were in the process of being questioned. Dredd asked to be kept informed of any developments.

  Glancing back at the club, he spotted the other goon leaving surreptitiously by a side door, carrying a powerboard under his arm. He climbed aboard, kicked it into life and zipped away in an easterly direction. Intrigued, Dredd swung onto his Lawmaster and shot off in pursuit.

  Three

  DREDD RADIOED IN to the nearest H-Wagon patrolling overhead. “Got a skysurfer, green underjak, orange plasteek backpack, heading east through Sector 30, currently in the vicinity of the Nolan tangle, running parallel with Overman zoom line. Can you confirm you have visual?”

  “Sighting confirmed. Do you want us to engage?”

  “Negative. Monitor direction and keep me informed. I want to see where this creep is going.”

  Dredd expertly wrestled the Lawmaster through traffic, holding off letting loose with the siren lest it alert the goon that he was being followed. He wouldn’t be suspicious of the Justice Department craft—they were a common enough sight amidst the choked skies above the city, and it could follow at a considerable distance—but he would probably hear a Judge’s bike screaming along the sked. Dredd slalomed between the articulated juggernauts and mo-pads, keeping an eye above on the skysurfer. Occasionally, he’d disappear from view, swooping between the gleaming steel and glass canyons, but by sticking close to the zoom line he didn’t stray far and Dredd was able to catch sight of him again before long.

  Was it a betrayal of the badge and the life to which he was dedicated to take pleasure at moments like this, he wondered. At the Academy they’d done everything they could to burn out every emotion, turn the cadets from flawed human beings into dispassionate, fully functional machines, capable of dispensing objective summary justice as befits the Law, not swayed by their own feelings. The capability of love was rigorously removed; enjoyment of leisure activities forbidden to the point where anything outside the enforcement of justice was eroded away, leaving only the Judges’ own monk-like existence. To exercise, they sparred, brushed up on their daystick-handling, used weights. To relax, they grabbed a handful of minutes in a sleep machine. There was no recreation, no chance to spend quality time with friends or family—such ties were abandoned the instant they began their training. All they had were their lives as Judges, and it was a serious, one-track route where there were no opportunities for distraction.

  That was the plan, the grand scheme, at least: to manufacture each year lawmen and women as judicial automatons for which their only interest was keeping a lid on anarchy and punishing the guilty, the pinnacle of fifteen years of study and survival in the toughest school on Earth. He more than most—cloned in a laboratory with his brother from the genetic stock of the Father of Justice, created for one role and one role only, with no childhood to speak of outside a Justice Department facility, no dreams or desires before he became devoted to the Law—should find the frivolities of personal satisfaction needless. Yet he was ashamed to admit he felt a surge of adrenaline as he sped through the city streets, bending with the momentum as the growling Lawmaster engine powered him forwards, the fat tyres chewing up the rockcrete. How could he—how could anyone—not respond favourably to being in the grip of such control? It was when he was weaving like this at such velocity that he felt most connected to the metropolis, that it was there to be disciplined at his hand. It was impossible to escape the endorphin rush, yet at the same time, at the back of his mind—the anchor that weighted him—was the knowledge that he was equally a servant of the city. He knew he must never forget that: it was the core truth that some Judges found themselves released from, and consequently spun off into their own dark gratifications. It had happened to... someone close to him, and Dredd had witnessed at first hand the corruption that came with it. Seeing base urges being indulged like that made him appreciate the attempts by the Academy to strengthen resolve and hammer out an iron will, forge a pure force for justice that wouldn’t succumb to pleasure or be diverted by everyday considerations; to be beyond temptation. The authority that a Judge wielded was too important, too open to abuse, for it to lie in the hands of the weak and easily coerced. It was essential there was strength of purpose—and why there had to be such strict penalties for those Judges that failed in their duty. The standard sentence of twenty years on the mining colony of Titan, the inmates surgically altered to adapt to its harsh environment, demonstrated that Justice Central had to be above reproach, that nothing was harder on the Law than the Law itself.

  So ought he feel ashamed of his own fleeting flashes of humanity, that he experienced spikes of excitement like this? He didn’t think so. If they’d wanted robots they would’ve rolled urban pacification units off the production line years ago and saved themselves all the trouble and expense of teaching people how to be Judges. Nobody wanted to be policed by meks—few trusted droids, even now. You had to be able to make judgement calls, come to snap decisions when the situation required it. It made them better Judges not to see everything in black and white.

  He roared on, leaning into the curves of the megaway, down through Naomi Watts underpass, engine booming within the confined space, fluorescents flickering across his visor, before barrelling back out into the light again, sliding between lanes. A Fintan Neebo minivan pootling way too slowly in a four hundred kph zone got short shrift as he passed it, Dredd softening on the accelerator just enough to thrust a fine through the driver’s window. He barely heard their protestations before he had peeled away, full throttle.

  Dredd’s helmet radio barked: “Your suspect is descending, heading for an industrial area on Banks.”

