“Not what I hear.”
“You heard fucking wrong. I’m—I was set up, I haven’t done anything wrong, not the way you all wish I did, anyway. My son was taken, I gave testimony under duress… your honour.”
Jones retrieved his weapon and checked the room for any remaining danger. “Where is your son?”
“Not here. I don’t know what Thurgood did with him; if he’s been hurt, I swear—”
Judge Jones stopped her before she could finish, clapping a hand over her mouth and shoving her back to the room’s closet. He watched her slump to the ground.
“We intercepted your call to the Chicago PD, Dr. Monroe,” he said. “We are here to end this. Keep yourself hidden.” He tossed her his old pistol, with half a clip.
He slammed the door before she could respond, muffling her parting words, and made his way to the now-illuminated hall, seeing his partner waiting with Pellegrino at the end of it.
As he ran to meet them, he wondered about the quality of his new helmet, most importantly the sound input settings. While it was able to pick up Aaliyah’s fleeting words, it made them into nonsense.
I never called the cops…
He couldn’t see how such a blatant lie could serve her.
“Status, Judge Jones?” Poet asked.
Jones tapped the bottom of his gun, prompting Poet to produce a spare clip.
“Fine,” he said as he loaded. “Last room. You ready to meet Thurgood?”
“Drokk, yeah.” Marisa laughed.
The two stopped.
“The hell?” Judge Poet asked.
She shrugged. “I heard a kid at the precinct say it the other day.”
Jones shook his head and stepped back to thrust a foot at the door, smashing it open.
After the mass murder, nightmarish night terrors, and poor grammar, Jones was open to endless possibilities: a monster, a robot, a living god… he was almost disappointed at what he saw. A sunglass-wearing, quivering minority on his knees, with his hands stretched up in the sky.
“Who are you? Where is Thurgood?” Judge Jones demanded, marching in with his weapon. He noticed the man didn’t flinch. Pellegrino and Poet surveyed the room, finding nothing but the simpering man in front of them.
“I—I’m just—oh, god, don’t hurt me!” the man whined.
“Answer. Him,” Judge Poet added, pushing the lip of his weapon against the shivering man’s head.
“I—oh, oh, god, I’m—I’m Colin Jobee. I am a-a-a-a engineer. I was brought here by Thu-Thu-Thurgood, I crafted his weapons for the Brotherhood,” Colin wailed.
Judge Poet took a step back, lowering his weapon slightly before giving Judge Jones a shrug.
Judge Jones looked him over, and raised his own pistol. He caught the twist of Marisa’s face and held out an open palm to reassure her.
He turned the strobe light function on, and, after a moment, shut it down.
“He’s blind,” Judge Jones said, holstering his weapon, and continuing to search the room.
“Yuh-yes… is that… is that against the law, or—?”
“Shut. It,” Judge Poet spat, aiming his weapon at Jobee. He kept it there for a moment, registered Pellegrino’s grimace, and awkwardly shuffled the weapon against Jobee’s head for him to feel it. Pellegrino gave a condescending smile and flashed a thumbs-up, then continued her search of the room.
“Seventeen down in total, ma’am,” Jones reported. “Aaliyah Monroe is armed in a closet next door. She isn’t here of her own volition.”
Marisa glanced back to the door, to the suddenly stilled blind man, and back to Judge Jones. “What did she tell you…?” she asked, meeting Jones’s eyes and nodding back to Jobee. Ezekiel nodded back.
“Everything,” Judge Jones said, hand over his holstered weapon.
Colin Jobee’s shaking fully stopped at the word everything. He began towards the door, but was stopped by Judge Poet’s forearm.
“She… she told you lies,” Colin said, writhing on the ground for a moment before composing himself, on his knees.
Jones nodded thoughtfully, but stayed silent. He waited, and waited, and as Judge Poet rolled his eyes, waited for a bit longer.
“She told me that you’d say that, Thurgood,” he eventually bluffed.
Colin, keeping his hands raised, sighed, long and low, and slipped into a smile. “Whatever you think she said is circumstantial at best. Yes, though, let’s take time to mull over the rantings of a confessed consort of Thurgood. More importantly, I’d like to speak with your superior about your brutal methods, officers.”
