Psykogeddon Read online

  "You don't have to be mad to work here," it read. "You have to be the sort of rabid and oleaginous jackal who'd sell their crippled old Grandma for the chemical-content value of her body while she's still alive!"

  "You still misunderstand," said Dredd. "We don't need a creep like you for the prosecution. We can handle the prosecution on our own.

  "Brit-Cit has demanded a reversion to the old forms of trial. Drago San supplied us with your name. You're gonna be acting in his defence."

  In the Halls of Justice Med-Division, techs were working their way through the daily crop of bodies killed by Judges in the execution, as it were, of their duties.

  Even with the winnowing processes that excluded all the cut-and-dried deaths and had the vast majority of these bodies packed directly off to Resyk, the numbers were still sufficient enough that the work had something of the quality of an assembly-line.

  Given that the items on the conveyor belts were being disassembled rather than assembled, of course.

  A med-tech checked the preliminary scans on the current body going past. On this level of triage he was just a Grade One, barely a step up from casual labour.

  "Latent-psionic type, the scan says," he said unconcernedly. "Level too low to ever give him more than nightmares one night in three, usually, but just the sorta guy who tends to flip out this time of year when the atmo-systems start playing up. Run around, act up, get pulled down and stomped flat, you know?"

  "Yeah," another tech agreed. "Bag him as standard suicide-by-Judge and... hang on, this one's tagged as 'further investigation'. What do you think? Did we miss him in the rush?"

  "If you like," said the first. "I notice, though, that it's been tagged as 'further investigation' by Judge Dredd."

  "Ah. Better actually do it, then. The last thing we want is an in-person visit from Old Stony Face."

  The first tech shunted the body off the conveyor line and walked it through the secondary deep-scan processes that would give a fuller picture of its physiological state.

  "Leon Gregor Sturlek..." he read from the display. "Cause of demise, well, we know about that... Massive trauma and systemic collapse due to the obvious... Previous neurological and synaptic disruption, together with an endocrinal shift consistent with a textbook schizophrenic break - now that is odd."

  "What's up?" said the second tech. "You're the one with the basic neuro-training. I'm just the gut-guy."

  "Well, the thing about what you can broadly call a schizophrenic break," said the first, "if I'm remembering it right, is that there's no such thing as a classic textbook pattern. It's like a kinda random shorting out and reallocation of synaptic pathways.

  "Random being the operative word, apparently. The brain misfires and the victim experiences disruptions that could be literally anything, from hearing voices telling them to kill their mother 'cause she's a demon to being absolutely convinced that their mother is a small tub of synthi-cheese...

  "Doesn't have to be about mothers, of course; the point is it could be anything. Thinking the whole concept of up is a tune you're whistling. Thinking Wednesday is a toad in a hat. Whatever. Just like this total nonsense. The reason so many schizophrenics seem to be similar is that the intact parts of their mind are trying, desperately, to explain the total nonsense and latch on to similar things and fears - that Grud's telling them to do things, that aliens are doing it, that it's all part of some Justice Department conspiracy pumping microwaves into their heads."

  He tapped the deep-scan display. "The point is, this says, the synaptic disruptions here are entirely too organised in nature. It's as if they've been designed for a specific purpose. Not just to have this Sturlek guy flipping out in one of any number of odd, random ways - but to flip out in a specific and violently psychotic way. He was all charged up and just waiting for some kind of trigger."

  "So what you're saying," said the first med-tech, "is that somebody actually did this to the guy?"

  "Somebody did this to him," said the second. "Grud alone knows how or why. I think we're gonna have to pass this guy up the chain to the people who actually know stuff."

  SEVEN

  "Minds like ours, my dear James, must always be above national prejudices, and in all companies it gives me great pleasure to declare, that, as a people, the English are very little indeed inferior to the Scotch."

