The Final Cut Page 8

  Brett drops the bundle and grabs Martinez with both hands, bellowing into his face. "You set us up! You sold us out, drokker!"

  "Señor, I did nothing!"

  Jonny puts a gun to Martinez's head and blows his brains out. "We ain't got time for this, bro! We gotta go!"

  "Talón! Find Talón!"

  Lights appear on either side of the yacht, closing in through the mist; patrol boats are approaching. Mauser and Cavell stand at the stern and start firing with their shotguns at the vessels and seconds later, a cannon lets rip from the H-wagon and reduces the pair to bloody confetti. I see the skimmer that brought us here attempt to escape, but a laser arcs out of the sky and destroys it in an orange fireball.

  The ship plummets into chaos. The Banana City contingent are trying in vain to hold the Judges off, but they're picked off with ease. The Justice Department boats have now swung alongside the yacht, and helmets are boarding, mercilessly putting down any opposition. Strodem - showing a rare streak of character, or perhaps just wanting to go out in a blaze of glory - leaps at the nearest uniform and the two of them are hurled into the water, disappearing into its inky depths.

  Lying flat on the deck, bodies all around me, I see the bundle that Brett dropped and snag it. I stagger to my feet and try to discern where the brothers have gone, smoke now wafting in front of me as the vessel begins to burn. I see Talón and one of her right-hand men untying a skimmer from the ship while keeping the Danskys away at gunpoint.

  "You were followed, you idiots!" the woman spits. "You have brought the Judges down on us!"

  "It was your drokking middleman that screwed us over," Brett snarls. "Should never have trusted that spic bastard in the first place."

  "Puta!" Talón's goon swears violently and shoots Brett repeatedly in the chest, knocking the gun-runner back in a blizzard of crimson explosions. He slides against the outside cabin wall, leaving red streaks on the panelling. Jonny yelps in genuine grief, but before he can pull his own weapon there's a blur of movement and Hogg appears out of nowhere, throwing herself at the gunman, thrusting a blade through his neck. He gargles, feebly clutching at the knife, then collapses. Hogg realises for just one moment that there is someone behind her before Talón empties half a clip into the back of her head.

  Talón and Jonny stand off against each other, pistols raised. There are tears trickling down Dansky's face.

  "My brother... You'll die for that, drokker," he whines.

  "Come on then, Mega-City cretin," Talón sneers. "Take your best shot."

  Time for me to intervene, I think. I need Dansky alive. "I'm afraid I can't let you do that," I say, levelling my snubnose at the pair of them.

  "Trager?" Jonny glances at me quizzically.

  "Justice Department," I reply. "You're under arrest."

  For a second, they look like they don't believe me, then realisation hits. Talón screams and fires at me. I duck and roll, ears ringing as I hear the wood shattering behind me, then come up blasting, putting two slugs through her head, dead centre. My shooting range tutor would be proud.

  Even before she's hit the ground, I have to deal with Jonny. He pumps the trigger frenziedly, bullets flying wild, but I still catch one in the arm, spinning me around, dropping me to my knees, making me lose the snubnose. I yank the Roundlock free from my waistband, but take too long aiming. He kicks it from my hand, then punches me full in the face. I see stars as I lay on my back, looking up at him lining his gun up with my forehead.

  "Drokkin' snitch," he says.

  My hand finds the boot knife strapped to my leg and I tear it free, ramming it up into his groin. He screeches in pain, and I knock him over, disarming him before he can recover. I tug the blade free and he cups the ragged mess between his legs, whimpering.

  "Freeze!"

  I turn and see three Judges standing before me, Lawgivers trained. "Drop the weapon!"

  "Family man! Family man!" I yell, giving the recognised code word for an undercover officer. I drop the knife with a clatter, holding up my arms above my head. Behind me, I can hear Jonny moaning.

  "Stay down," one of the Judges says, slowly moving forward. "Play dead until this is over."

  I nod. Play dead? I can do that.

