The Cold Light of Day (2 page)

In the Academy, the cadets were trained to recognise people not just by their faces, but by their clothing, their footwear, their gait, the way their hair was parted, cut or shaved at the back of their head.

He quickly spotted the dunk again. The man was now running flat-out along the outer edge of the crowd, deftly weaving around the other citizens.

Dredd pounded after him, the soles of his department-issue boots slamming heavily onto the rockcrete, making that distinctive sound that informed the innocent that a Judge was approaching and they’d better get out of the way.

The dunk vaulted over a rail onto a quiet street—Dredd added jaywalking to the man’s growing list of crimes—and darted across to the opposite sidewalk, where he collided with a burly woman, knocking her into a store’s doorway.

As Dredd leapt over the rail, he pulled out his lawgiver and roared, “Heat-seeker!”

Immediately, the fleeing man threw himself face-down on the ground.

Well,
that
worked
, Dredd said to himself. It was something Rico had suggested back when they were cadets: “We spread the rumour that a heat-seeker can’t hit you if you’re lying flat on the ground—the perps’ll hit the deck if they think one’s coming.”

Dredd crossed the road and reached down to grab the would-be pickpocket by the arm, hauled him to his feet. The man was trembling, slick with sweat, the lower half of his face smeared with his own blood where his nose had scraped along the rockcrete.

“I didn’t do nothin’! Don’t shoot me!”

“Consider yourself lucky the heat-seeker missed,” Dredd said. “Instead of execution, you’re getting six years in the cubes. Two months for jaywalking, twenty months for assaulting that pedestrian, same again for fleeing, two years for intent to commit.”

“That...” The man looked up into Dredd’s visor. “But that’s only, uh, five years and six months! What about the other six months?”

Dredd pointed down at the man’s blood on the ground. “Littering. Six months.”

He cuffed the perp and dragged him to the nearest holding-post, then called it in to Control.

In the store’s doorway, he checked on the burly woman. “Are you hurt, citizen?”

She looks past Dredd toward the holding post. “Damn fool near kilt me! He oughta be locked up!”

“He will be. And I’ll remind you that interfering with a criminal awaiting pick-up will get you a mandatory five years.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “On your way.”

He crossed the street once more and returned to the look-out, who was standing exactly where Dredd had left him, trembling.

“I’m sorry, Judge! I swear. I’ll never do it again!”

“I believe you,” Dredd said.

“Then... Then I can go?”

“No. Intent to aid a perp in the commission of a crime. Two years. Plus another year for endangering the safety of a Mega-City One Judge.” Dredd spun the man about, grabbed his arms and slapped cuffs onto his wrists.

“
Endangering
...?” The perp craned his head to peer over his shoulder at Dredd. “This is bogus! How did I endanger you?”

“You informed a known criminal of my whereabouts.”

“But... But... No. No, that doesn’t make sense! You didn’t
know
he was a criminal then!”

“But
you
did. Want me to add failure to inform on a known criminal? That’s another two years.”

The man started to cry. “I’m sorry. Really, I’m sorry!”

“I know,” Dredd said. “I understand. You’ve learned your lesson?”

Still sobbing, the man nodded. “Yeah.” He sniffed. “So you’re not
really
arresting me?”

Dredd pushed the perp ahead of him. “What makes you think that? I just asked if you’ve learned your lesson.”

The speaker in Dredd’s helmet beeped: “Control to Dredd. Multiple homicide, two Judges dead. Funex Eaterie, Bevis Wetzel Plaza, sector sixty-three.”

“Sector sixty-three’s a thirty-minute ride from here, Control,” Dredd replied. “Maybe twice that with the crowds and the road-closures.”

“Your presence has been requested, Dredd. Immediately.”

Two

I
N
S
ECTOR
276, possibly the northernmost sector of Mega-City One—the claim was also made by the inhabitants of Sector 275, and was a constant source of tension between the neighbouring regions—Chief Judge Clarence Goodman mounted the steps leading to the podium suspended over the race’s start line.