  “Wilco. I see him.”

  “You still need us for surveillance?”

  “No, stand off, aerial. I’ll take it from here.”

  He watched as the meathead swept in to land, kicking up a flurry of dust as he touched down beside a chainlink fence. The area was a reclamation quadrant, part of the old city awaiting bulldozing; there were a few spots like this all over MC-1, dating back pre-Atomic Wars and scarring the landscape like old sores that refuse to heal. It was a bustle of abandoned warehouses and container depots, the ’crete cracked and festooned with weeds, some rusty trailers still lying slumped where they’d been left decades ago. The buildings appeared little more than shells, windows smashed, the roof of one structure half collapsed.

  Dredd glided to a standstill a block away from where Erikson’s minder had propped his powerboard up against a wall and was screeching open a gate that had once been padlocked; he didn’t need to be that close to it to see that the lock and chain had been snapped in two with boltcutters some time previously. The creep squeezed his way into a gap in the gate when it swung open only by a few ce
ntimetres, his backpack snagging on the wire; he tugged at it and tumbled through. Picking himself up, he trotted off towards the nearest of the warehouses, casting a suspicious eye over his shoulder as he went.

  The setting smelled of narcotics factory, Dredd thought. These were the kind of grounds drugs manufacturers favoured: disused, out of the way ruins. Plenty of privacy, a slim chance of being disturbed. He swung himself off his Lawmaster and edged towards the gate, keeping an eye out for cameras or trip-alarms; he couldn’t see any, but if this was an operation of any kind of size, they would have some semblance of security. There wouldn’t be much chance of approaching from the front without being detected, he presumed. He could, of course, call the H-wagon back and request a laser strike, but that felt like using a sledgehammer to crack a nut; and he wanted to know what Erikson’s man was doing here, and any answers could end up being incinerated in a fireball. No, better to draw them out, see what sort of opposition he was facing.

  He jogged back to his bike and squatted beside it. “Computer, I want you to proceed forward and not stop unless you hear my command, understood?”

  “That’s a rog.”

  Dredd stood up and allowed the Lawmaster past as it rolled ahead towards the gate, then backed up against the wall to watch. It hit the fence, which showed a modicum of resistance before it bowed and a section collapsed, and the vehicle trundled on into the forecourt of the industrial complex. It had gone barely ten metres when it was met by a rattle of automatic weapons fire; ricochets pinged off the chassis and bodywork, but didn’t slow its advance. It crawled on, bullets pocking the ground around it, until Dredd murmured into his helmet mike and ordered it to stop. It halted instantly, and a few seconds later so did the guns.

  Voices drifted through the smoke and dust; Dredd unholstered his Lawgiver and crouched low, tracking the movements of the silhouettes emerging from the warehouse, assault rifles slung at their hips. He counted six of them coming out to investigate. He was about to issue a warning when something caught his eye to his right: it was the meathead’s powerboard, propped up. He glanced back at the approaching perps, an idea forming.

  “Judge’s bike,” he heard one of the men say.

  “No stomm, Harlen, how did you tell?” another replied.

  “What I mean is, where’s its owner? It didn’t just arrive here by itself.”

  “Onboard comp on these things has got a bigger brain than you, pal. You’d be surprised at what it can do.”

  “Could be a malfunction,” a third offered. “A rogue machine. The way it trundled in here, it ain’t as if it meant business.”

  “Maybe. But radio back to Parker, get him to start clearing out. We can’t take the risk that there isn’t a jay out there looking for his ride. Let’s go—we’ll stick an RPG under this; probably the only way to take it out, short of a nuke.”

  “Shame. Nice wheels,” the first man started to say, but broke off as he and others looked up. They had a split second to register the object tumbling towards them before it hit the earth and exploded, a cloud of noxious gas blossoming in all directions. They shouted and scattered but the vapour had already enveloped them and snuck down their throats; they coughed, staggering, a couple dropping to their knees, eyes streaming.

  “S-Stumm...” one choked, holding a hand over his mouth, using the other to try to waft away the gas, but by now a greasy billowing fog was surrounding them. Three of the perps were unconscious, one was vomiting into the dirt; none of them paid any heed to the figure on the powerboard who’d dropped the grenade on their heads and swept past in the confusion.

  “Bike, proceed forward, maximum speed,” Dredd ordered, glancing back at the six prone figures in his wake. Stumm was designed for interior use—it worked best in confined spaces—but even in the open like this its effects were instantaneous. It would dissipate quickly but its job had been done. His Lawmaster shot forward, accelerating rapidly.

  Dredd turned his attention back to the warehouse he was approaching. He guessed he was about twenty metres from the entrance. Cadets received basic tuition in all modes of transport, and while he was no expert in handling a board like this, he knew enough to be capable. He peered beneath him—the bike was matching his velocity, so he leaned forward and descended, flattening the board a few centimetres from the saddle. Ten metres now. It occurred to him that while he’d been graded on high-speed powerboard pursuit, receiving passable marks for his balance, control and skill, the Academy had never actually tested him on this particular manoeuvre: leaping from a board onto a moving Lawmaster. Eight metres. They’d probably consider it a flourish too far, a needless stunt. Six metres. Either that, or no one has attempted it before. Four. But he had to hit the factory at speed to gain the advantage. Three.