  FIVE

  High up in the Grand Hall of Justice, Chief Judge Hershey looked out of the window of her office at the panorama of Mega-City One spread out before her. It was sometimes difficult to believe that to all intents and purposes she was in charge of this chaotic sprawl, and that from the lowliest cleaning droid, sweeping the streets of City Bottom, all points of authority ultimately cascaded up to her. It was a dizzying thought that brought home to her just how much responsibility she wielded, and theoretically how impossible her job was.

  You couldn't control the Big Meg, no matter how much Justice Department told itself it did; it was merely a holding action, a juggling act. You stamped down on one section of the underworld, ten more sprang up in its place like some mythical, many-headed beast. The city would endure, the way it had always done, and the wheels of society would continue to turn, but in her low moments Hershey sometimes wondered if her position wasn't just a bit futile. She kept the cogs oiled so the whole machine was able to carry on trundling along, but did any decision she make truly change anything?

  Of course, times had changed and she wasn't the autocrat that other Chief Judges in the past had been. Mandates had to be passed by the Council of Five, and the heads of various departments all had their say in issuing directives. Ever since she'd assumed the office, she liked to think that she'd been an approachable leader - perhaps a little too approachable, she thought, thinking of the hours wasted listening to block committees and dignitaries haranguing her with petty complaints - and certainly her slightly liberal outlook did not go down well with some of the more hardline elements within the ranks.

  There was no doubt that some of those close to her were waiting for her to fail. They were just waiting for one of her initiatives that promoted an openness between Justice Department and the citizenry to explode spectacularly back in her face and so prompt a return to the good old-fashioned "back to basics" tactic of pummelling the poor saps into submission. She did sometimes question why she bothered offering the public a platform to voice their opinions, when half the time they clearly couldn't care less. Give them a chance to vote on something and they'd whinge that all the thinking was making their heads hurt. She guessed it came down to not wanting to spend her time shuffling papers and finding things to outlaw; she wanted to see the city develop, and for people to take charge of their own lives, rather than her - through the Judicial system - telling them how to do it.

  She wondered what Fargo would make of it all, whether he'd accuse her of living a fool's dream. She could imagine he'd certainly be astonished to see a woman of her age as Chief Judge. It wasn't bad, she had to admit. She was quietly proud of being only the second female to hold the position, and she was most definitely the youngest. Ten years ago, she'd been a regular street Judge, with no designs on rapid promotion, and now she was at the top of an incredibly complicated chain of command. The route that had taken her there was an eventful one.

  She supposed she'd always been a good organiser and took well to ordering others about, and it was in the vacuum that followed the Second Robot War and Volt's suicide that the opportunity had presented itself. Few others were prepared to contest her, and given the fate of her predecessors, it was perhaps not surprising. It was not a secret that your life expectancy dramatically shortened the moment you donned the robes of office. Goodman was assassinated, Griffin shot as a traitor, McGruder went insane before checking out in the line of fire, Silver was murdered at the hands of Judge Death, and Volt went down with a self-inflicted bullet through the brain. Hershey sometimes wondered if she wasn't safer back on the streets.

  Indeed, she'd be lying if she said she didn't miss being back out there on her Lawmaster, enforcing the Law. Standing at the window, watching from a distance as the tiny tru
cks sped along the multi-lane meg-ways below her like lines of insects following intricate paths, she felt very marginalised from the hub of the city. It was perhaps her biggest sacrifice upon becoming Chief Judge; that she wouldn't get to experience again the rush of adrenalin as she busted a sugar deal or pursued a tap gang. While she was up here worrying about making a difference, at least down on the street you had solid evidence of the fact; a couple of dead perps at your feet spoke volumes.