Goodman was a large, barrel-chested man with a deeply-lined face and, in private, an often gruff, stern manner. In public he liked to present himself as “everyone’s favourite older uncle,” a term created by spin-doctors employed by Hollins Solomon, his predecessor. It hadn’t worked for Solomon, but then Solomon had been “a cold-hearted, weasel-faced, self-serving scumbag,” in the words of his own predecessor Eustace Fargo.

Now, as Goodman strode along the walkway toward the podium, he took his time. Off to one side, he saw himself on the fifty-metre-high holographic image projected onto the side of Ridley Scott Block.

A hundred news cameras were focussed on him; every move he made would be analysed at length over the coming days. “Goodman’s looking a little old” would be the most common observation. “See how he has to hold onto the rail? Seems unsure of himself.” There would, of course, be counter-views from his unflinching supporters: “The Chief Judge looked noble and resplendent in his garb of office as he surveyed the cheering crowd below, his ever-present smile the surest indicator of his love for this magnificent city and its loyal citizens.”

In truth, Goodman felt neither particularly unsure nor very noble. Announcing the start of the race was a job, same as any other. And the race itself was a distraction. Whether he liked it or not, he was patron to almost eight hundred million citizens, most of them unemployed and hungry for anything that might give meaning to their lives. The Mega-City 5000 would keep them occupied for a few days. With a bit of luck, someone new might win this year—that
would
give them something to talk about.

The race was open to anyone, as long as they got their applications in early and didn’t have a criminal record. It had grown from the MegNorth Sector Run, established in 2068. Back then, it had simply been a race from the west side of Sector 276 to the eastern border of Sector 275.

Twenty metres below the gantry, the bikers and their mechanics were dashing to and fro, conducting last-minute checks on their machines. This year, over a hundred of them had passed the tryouts. Today, eight unevenly-balanced teams and a handful of independents would race from north to south in a wide zig-zagging route chosen so as to cover as much of the city as possible—if only the more camera-friendly parts.

A new twist this year was a split in the route in Sector 235: the two branches of the fork were the same length—six-hundred and sixty-seven kilometres—but the right branch looped wildly and skirted close to some of the nicer-looking city-blocks in the hopes that potential overseas tourists might be tempted to change their opinions of the city, and the left branch traversed a string of elevated highways, rising and falling in what the organisers promised would be a majestic fashion.

The contenders were free to choose whichever route they preferred, and already this was the subject of much speculation among the commentators—and, Goodman was certain, the bookies.

Gambling on the Mega-City 5000 was illegal, of course, and as such was a great source of revenue for the Justice Department. Goodman’s accountants had run the figures. If betting on the race were legal, the Department could expect to recover slightly over a billion credits in taxes. But by prohibiting gambling, the Department could keep any and all funds seized by the Judges from back-room bookies. Already, over a hundred bookies had been marked for later investigation. The accountants estimated a haul of somewhere north of two and a half billion.

Below, the mechanics and support staff had vacated the starting grid, and now one hundred and eight bikers were mounted on their machines, engines humming, eager for the green light. The favourites were at the rear of the cluster, and by tradition they would take the first few hundred kilometres at an easy pace to give the newbies a chance. Not that it would make much difference in the long run: everyone knew that the winner would be either a Spacer or a Mutie. They had the best bikes and the most experience.

A voice in Goodman’s earpiece said, “Sir? Ready when you are.”

“Got it, thanks.”

He stepped up to the podium and put on his best “I’m-a-nice-guy-and-you-can’t-help-liking-me” smile. “Citizens of Mega-City One...” A deliberate four-second pause. “Welcome...” A two-second pause, then, louder, “To the Mega-City 5000!”

The roar of the crowd was almost deafening, and Goodman took a small step back, hamming up his reaction.

“We’ve got some fine racing ahead of us today, folks!” Goodman continued. “So enjoy the show, cheer for your favourites, and...
let the race begin!
”

Green lights flashed, a siren blared, and the air was filled with the screech of tyres and the cloying stink of burning synthetic rubber.

Goodman peered over the edge of the platform in time to see the participants slowly wending their way along the street, skirting around some poor unfortunate whose UniMagno’s only tyre chose the exact wrong moment to develop a puncture.