  - Christopher North

  Noctes Ambrosianae

  On the rooftop strato-pad of the Halls of Justice, Dredd and Chief Judge Hershey stood together with a contingent of armed Tactical Response Judges. An hour earlier, Dredd had procured the services of Barnstable Wheems, Efil Drago San had been moved to a hi-security cell in the Hall of Justice and now they were waiting for the final component of the affair: the arrival of a contingent from Brit-Cit by way of intercontinental Strat-Bat.

  The Tactical Response squad with them was, ostensibly, an "honour guard", but in a far more real sense it was a failsafe, a protective measure, just to be sure. The Justice Department of Mega-City One, despite any failings it might have in the eyes of its critics, was not, in the end, a bunch of drokking idiots.

  The Judges had realised early on - though just slightly too late to prevent their funding of it - the true nature of Brit-Cit's so-called "Justice Department" and what was being done in their name. They had yanked that funding and support as soon as they had become aware of what it was being spent on, but by then the damage had been done.

  A visit by senior Brit-Cit Judges was basically the equivalent of a visit to the US in the twenty-first century by the President of an unrecognised, rogue South American state - a drugs baron who had clawed his way to the top of the heap, and was bringing along an entourage of the enforcers and hit men who had helped him to get there.

  The tallest structure in the Mega-City, the Hall of Justice caught the full force of the weather systems and the driving, torrential rain that would evaporate to nothing before it completely failed to hit the heat of the city below.

  "Any clue as to who these drokkers actually are?" Dredd asked, teeth gritted more against the anger at being imposed upon by a bunch of Brit-Cit drokkers than against the rain. "Do we have ID and creep-sheets on them?"

  "Nothing like that," said Hershey. "It's like the Brit-Cit Senior Judges are all part of a secret society or some drokking thing. The only name for them we have is the Sacred and Most Worshipful Order of the Star Chamber."

  "Fine by me," Dredd growled. "Not knowing the names makes the creeps that much easier to shoot in the head, if it comes down to it."

  "Probably a good idea to can the jokes, Dredd," said Hershey. "We all know you're playing to type, but outsiders like this Brit-Cit drokkers might not."

  "Who says I was joking?" said Dredd.

  The roar of engines cut through the hiss of the rain and a Strat-Bat hazed in through the ionization field that insubstantially domed the entire city.

  The Strat-Bat banked in the air, firing its retros, and settled on its landing gear. A gust of Brit-Cit air plumed from the exchange vents as the oxy-exchange systems equalised the pressure differential from the flight across the Black Atlantic.

  Then the Strat-Bat simply sat there.

  "They're taking their own good time about it," Hershey said after a while.

  "It's a power play," said Dredd. "The drokkers are making it clear that they're at no one's beck and call. That's what I'd do."

  At length, an access ramp racked itself down from a side hatch. A figure emerged and strolled across to Dredd and Hershey, the collar of its synthi-leather jacket turned up against the rain.

  As the figure grew closer, it became distinguishable as female, and Chief Judge Hershey recognised her: a strong-featured woman in her early thirties, of predominantly Afro-Caribbean/Chinese descent. Despite herself, Hershey found it a little incongruous - what with all the received-wisdom clichés of Brit-Cit being inhabited by pasty-faced, chinless, inbred Lords and Ladies, it was easy to forget that Brit-Cit was every bit as much of a mixed culture as
the Mega-City ever was, if not more so.

  "Wotcha," the woman said. "Detective Judge Treasure Steel, Brit-Cit Criminal Interrogations Division, Flying Squad, at your service."

  "I know," said Chief Judge Hershey. "We've met before."

  Indeed they had. Over a decade before, Chief Judge Hershey had been a Street Judge and Treasure Steel, a Brit-Cit Rookie, indentured to a certain Detective Judge Armitage for a year-long period of observation and evaluation, which she could have failed at a moment's notice at any time. Hershey had been ordered to Brit-Cit to locate and contain a rogue biological organism, which had originated in the Big Meg.

  The Rookie Treasure Steel - as she was then known - had been detailed to act merely as liaison, little more than a glorified chauffeur, ferrying Hershey around as the mission required.