  There was a knock at the door. She hadn't been looking forward to this meeting. It was not that she disliked her visitor's company, far from it, but she could see it turning into a confrontation. He wasn't somebody easily assuaged, and despite her authority she couldn't help but feel intimidated in his presence. She'd served under him many times before, respecting his forthright adherence to the Law, but now the tables were turned in their relationship despite him being a good twenty years older than her, and this made her feel a touch uncomfortable, as if she could always sense his unspoken disapproval. Still, she reasoned, it wasn't as if he hadn't been offered the position in the past. It was clear that he was only content to be at the frontline in the war against crime, receiving and acting upon instructions from HQ.

  "Come in," she said.

  Dredd opened the door and strode into the office. "You wanted to see me, Chief Judge?"

  Hershey clasped her hands behind her back and walked away from the window to stand beside her desk. "Yes, this won't take a moment, Dredd." She looked at him, unblinking, but merely saw her reflection in the mirrored visor of his helmet. "I thought you should know I've just had an irate call from Councillor Matheson Peat, complaining about your handling of the Vanessa Indigo affair."

  "I expected he would. He's not usually stuck for words."

  "He claimed you unnecessarily put lives at risk. He also says you later harassed him at his apartment."

  "I went round there to inform him of developments in the Liz Short body dump case. I thought that he might be interested to know that over a dozen mutilated corpses had been found beneath one of his buildings. Evidently, all he's concerned about is what the papers are going say tomorrow."

  Hershey snorted in agreement. "Peat's an idiot, there's no question of that. He's also extremely influential, unfortunately. He could make life difficult for us if he starts publicly badmouthing Justice Department."

  "Drokk 'em. What's the worst that happens? You don't get invited to a few functions."

  Hershey sighed inwardly. Diplomacy was never Dredd's strong point. He didn't understand the subtle balancing act she had to perform to keep the city ticking over: the captains of industry and media moguls she had to pacify; the foreign ambassadors she had to meet and greet with an eye for overseas trade; dealing with the offworld contingents visiting Earth for the first time. Mega-City One couldn't afford to conduct itself unilaterally these days, despite a history of going it alone. It paid not to burn bridges because you never knew when you'd require allies.

  "Even so," she replied, "it might be prudent to play this one sensitively. It's attracted a lot of attention from a number of parties." She paused. "You know I've allowed Indigo and her entourage to return to Euro-Cit?"

  "So I heard. You want to tell me why?"

  Hershey chose her words carefully. "I've been under pressure from the Euro-Cit foreign affairs representative," she said. "You know what they think of her over there, she's a national treasure. If we didn't to let her go home, they would kick up a stink."

  "So what about the charges relating to her bodyguards' weaponry?" Dredd growled. "We're just going to forget about those too?"

  "Indigo claims no knowledge of what her minders were carrying. She's a certified neurotic drug addict, with a history of mental illness, so she probably didn't even know what day it was. Her manager, Lubular, says the bodyguards were vat-grown and hired by a cloning agency. He also didn't know anything about the guns."

  "He say that under lie detector?"

  Hershey shook her head. "It doesn't matter, Dredd. With the Euro-creeps making a fuss and threatening to turn this into a diplomatic incident, it's easier all round if we just let them go."

  "Seems to me this sets a dangerous precedent. Just shows what you can get away with if you've got enough money and the right connections."

  "That's showbiz," Hershey replied, immediately regretting attempting to joke in Dredd's presence. His stony-faced countenance didn't quiver.

  "I thought if you committed a crime in this city, you paid the full price of the Law, no matter who you were."

  "It's not always that black and white, Dredd," Hershey said wearily. "I've got to think of the big picture, especially if Mega-City One's relationship with the rest of the world is at stake."

  Dredd was silent for a moment. "This complaint of Peat's, it gonna go anywhere?"

  "Grud, no. Far as I can see, you acted responsibly and did what was expected of you. I just thought you should know there might be some flak coming your way over the next few days. But the councillor will calm down eventually."

  "I'm not so sure."

  "Trust me, I'll keep him and his cronies sweet," Hershey assured him, smiling. "Indigo's would-be assassin, did you get any ID off him?"