Fifteen hours to the finishing post
, Goodman said to himself. He knew that some of the Judges had their own wagers—cash free, he hoped—on the outcome. Not on the race itself, but on the number of citizens who’d die today. There was always at least one spugwit dumb enough to be dared by his pals to scale the barriers and dart across the track. Or a skysurfer trying to make a name for himself by buzzing the bikers. Or someone wearing a bat-glider who was under the impression that the minimum height restrictions only applied to
other
people. Or an idiot in a city-block who’d lean too far over the balcony rail to get a better view.

As he descended the steps, he reminded himself that people are, individually, fairly smart. Collectively, however, people are morons.
What was that equation again?
He asked himself.
The collective IQ of a crowd is the average IQ divided by the number of people present. Sounds about right.

Yes, some people would die directly because of the race, but on the other hand, the city was home to close to eight hundred million people... On the average day, three citizens would choke to death on the plastic toy in their morning cereal. It didn’t make one damn bit of difference
how
big the manufacturers made the animated “Choking Hazard!” warning on the box. There was always someone too utterly stupid to notice that their spoonful of small, light-brown Synthi-Flakes also contained a large pink plastic turtle.

In his years as a Judge, Goodman had seen some spectacularly stupid deaths, like the woman who starved to death after she locked herself inside her open-topped sports car, or the guy who was convinced that the “throwing the kids into the deep end of the pool in order to teach them to swim” method might just work for human flight.

As Goodman strode toward the waiting Justice Department H-wagon, a young reporter broke free of the press enclosure and darted toward him, recorder extended. “Chief Judge, Chief Judge! Dan Dandahn, Screaming Tweenie Weekly, Channel Minus-One—Do you have a few words for our viewers?”

Goodman stopped, and turned toward the camera floating a few centimetres above the reporter’s shoulder. “I do.”

“Great!” The reporter tapped the camera. Beneath its lens a small display showed the InstaFeedback approval rating: the number was climbing up from forty-one per cent. “Kids, I’m with Chief Judge Clarence Goodman! Chief Judge, what would you like to say to our viewers?”

The Chief Judge glowered into the camera’s lens. “Listen carefully, kids... We’re watching you. Break the law, and we’ll know about it even before you do.” He leaned closer and the reporter took a step back. “If you’re ever unsure whether what you’re about to do is illegal, ask yourself this: would I do it if there was a Judge standing next to me? If the answer is no, then
don’t do it
.”

The camera’s screen showed an approval rating of sixty-two per cent.
Not too shabby
, Goodman thought.

The reporter muttered, “Uh, thanks... Can I ask you what you think of the latest trends in—”

Goodman grinned at the camera. “Hey, kids. Here’s something else for you. I’ve not made an arrest since I became Chief Judge. You want to see me take down a perp?”

The approval rating shot up to eighty-four.

“Fantastic!” the reporter said, quickly looking around. “Who’s the lucky perp?”

Goodman grabbed the man’s shoulder. “You are. You climbed a Justice Department barrier when you left the press area. Barriers are there for a
reason
, creep. Five months in the cubes.” Goodman signalled to a street Judge, who rushed over, grabbed the reporter by the arm and started hauling him away.

“Incredible!” The reporter shouted. “Kids, this is Dan Dandahn reporting to you live from his own arrest by the Chief Judge himself! I can’t begin to tell you what an honour this is!”

Goodman took a last look at the camera before he boarded the H-wagon. The approval rating was now ninety-eight per cent.
I can live with that
, Goodman said to himself.

Three

S
EAMUS
“S
HOCK
” O’S
HAUGHNESSY
allowed most of the other bikers to pull ahead of him. Some of the first-timers shot out in a mad dash to take the early lead, but the seasoned riders held back. The Mega-City 5000 wasn’t about who’d started well, but who crossed the finish-line first.

Shock was leader of the Spacers, and it had been three years since a Spacer had won the race. Last year and the year before, the Mutants had taken first place. Shock was determined that was not going to happen again.

To his left, riding parallel and noticeably not paying him any attention, was his counterpart in the Mutants, Napoleon Neapolitan, last year’s winner. For months the media had been whipping up a storm about the rivalry between Shock and Napoleon, chiefly fuelled by the teams’ own publicity departments.