“Yeah, I’ll call HR in the morning. Get the fuck up,” Pellegrino commanded.
“Well, thank you. I have to say though, there is a more pressing matter to attend to, Marisa, was it? Excuse my impertinence, but if I may explain, lives hang in the balance!” Jobee wailed.
Jones noticed Marisa eyeing him and turned to meet her gaze for a moment, before turning back to Thurgood.
“Talk.”
“The weapons. I—as disclosed in the contract I’ve distributed to my customers, the weapons have a… a kind of kill switch, excuse the pun. As they were, and still are in production, it was only ethically sound of me to do so, in case they were found ill-suited to private use.”
“Of course,” Judge Poet huffed.
“Thurgood, from what I’ve overheard, is a kind of prophet to these people. Meanwhile, even as this ‘Brotherhood’ marches as one on every police precinct in Illinois, I remain but a humble entrepreneur and a concerned citizen,” Colin said, letting tears spill. “I am also, a—a friend to all human kind. And what you do for friends is… you cherish your friends, look out for your friends, lift up your friends, love your friends.” He was sobbing now, and for a moment, Jones wondered if Colin Jobee really wasn’t Thurgood. Anyone who would carry the name of a Judge with such entitlement couldn’t possibly blubber like this.
“For cock’s sakes man, stop with the bullshit and say your words,” Judge Poet groaned.
Jobee winced. “What… what time is it?”
“Quarter after eight, why?” Pellegrino said, glancing at her watch but keeping her gun aimed tightly over Colin.
“Oh! Oh, no! It’s already started… the TV, please, it has to be on some local station.”
Marisa glanced over to Judge Jones again, jerking her head towards the TV. Jones obliged.
Jobee had fortuitously left the TV last on a news station. ‘It’ had, as promised, happened.
“What is this?” Judge Jones asked, heavily.
Jobee grinned for a moment, unable to see the broadcast, but listened along with the rest of them, his hands still stretched to the sky.
They heard the description of the Brotherhood members surrounding multiple police stations throughout the city, each armed with the weapons he’d built for the cruel ‘criminal mastermind,’ Thurgood.
“They were ordered by—by Thurgood to take… retributive justice for all the wrongs made against them, by blood. God forgive me, they can do it too, with my weapons, with my—listen. I can stop them. I can—”
Judge Jones stepped out of line, his body filling with a rage, threatening to drown. He felt pushed the cold steel of his weapon against Jobee’s head, against what could only be Thurgood’s head, and felt no hope at all.
“Judge Jones!” Pellegrino shouted, but he didn’t respond.
“Well, I don’t know how that is going to help anyon—”
“How can we stop this?” Judge Jones snapped before Colin could finish.
The blind, black, bent man shrugged, slowly lowering his arms from a surrender he’d never intended to give, and carefully climbed to his feet.
“As I mentioned before, I have integrated a kill switch—oh, what’s that sound? Are the officers on their way out? Not long now… ” Jobee cooed.
He was right. Judge Jones turned briefly to the TV, watching as the helicopters recorded the officers emptying out from the back of the building, strapped in
the weapons of old, weapons that held no hold over the future.
“I—and excuse any implication here—I don’t quite know how to trust this won’t result in yet another false accusation from the Justice Department on my character? Now, if I had assurance that I would be free from any unconstitutional handling of my person…”
“What do you want, Jobee?” Jones demanded.
“Well, I want to be wanted, like any rational businessman of the century. You see, I was unjustly made into this… beggar you see before you, when I was catapulted from a budding future and—”
Judge Poet fired a round into the ceiling, putting a halt on Jobee’s speech. “Not the time for the whole ‘Sympathy for the Devil’ speech, citizen. Answer my partner’s question.”
“Yes, well, I don’t want—or, I don’t want to givethis Thurgood control over anything. I am a proud taxpayer, I don’t even deduct for political donations, so, you know, good guy here. I admire, and want to play my part in continuing this tradition of protection, of service. What I want most, though, is a form of income. So, I leave the choice here to you…” Jobee seemed almost pained, almost human.
