A/n : Detailed author's notes for this story appear at the end of each chapter. General notes about my "Dredd" fanon setting (and links to inspiration pictures etc.) appear on my profile.
This story takes place about five months after "Aegis", the day after "Flash the Bronze" (mid to late August). It follows on from the events in those stories, so it might not make sense without having read them. This story was written both to explain things in my fandom (and engage in some fun character- and world-building), but also to "bridge the gap" between the very serious movie-verse and the (often) much more silly and lighthearted comic-verse. This story starts quite serious but, as it moves along, becomes sillier and more satirical (and, more action-packed).
If you enjoyed this story (and even if you didn't) please review – even if it is just a "good fic / bad fic" review (although more detail is nice). Without reviews, I don't know if I am writing things people want to read, or what needs to be changed or have more of / less of for future stories.
I have a very simple rule – if you leave a review for me, I will leave a review for you. I don't care what sort of stories you write, or even if I am familiar with the fandom – I will leave a review.
Highway Don't Care
Prog 1 : Hawkridge
Highway 70 runs – a thick, black, multileveled asphalt nerve – through the heart of the creature that is Mega City One. Its course is almost, but not-quite, straight – running west-by-north-west from old Baltimore on the oil-smirched shores of the Cheaply-Speak Bay all the way to the Pittsburgh Gate, its first fifty-or-so miles skirting the northern edge of the capital zone. The two-hundred and fifty mile journey is not the longest between two points in Mega City One – that honor would go to the distance between old Boston north of Rad Island and Raleigh-Durham on the southern border, with Union City just inside the Radhattan boundary wall to the Pittsburgh Gate being the latitude where the city was widest east-west – but it was the longest possible without having to leave the highways or even switch from one to another.
Very few people made the whole journey, of course – and even fewer in a single sitting. There was no call for the average citizen to travel so far – most, if the truth be told, did not even leave their blocks, let alone journey through a dozen sectors from one side of the city to the other – and, if there was need, it was likely they would pull off the highway; pausing at rest-stops, getting out to stretch their legs or grab a bite to eat, attending to calls of nature, or simply taking a moment to be a tourist and see the various sights and sounds of the city the highway traveled past and through.
Highway 70 was a vital thoroughfare in the city, connecting densely-populated areas with each other and deeply-linked into the rest of the road grid. The asphalt was thick with cars, trucks, and bikes – piloted by citizens or with their systems linked into the central AutoDrive database, turning onto the highway, peeling off it, driving for a mile or twenty along the outer lanes, leaving the central, elevated, express lane with its minimal exits all-but-empty for the most part.
At the maximum safe-and-permitted (non-emergency, non-pursuit, express highways only) speed of a lawmaster bike the journey from old Baltimore to the Pittsburgh Gate took two hours. Judge John Cornelius entered the express lane of the highway at junction 1 and immediately accelerated to 125 mph, leaning forward so his helmet and shoulders fitted into the slipstream of the bike's fairing and reduced both the drag and the amount of road-dust plastering his face. It was oh-nine-thirty hours – more than enough time to get to the Pittsburgh Gate by his self-imposed deadline of noon.
There were few cars on the express lane, most of the vehicles piloted by AutoDrive, keeping to a precise and unvarying speed on the straight, smooth, flat road. Cornelius concentrated on driving; even with the lawmaster's built-in safety features – ABS, terrain-sensitive tires, traction control, radar and GPS uplinks, even lifesign- and bio-reading software to wake him if he started to doze off – a buck-and-a-quarter of speed wasn't something to be taken lightly. There was something almost hypnotic about the black tarmac eaten up beneath the wheels, the white lane markings flicking by at stroboscopic speeds, the regular appearance every two-hundred-and-eighty-eight seconds of the ten-mile exits, the distractions of the mega-structures whipping past as sector after sector was passed through as only variations in the blur.
Two hours later, his hands cramped on the handlebars, his face thick with dust, the base of his spine aching, he glanced in his mirror and changed lane, peeling off the express lane and spiraling down the exit ramp towards the Pittsburgh Gate waystation. Thanks to the height of the elevated highway and his visor's vision enhancement he could see the details of the boundary wall clearly – it was a massive structure, impressive even by the standards of Mega City One. Hundreds of feet high, thicker at the base, the parapet at the top wide enough for a two-lane road on which Judges and sentry auxiliaries patrolled on lawmasters and lesser bikes. The wall was buttressed on the inside – outside, the not-infrequent storms which tore the cracked rad desert into howling dust would pile great drifts of radioactive sand against the walls if there were anything to trap them.