  In fact, showing remarkable resource and acuity of mind even then, Steel had conducted an investigation into the matter on her own, and discovered that the "rogue" organism was in fact an engineered and prototypical bio-weapon. And that it had been engineered, at least in part, with Mega-City Justice Department funding.

  In short, it had not exactly been the Justice Department of Mega-City One's finest hour.

  "I remember," said Detective Judge Treasure Steel, as she was now known. "I told you to give me a call if you ever needed another hand."

  As a part of their final confrontation with the rogue bio-weapon, now mutated into a ganglionic mass of borrowed meat and ravenous mouths, Hershey had been incapacitated, leaving matters entirely in the hands of Treasure Steel.

  This was to some degree apposite, since Treasure Steel had used one of those hands to clutch a live grenade, jammed the resulting fist into the bio-organism's nearest maw, then used the other hand to slice off the first with a laser-cutter so as to fling herself away in time to avoid being blown to pieces in the resulting explosion.

  "The guys are insisting you get us some kind of water-proof umbilical..." Detective Judge Treasure Steel began, jerking a thumb in the direction of the Strat-Bat.

  Then she realised that Dredd was looking her with an expression (so far as his expression could be read behind his visor) of flat and furious repugnance. What was visible of his nostrils was flared with disgust.

  "What?" she said. "I'm not exactly fresh from the flight out, but you telling me I'm reeking or something?"

  "That jacket," said Dredd. "That isn't synthi-leather. That's genuine leather. Possession of unlicensed animal products is a violation carrying a mandatory sentence of..."

  "You haven't changed, have you, Dredd?" said Detective Judge Treasure Steel. "You probably don't remember me, but I remember you. I was there when you came over and met with my boss. On that thing which ended up involving this Drago San guy, as it happens. Armitage sends his love, by the way, and regrets he's too busy heading up the CID and kicking at the pricks to get away. That's pricks in the sense of what you get from the end of a sword, by the way. I know how you Mega-City types get about language."

  Treasure Steel grinned maliciously. "Actually, what he said was, in the note that came down from his office, 'Watch yourself over there, Steel. Those Mega-City tight-arses are just the sort of extremist gits who shoot you in the kneecaps for breathing in a funny way'. I've got it here, somewhere, if you want a look."

  It took all the diplomatic fibre of Dredd's being - admittedly, a slender thread at the best of times - not to actively snarl. That particular strain of Mega-City urban myth, it seemed, would never go away, and seemed to be constantly rearing up its head to bite him.

  "I have never," he said, "shot a man in the kneecaps, other than in the circumstances of hot pursuit, to prevent a perp from getting away. You'd prefer I shot them in the head, Steel?"

  "Yeah, whatever," said Detective Judge Treasure Steel dismissively. "Let's stick to the point, yeah? This jacket, here, has never been on an animal of any kind - but what's the point of molecular engineering bio-vats if they don't produce the real thing, with all the proper look and feel and smell?"

  Detective Judge Treasure Steel thoughtfully fingered the absolutely genuine leather that had never seen the back of an animal. "You're gonna have to get used to the fact that the rest of the world doesn't necessarily do things the same way as you Mega-City types, Dredd. You can take this jacket off me and burn it, but I warn you now, you'll be in for a one hell of a fight it you do. It has sentimental value. It was given to me by my wife."

  The Brit-Cit Detective Judge indicated the waiting Strat-Bat again. "Anyhow, back to the main point. The guys want some sort of waterproof umbilical up against the hatch. They're not coming out in all this rain."

  "Am I to understand that the Chief Judges of a major city-state are afraid of getting their feet wet?" growled Dredd. "That isn't a reasonable demand. That's sheer arrogance. The Brit-Cit Justice Department is trying to push us around, and have the eyes of the world see it pushing us around. No deal."

  "It's not a question of pushing anybody around." Detective Judge Treasure Steel seemed conciliatory now, if anything. "It's on strict medical grounds."

  She stuck a hand into the leather jacket and pulled out a slim data-pad. "Take a look at these bio-readouts and you'll see what I mean."