Pellegrino lowered her weapon, and ordered the other two to follow suit.
“What choice?” Jones asked.
“Well, speaking in hypotheticals here, of course, but… this is not going to end well,” Colin said slyly. “People won’t walk away from this… But I wonder who you would want to remain? We have the intrepid, tenacious police force of Illinois. They aren’t all that bad, are they? But they aren’t going to go without a fight. What if you don’t have to fight? What if, by way of an unpressed button, the fight was finished for you?”
“And door number 2?” Marisa questioned, paying no mind to Jones’s incredulous look.
“The weapons are deactivated at the opportune moment, after a shot or two, and two-thirds of those contributing to the murder capital of the country are taken out in a heartbeat. There is the start of, if not justice, at least order,” Colin said, mouthing the last word slow and sticky.
Judge Jones looked back to the TV: the gangs were there, some sporting the robes and some not; not that it seemed this Thurgood, this invisible man, cared much for their unity.
The officers did just as Colin said they would, emptying out and readying themselves for a death they couldn’t begin to comprehend.
“What would you require, citizen, to give us the tech?” Marisa asked.
“Ma’am?” Jones prompted, without reply.
“Well, skimming over the whole trust-but-verify speech I had planned,” Jobee replied, “I’ve… prepared for such a possibility. If one of your dogs wouldn’t mind—the dresser over there? Top drawer.”
Marisa nodded to Judge Jones, who went to the dresser and pulled out a single black folder. When he opened it, there was a contract, filled with the familiar legalese he’d always hated dealing with.
He couldn’t help looking at the letterhead, though: a company logo that only read G. A. Manufacturing and nothing more.
He took it over to Marisa, who glanced it over and laughed hollowly.
“You. Assholes. I can’t believe I didn’t see it earlier…”
“What is it?” Poet asked, but Pellegrino didn’t acknowledge the Judge’s question, instead glancing at the TV for a few moments before turning back to Colin Jobee.
“So, Mr. Jobee, I don’t expect the CEO of General Arms Manufacturing will be joining us as well today, will she?” Marisa asked, and treason danced across Jobee’s face like a child proud of his trickery.
“No, unfortunately, you just have me. Though I do speak for her. We trust each other entirely. You, though—tsk—you haven’t been so trustworthy, have you? We know, for instance, that you’ve been flirting with Metal Storm about their weaponry developments behind our back. For shame, Pellegrino, for shame. You should know that we aren’t angry, but saw it only as an opportunity to show you our developments. While Thurgood, wherever and whoever he may be, hasn’t been the best business partner, he has done everything legally.”
“One dollar…” Jones said.
“Oh, you’re familiar with our price point? Well, if you don’t spend you don’t win, bit of a business 101 tip for you there. I digress, call this a signing bonus, in one sweep Fargo gets whatever he values more, or call it Operation Revelations, we know how much you love your code names. Call it whatever you want, frankly, but make your choice fast, we don’t have much time.” Colin Jobee seemed to relax, lowering his hands and leaning back on them.
Marisa grinned, looking at the papers, looking at the insignia of her future business partners. She looked back to the TV, withdrew her weapon, and sent a round through its centre, letting it flash to nothing but wires and darkness.
“Judge Jones,” Marisa started.
“Yes, ma’am?” Jones said, staring still to the television.
“A pen, please.”
Jones and Poet holstered their weapons, and Ezekiel withdrew with a pen from his belt, clicking it to wake and handing it to her. She worked her way around Jones and used his back as a surface to sign on.
“Well! That’s that. Thank you for your patronage. So! Moving along, what would you like to do?” Jobee said as the scratching of the pen stopped. He reached to his back pocket and pulled out an inch-long, circular device with a button fixed in its centre.
“I’ll have that, Mr. Jobee,” Marisa said. Jobee tossed it underhand towards her voice, and she caught it. She looked over to Ezekiel and Judge Poet.
“What happens, exactly? If I press the button?” Marisa asked.