  He jumped.

  The moment his rear foot left the accelerator pad, the board halted immediately, reverting to hovering stationary a metre off the ground. He slammed into the bike’s seat and jerked forward, his gauntleted fists finding the handlebars and twisting savagely on the throttle. The machine growled and rose up briefly on its back wheel, power surging through it. Two metres.

  “Full manual control,” Dredd growled.

  “Wilco.”

  One.

  He flicked a switch and engaged the bike cannons, the twin barrels spewing forth a terrifying barrage of rapid-fire ammo, bullets chewing up the wooden door like it was paper. He crashed through it moments later in an explosion of splinters, the Lawmaster shrugging off the collision with barely a tremor. The noise was immense, a cacophonic din like something had erupted beneath the ground.

  He didn’t slow, didn’t allow himself pause to assimilate his surroundings, but processed as he worked. The interior of the building was a factory production line, much as he’d anticipated: boxes piled up against a far wall, bench surfaces covered in the detritus of drug manufacture—test tubes, scales, needles, pipettes. The air reeked of sweetness, and he flipped down his helmet respirator, conscious of the swirling powder.

  Several of those perps within that had a moment earlier been weighing, chopping and bagging were blown off their feet by Dredd’s entrance, a handful cut down by the bike’s guns. The rest leapt to cover, using the tables for protection, and returned fire. Dredd drew his Lawgiver and selected his targets, placing a few well-aimed ricochets off the piping to catch the creeps cowering there, before skidding the Lawmaster to a halt and dialling up the amplification on his mike.

  “Weapons on the floor now!” he ordered. “You’re all under arrest!” His voice, distorted by the respirator, echoed off the high ceiling like Grud’s own judgement bestowed upon the guilty.

  The demand was ignored, his words met by a further hail of bullets, and he rolled off the bike, seeking safety behind it. He estimated there was perhaps a dozen meatheads still out there, and none of them were likely to surrender; they’d gone beyond the point where talking their way out of this mess was a viable option. Given the choice between death or twenty years in an iso-cube, they were very clearly opting for the former. He wasn’t going to disappoint them, but nor was he going to allow them all to find escape via a Standard Execution through the skull. He wanted answers first.

  But he needed to thin the numbers. He caught sight of the crumbling brickwork up by the skylight windows and fired off a high-explosive round, the wall exploding in a flash of orange and brown, the ’crete crumbling in heavy, metre-long chunks. Debris rained down and the perps sheltering beneath it scrambled to their feet to escape, leaping into Dredd’s view: he pumped the Lawgiver’s trigger as they appeared, bullets thunking into torso and heads, five of them hitting the floor as quickly as they’d come. A crack sheared through the plaster, and the roof groaned; he instinctively looked up, noting the dust sprinkling from the iron beams. The old pre-war building couldn’t sustain this kind of damage; it was only a matter of time before a supporting wall collapsed. He needed to move fast. He hadn’t seen Erikson’s man amongst the drugs soldiers, and there was no reason for
him to risk his life if he wasn’t in their employ. Unless there was a back way out he hadn’t noticed, the creep still had to be on the property.

  “Control—Dredd. I need back-up, the old industrial estate on Banks,” he muttered into his mike. “Drugs factory, six or seven perps still on scene. Need about same number of helmets to surround and contain.”

  “That’s logged, Dredd. Units on their way.”

  There was a metal staircase leading to a gallery that ran the perimeter of the warehouse, and from what he could ascertain, an office housed up there. He ran for it, guns snapping at his heels, taking the steps two at a time. A round snicked his right arm and he grimaced, glancing at it, relieved to see it had sliced the flesh but gone no deeper. He reached the top and booted through the office door, walking in on a fat man brandishing a machine-gun. Dredd ducked and fired, putting three SE rounds in a neat group in his chest. Fatboy flew back and landed face-up on a mildewy desk, scattering creds in all directions. Dredd quickly scanned the office for any other threats before his eyes rested upon the pair of legs jutting out from beneath the workstation that the dead perp was now cooling upon. He kicked one of the exposed ankles and told their owner to slide out slowly. Erikson’s goon emerged, hands raised, smeared with dirt and sweat, casting a terrified eye over the corpse. For hired muscle, he’d clearly never been near a firefight before.

  “That the man you came to see?” the Judge asked, nodding towards the stiff. “Who was he?”

  “P-Parker. Local supplier.”

  Dredd spotted the open rucksack and the piles of creds spilling from it. “You here as a bagman, I take it? With Vassell missing, Erikson’s having to buy in his merchandise from another source.”

  “Mr Erikson knows nothing about this. I’m here for myself.”