Judge Jones made it out in a fairer condition than most of the others in the house, but he still felt a loss. There was an imbalance, in that hate burrowing into the hollow of the boy Elijah’s eyes as he’d watched his mother, in a separate car, torn from his life. In that child being sent home with his remaining parent, Citizen Colin Jobee.
Aaliyah’s aunt, the family lawyer she’d called before the Judges’ arrived, met her niece at the precinct.
Officer Wilson was thrilled to have his perp back in custody, and the chance to protect the American public from her hysterical, abrasive rhetoric.
The law had persevered. The judgement had protected all of us. A father reunited with his son, a radical threat neutralised. There was peace.
But Jones had difficulty seeing it as earned.
Was it the bodies a button-press had broken? Was it a partner that had saved his life, seen something of worth in him, and paid a price for that humanity? Did it have something to do with the tattered moleskin he’d found that night in Aaliyah’s room?
It was most likely that first thing.
Regardless of what it was, after the nigh endless paperwork, Judge Jones would seek refuge in something that mattered.
In favours he hadn’t earned from boys he never took the time to love at police stations he hoped to never see again.
As he sat in that post office, sending his third letter to Officer Ocasio, dancing around what mattered and asking about the… refugee he’d agreed to harbour after their escape, he knew the choice he made was the right one.
That even where the darkness lay, he could be worth something; could be human.
EPILOGUE
“WE’RE CLOSED,” THE waitress called back, as the bell on the door jangled. B&W’s was a good place to find diner coffee in the pot that had sat around less than three hours, an award-winning tuna melt sandwich, and the rampant swell of bar-hopped bros and bastards that didn’t always agree to the 3 a.m. closing time. What B&W’s wasn’t known for, however, was genial customer service.
“No, you’re not,” Judge Poet said, letting the door fall closed and twisting the lock. The waitress yelped at the sight of the Judge, or at the crinkled skin substitute, and the way it peeled at the edges around the eye.
“Holy shi—sir, your associates are waiting in the back.” The waitress spoke as fast as her feet moved, as she lunged for her coat and purse behind the bar. She nearly fell over her feet as she passed the Judge, who was fortunately alert enough to catch her.
“Th—Thank you, sir, Judge, sir,” she said, carefully looking away from the string of bloody puss he hadn’t wiped away from his newly-robotic eye.
“The keys, Tanya?” Judge Poet said genially, before letting the woman go. She shuffled the jangled mess of keys to Poet and ducked out.
He watched her leave, or at least he meant to. The mess in the reflection of the door caught his attention, and he winced.
Judge Poet had one eye, something he found himself forgetting at times. There were things he didn’t overlook, of course—the way the wind hit the synthetic nerves sewn into his grated face. His new distaste at his helmet, where it rubbed at his unreal skin. The truth of his mission, of what had always been his mission.
He eventually dragged his forty-five-minute-late ass to the women’s restroom. When he opened it, the two associates he’d been expecting were just as much a gaggle of chattering dicks as he’d left them months prior.
“—not going to go that way. You can’t trust the Ump Brothers, I don’t care if we stay in the red for fucking ever, there isn’t a world where we align ourselves with the immoral. We don’t need a lobbyist, we need more taxation.” Judge Stein, ginger-haired and ruddy-faced, leaned against the bathroom sink as he spoke. When he noticed Judge Poet enter, a grin flashed over his face, and the other two turned as well, if looking less pleased.
“You are late… again, Judge Poet,” the other man said, leaning against the closed bathroom stall.
“How’s the gardening, Morty?” Judge Poet asked, taking a piss in the stall next to him.
“It’s Judge Mortimer, Poet.”
“Right, well, I’m late, apologies. Where are we, gentlemen?” Poet asked, shaking and zipping.
“We’ve already been updated on your report; we received it last night from Fargo. It was peculiarly slim regarding your primary mission, Judge Poet.” Stein watched Poet hop on the sink counter and pull out a pack of cigarettes.
“Well, I figured you lovers of repetition would only ask me about it again,” Judge Poet said, drawing from his cigarette to feel full of something other than shit and sore nerves.
“Well, I suppose we should begin. Judge Poet, we’d like to know your findings in your reconnaissance mission,” Stein said, officially and obtusely and probably less offensively than Judge Morty would have preferred.
“As believed, Colin Jobee was using the alias ‘Thurgood’ in establishing the now-defunct Brotherhood. Ultimately, his aim wasn’t to incite a racially-motivated rebellion. He wanted us to see him,” Poet said, stopping when Judge Stein chuckled.
“Clever fuck,” Stein mouthed, and Judge Poet shrugged.
“Clever, and useful. Pellegrino—”
“Bitch,” Judge Morty spat, prompting a brief, awkward silence for the rest of the Judges.
“Eh, some days more than others,” Poet eventually responded. “But she’s Fargo’s right hand, and you will respect her accordingly.” His eyes tightened and bored into Mortimer’s.
“Please, go on, Poet,” the other Judge eventually replied, weakly.
“Thank you. As I was saying, thanks to Pellegrino we were successful in acquiring a vital resource that will, I propose, fully assuage Gurney’s concerns.”