“Hit the button, the signal goes out. It takes roughly two minutes, unfortunately,” Jobee said.
“Ma’am, you can’t… you know, you know what will happen. It won’t be mercy.”
Judge Jones, Ezekiel, was the cadet on his bed again.
“No, it won’t, Jones, but it will be order.”
Marisa tapped the button.
They heard a sizzle from within the weapons littering the room, and the hallways. They didn’t hear, of course, the last breaths of the men and women in the street.
“Judge Jones, make sure to—”
“You… you—”
“Judge Jones. Judge Poet. Please escort Mr. Jobee out of the house. He’ll need medical attention for that shoulder.”
Judge Poet gave a quick nod and helped Jobee to his feet, while Judge Jones kept his eyes on Marisa.
“Judge Jones?” she asked, mildly.
“Affirmative, ma’am,” he eventually replied.
As they walked the halls, Judge Jones was careful to avoid the bodies. Judge Poet seemed too weighted by Ezekiel’s gaze to try and nudge him back to the man he’d met at the diner earlier that day. They stayed silent until the end of the hall, until a sound in one of the rooms drew their attention.
Aaliyah, Judge Jones thought, but then realised it’d come from a different room.
Poet rushed towards the room, leaving Jones holding Jobee.
He heard Poet screaming in the distance, but nothing returning to him, only words he’d heard so many nights, the catalyst of so many mistakes.
“Put the weapon down, I won’t ask twice, kid.”
It was the first time Colin seemed truly rattled. “No!” he screamed, attempting to rush to the room, until Jones kicked him in the sternum, knocking him to the ground.
Jones jogged past the wheezing engineer, his weapon out, entering the room to see a young boy holding one of Jobee’s weapons.
“Judge Poet! Weapon down. This isn’t—the weapons have been deactivated.”
“We can’t know that, not for all of them. Kid, let’s not do this, let’s not—”
Given more time, Poet could have explained why pointing a gun at him wasn’t a great idea. He could have talked the little black boy out of killing himself through a Judge’s gun. He could have done many more things, if not for the sound from across the hall. If not for Aaliyah Monroe, gun still smoking and still in her
hands; if not for the bullet that split Judge Poet’s eye socket, leaving him in darkness.
CHAPTER TEN
AS POET LAY there, at the end of everything the Judges’ severance package promised, Ezekiel’s eyes watched Elijah. Another boy dead, in one way or another. The boy hadn’t breathed, standing so still for so long Ezekiel wondered if he’d been drowning in the air, stale with death and lingering between them all.
“Judge down, Judge down!” Pellegrino called out over her wrist comm. She darted to Judge Poet’s side.
Ezekiel’s arm shot up, dead-aimed at Aaliyah Monroe’s head. Aaliyah had, true to form for a militant, readied her weapon at Judge Jones in kind.
“I—I didn’t… I—”
“I hereby sentence you, Aaliyah Monroe, for murder in the second-degree—”
“Ouch. I’d say manslaughter in the second at best, if we’re—”
“Colin Jobee, you are wilfully impeding an arrest.” Judge Jones said without looking Jobee’s way. The engineer shrugged with his arms still raised high in the air.
“Ezekiel…” Judge Jones heard Marisa call from below him, but he didn’t take his eyes off the murderess who had shattered a man’s life. “Ma’am?” he prompted.
“Will—Judge Poet is breathing,” she said. Ezekiel didn’t remove his aim from Aaliyah’s centre mass, but his finger slackened on the trigger.
“What are we doing, Judge?” he heard Colin say. He didn’t have an answer. He could only wait. Wait for Poet’s last breath, wait for an ambulance, wait for something, anything, that could lead to judgement.
“Cuff her. And the kid,” he finally spat, not taking his aim away from Aaliyah Monroe, or the child that made his way to her, tightly clutching his mother’s waist.
Marisa fumbled the cuffs as she pulled them from her trench coat, and did as directed.
When the first cars arrived, Poet was rushed away. While Chicago offered many adequate options, the Judges would see that Poet got the very best care possible. He might not be very pretty, but none of them were getting out of Operation Revelations unscarred.
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