  "Some creep called Norris Bimsley. One previous conviction for shouting in a built-up area, otherwise utterly unremarkable. Uniforms that checked out his apartment in Jack Yeovil found a shrine devoted to her. Guess he must've just flipped when he heard she was coming to town."

  "Who'd be a celebrity, eh?" Hershey remarked, raising one eyebrow, aware that even Dredd himself had a dedicated fanbase, hard as that was to believe.

  The senior Judge didn't respond, and the brief silence was broken by the buzz of the intercom. Hershey went behind her desk and flicked the switch.

  "Yes?"

  "Sorry to disturb you, ma'am. Garrison in the med-bay was asking if Dredd could stop by after he'd finished his meeting with you."

  "OK, thanks." Hershey turned to Dredd. "Seems you're wanted. This is the Liz Short case, right?"

  Dredd nodded. "About time we started getting some leads. Been a dead-end so far."

  "Keep me informed of any developments," Hershey said, motioning that he could go. "Oh, and Joe," she added when he was halfway across the room, "appreciate you dropping by."

  "No problem," he replied, already out the door.

  Dredd rode the el' down to the med-labs on the lower levels of the Grand Hall of Justice, thinking over what Hershey had said. It infuriated him that creeps with influence could evade the full weight of the Law simply by pulling in a few favours from their pals in high office, and he was surprised that the Chief Judge was prepared to get entangled in that web of self-motivation and mutual back-scratching. She was certainly a different woman to the young Judge that accompanied him on the Owen Krysler quest. It obviously hadn't taken long before the pressures of the position had started rubbing away at the strict values she'd once held, turning her into much more of a political animal. He supposed he had to see it from her point of view as well; if you didn't want the Big Meg vilified by every nation-state on the globe, you had to make some compromises.

  That was probably one of the reasons why he hadn't accepted the promotion - his temperament was not best suited to entertaining the morons that circulated at that kind of level. As far as he was concerned, it didn't matter if you were a two-bit Umpty-bagger or a member of royalty. If you broke the Law, you did time.

  The el reached the intended floor and he strode into a white corridor, the large windows set into the walls showing suited technicians working at computers or over corpse-strewn tables. A few droids moved from slab to slab, bone-saws whirring or pushing trolleys containing bodybags.

  Here in the med-bays, the Judges performed autopsies, identified the John or Jane Does that regularly turned up after another night in the city, conducted forensic tests on murder weapons or crime scene evidence, and patched up those that had been injured in the course of duty. The area smelled chemically cli
nical, and Dredd's boots squeaked as he walked across the spotless floor, searching for Garrison. He spotted her sitting in front of a screen, tapping into a keyboard. Behind her, the blackened bones that had been pulled out of the Elizabeth Short chem-pit lay across several workspaces, tagged and bagged.

  "Garrison."

  She spun in her chair and smiled when she saw Dredd. "Got a match on that earring," she said triumphantly. "We were right, the titanium has been mixed with polymers outside the city. There's a substance called clarrissium present, which originates only from the Pan-African States. The Africans use it for construction purposes because it's extremely heat-resistant."

  "So the victim came from Pan-Africa?"

  "Almost certainly. No jewellery like this is imported, though we can't vouch for those sent as gifts, of course. I've checked with Immigration and got them to send me a list of all those that have come into Mega-City One from Africa over the last five years." She produced a printout with a stream of names copied across it. "Some of these have since returned, so they can be discounted, as can obviously the men. That leaves two hundred and fifteen women. Narrowing those down to our victim's age, we're left with thirty-two."

  Dredd could feel Garrison building to something.

  "I cross-referenced those names with the Missing Persons register and got three hits," she continued. "A quick DNA match with Skully here," she patted the skull the earring had come from, sitting beside her desk in its transparent plastic covering, "and we got a name at last: Emmylou Engels."

  "You're sure about the match?"

  "Yep. She'd been given a medical examination upon entering the city, and Immigration took a blood sample, logging her DNA onto the database. No question, that's her."

  "What about the other bodies?" he asked, gesturing to the array of bones.