The other Judges nodded and murmured. Judge Poet waited, patting the puss accumulated below his eye socket.
“Judge Poet, we haven’t much time. Please, what of your primary directive?” Morty eventually said, winding his hand to hurry things up.
“Right. In observation of the candidate, Judge Ezekiel Jones, I found much of Judges Fox and Stein’s report… fairly accurate,” Poet began, taking a moment to pat his eye with a napkin. “Jones met all physical assessments. To be completely honest, I’ve seen stronger Judges, and… weaker. Rarely as many with his precision in aim, but they are around, and with less baggage.”
Judge Morty smirked. “Yes, we’re aware of Jones’s… history. Would you consider him viable, though? You seem less than impressed with your field assessment, it contradicts your report.”
It was Poet’s turn to chuckle. “Never said that, now, did I? What I was getting at, in my assessment, was something far more valuable. I know the ins and outs of… what I do likely bores you, gentlemen, but please, if you would entertain me for a moment?”
Judge Stein stuck a thumb up, and Morty followed.
“Splendid. On first contact, I tested Judge Jones’s resilience. He’d arrived immediately prior to my execution of a Brotherhood member. He observed, and as I’d not broken protocol, did not intervene, regardless of my eccentric performance. He never submitted a report of my behaviour at any point, as long as I operated within the confines of the Law.”
“So? He’s a good boy, we’ve got plenty of those,” Judge Morty said.
“Yes. Yes, wedo, Morty.What we don’t have are those who not only revere the Law, but see that it isthe only way to save this country, this world. Judge Jones never acted recklessly. I tried to… connect to Judge Jones. I gave him personal anecdotes; I waxed philosophic. I gave him an enemy.”
“An… enemy?” Judge Stein echoed with a frown.
“Yes. As Officer Jones quite infamously turned against his own men in court, I needed to find a way, somehow, to ascertain if that stemmed from something so silly as racial politics, or from something more useful.” Judge Poet paused as if in anticipation of a fanfare, and when none was forthcoming rolled his eye and hopped down from the counter. “Do you know much about psychopathy, gentle
men?”
“This is going to take forev—”
“Psychopathy, in brief, is most commonly marked by a lack of empathy, heightened aggression, recklessness. Back in the beginning of the millennium, there was research that showed that in the mind of an average tax evader, it was common for the amygdala to light up when shown certain… disturbing images.”
“Pussies,” Judge Morty said, a verbal high five no one wanted to receive.
“Genitalia aside… in psychopaths, we see something different. We see that their amygdalae is where the light lay still. Empathy—specifically the way it constrains—the psychopath is free from that. Judge Jones showed these patterns, in the scans we’ve conducted whenever he’s been in hospital.”
“So, he’s a psychopath. Huh. If anything, then, that makes him more unfit than before. How the hell did he even pass the psych eval to get in?” Judge Stein asked.
“Psychopathy isn’t necessarily genetic, and is inherently variable. Also, the psychopath doesn’t necessarily lack a conscience, they just have a weak response to its call. Some can mimic empathy well when needed; others… not so much.”
“Fascinating. This bathroom reeks. Get on with it, Poet,” Morty said.
“Yes, well, as I’d been saying, Jones exhibited these traits, not that he’s the first officer or Judge to do so. It took losing my eye to really get what I really needed for my assessment. Granted, could have done with keeping the eye; maybe a leg wound…? Or, you know, anything else. I digress. When Pellegrino ordered Judge Jones to stand down, there was no sign of conflict whatsoever. When he nearly killed Aaliyah Monroe, there was no conflict until after I showed signs of life.”
“Okay…”
“The Law, gentlemen. It’s the only thing that mattered. It’s what will save them. All of them,” Poet finished solemnly.
“It’s settled, then. We fast-track him, use him as a model for the next round of training.” Judge Stein glanced towards Judge Morty. “You’ve done well, Poet.”
Poet laughed, thin and reedy. “Yeah? Let’s hope.”
They ended as they always had, with a show of kinship, forming a circle.
A thing of no end, and of no beginning.
Of forever.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Charlie J Eskew is a writer from Columbus, OH. He a professional comic book shop lurker, and tenured Black dude in America. He is the author of Tales of the Astonishing Black Spark, and enjoys movies, long walks on the beach, and punching Nazis in the shnoz.
Twitter: @CJEskew
Instagram: @Author_CJEskew
www.askeweskew.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 years' 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
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
“YOU READY, ROOKIE?”
In years to come, Cassandra Anderson will be a living legend, Psi-Division’s most famous Judge. But for now it’s 2100, and a young Judge Anderson is fresh out of the Academy, the Eagle still gleaming on her shoulder. It’s time to put her training—and her judgement—to the test.
Tackling a love-obsessed telepathic killer at a Valentine’s Day parade, plunging into the depths of madness in a huge new psychiatric prison, and probing the boundaries of reality itself as she hunts a psychic virus to its roots, Cass will be forged in the fires of Justice, emerging as something extraordinary.
“Exactly what you’d want: smart, fast-moving sci-fi that’s filled with pulpy thrill power.”
Wait, What? Podcast
www.abaddonbooks.com
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