  Sela Defane thought of herself as one of the new breed of Psi-Judges, one of the Psi-Judges who was a direct product of and suited to the world as it was, here and now.

  Where the old guard had sold out and bought into the system lock, stock and Lawgiver - those who were actually allowed to have a Lawgiver - and where the idealists like Cassandra Anderson had been nearly driven mad when they found out how the system in fact operated, this new breed of psi just simply knew the score.

  In a city that compulsively exterminated mutants on sight, Sela knew, psionics were only alive in the first place because the Justice Department had a use for them. They were allowed to live because the mutation locked in their heads was useful and invisible to the naked eye.

  Maybe one in four million of the Mega-City population carried the psionic anomaly to any real extent, and with numbers this low, the policy was to locate anyone who possessed the trait. Bludgeon them into the Justice Department mould by any means possible and lop off the bits that didn't fit.

  Psi-Division so-called training involved a degree of neuro- and psychological and narco-conditioning that would make a modern-day Spanish Inquisition look sick, and stretched even the toughest cadets to the point where they might snap.

  It was a misconception that Psi-Judges - the ones who made it through training more or less intact - were given more rope than other Justice Department personnel. In the main, they were allowed no more leeway than the most ultra-disciplined of the Street Judges. It was not surprising, therefore, that within those limits they periodically went berserk.

  A high-profile, hologenic psi like Cassandra Anderson might be allowed to come and go as she wished, the lucky bitch, but Sela, like most of her kind, knew she walked on eggshells. She lived her life under constant supervision, the threat of prefrontal lobotomy or a lifetime of incarceration hanging over her head.

  So, she dealt with it. She did the job, got away with what she could and tried to bottle up the anger that constantly gnawed at her inside.

  In this, she was probably the worst person to be psychically examining the body of one Leon Gregor Sturlek.

  "We need a cold reading," the med-tech said. "Quick as you can, yeah?"

  He was obviously one of the low-level techs, unused in the usual course of events to entering the Psi-Division levels of the Hall of Justice and liaising with Psi-Judges themselves. Sela didn't even need to run a passive scan to know that he was creeped out by the simple fact of being here and thought of her as a drokking freak. He was masking his unease by trying to lord it over her and make her feel like she was nothing.

  Not for the first time, Sela wished she was one of those Psi-Judges, male or female, who actually looked good in uniform. One of those who wore said uniform a strategic size too small and had a bit of
trouble keeping the zipper all the way up - the female Psis who looked good in uniform, anyway. Those who could spend the day bending over a lot, and having the norm contingent of the supposedly celibate Justice Department personnel roster clenching their knuckles white, biting their lips and seriously doubting their vocation.

  Then, at least, she could have come on as the Vampire Bitch-queen or something, and could have had a bit of malicious fun scaring the stomm out of the little jerk.

  The problem was, Sela knew, she was too plump for that. And it was the sort of plumpness that sagged rather than the sort that, well, plumped.

  Plus she had really bad teeth. And incredibly bad skin, besides.

  "What am I supposed to be looking for?" she asked the tech.

  "Something about how his mind was restructured structurally," the med-tech said. "According to the guy who knows a bit about this stuff.

  He shrugged. "I don't know all the details. I offered to bring the body up because, you know, I was coming off shift anyway. I asked if you were free 'cause I think I saw you once in the communal canteen and remembered the name on your badge. You looked, you know, like someone it might be easy to talk to about stuff..."

  Sela tuned the jerk out. There was nothing she found more annoying than norms who seemed to keep trying to talk about the minutiae of their lives; like they were trying to rub in all the advantages they were given just through being norms, the privileges that were forever denied to her.

  Some Psi-Judges used little rituals when they did something active like a cold read, which was a process of plugging energy into a dead brain and re-firing the synapses so that an imprinted scan could be taken. It was like the way, she had read, that junkies and other drug users had made up whole stories about the things they used, and the way they used them, back in the old days.