The Pittsburgh Gate itself was not a simple portal; there was a monstrous armored door which could accommodate two or more of the largest vehicles imaginable abreast, flanked by two huge pyramidal towers built of steel-clad reenforced concrete topped with enormous weapon installations. Two single-lane tunnels – one for entry, one for egress – penetrated the base of each tower, wide and tall enough to allow a truck, tanker or APC through without difficulty. A trench with a retractable bridge, hydraulic blastdoors and a last-ditch deadfall portcullis protected each end of the tunnels, and Cornelius knew explosives were embedded in key structural members inside the towers, ready to collapse the tunnels at a moment's notice.
The waystation was a large plaza of blacktop asphalt, fueling stations to one side, a bank of automat vending machines on the other, selling everything from hot drinks to K-rations to underwear. White lines and LED notices directed vehicles towards a row of booths between the plaza and the gate itself – monominded robots ran the booths, with sentry auxiliaries ready to step in should it be needed. Beyond the booths, in front of the gate itself, a bridge to nowhere straddled the highway – a curved ramp on either side leading up to a railed observation deck. Up there, sitting astride an idling lawmaster, a cloaked Judge silently observed – watching nothing, seeing everything.
Cornelius eased his lawmaster to a stop at a refueling station. "What will it be, Sir?" the dedicated robot buzzed. "How about this weather, eh?" The question was a pre-programmed gambit – the machine only understood temperature to more accurately dispense fuel and air pressure in tires. It would use a series of stock phrases in response to anything, producing a reasonable facsimile of a distracted conversation between a gas station attendant and a weary motorist.
"Fill her up and give her the once over," said Cornelius, holding his hand in front of the scanner so the authorization in his gauntlet could be read. Although the robot was not humanoid – it was a multi-limbed model, built into the fuel pump itself – the scanner module was fashioned something like a face; two visual sensors above a speaker, dished microphones on either side of the swiveling 'head'.
The robot turned to 'face' him, clicking and whirring for a few seconds, communicating with the Hall of Justice and verifying his authorization. "Judge Cornelius, John R," it said. "Pee. Ess. Eye. Division," it continued in a disjointed tone. Cornelius started and turned to it with his brows drawing together in puzzlement – he'd got so used to hearing the fuel-'bots say 'Sector One-Nineteen' his new assignment came as a surprise, as did the fact the robotics programmers hadn't got around to teaching the machines to say rather than spell the word.
"It's 'psi'," he said, uselessly.
"Not bad for this time of year," the robot responded. Cornelius suppressed the urge to kick it sharply, instead stepping to the side as its flexible arms reached out, lifting the fairing of his bike, checking spark plugs and fluid levels, and attaching a hose to pump fuel into the tank. The robot worked for a less than a minute, and then its arms retracted and its 'head' turned towards him. "All good, Judge," it buzzed. "Think it might rain later?"
Cornelius ignored it, swinging himself back into the saddle and driving towards the border-control booths. In what might be considered an ironic twist by someone who hadn't thought it through, greater scrutiny was brought to bear on Judges leaving the city than citizens – but it made perfect sense. Mega City One was not – despite the all-enclosing wall, panopticon surveillance and the omnipresent Judges-as-guards – a prison; the people were free to go and (even, with certain restrictions) come as they pleased. Citizens left the city – both temporarily and permanently – for many reasons, and not infrequently. Caravans striking out to make a new life in the Cursed Earth were, while not common, not an unheard of sight.
But the authority of the Judges ended – officially, at least – at the boundary wall, with the exception of a few extra-territorial possessions such as Big Tri. A Judge's place was within the walls; policing, protecting, serving, judging the citizens of Mega City One. For him to leave the city was a serious matter, requiring not only a solid reason but authorization at multiple levels.
Cornelius had all that, of course – he lifted his gauntlet to the robot as its scanners swept him and his bike. In the same voice as the fueling robot – doubtless they used the same voice module; a standard, mass-produced, off-the-rack component – it said his name and, once again, spelled out his assignment. "Pass to Big Tri okay-okay. Report to Gatewarden for briefing." Cornelius lowered his wrist and grasped the handlebars again, lifting his foot off the ground to drive away, only to stop and look at the machine with disbelief when it buzzed, "Have a nice day, Judge."
"Thanks," muttered Cornelius without conviction as he pulled away, easing his bike towards the observation deck and driving gingerly up the sloping ramp. The figure astride the lawmaster – the Gatewarden, the senior Judge in charge of the Pittsburgh Gate – did not turn as he approached. He stopped his own bike a respectful distance away and dismounted, turning off the engine and flicking down the kickstand. It was a courteous gesture – protocol dictated the Gatewarden brief him on the limits of his authority beyond the city, what he could and could not do, what J-Dept would and would not do for him out there. Most of the time, Street Judges remained seated on their bikes, engines still running, enduring the briefing – a briefing that was rushed and perfunctory – with undisguised annoyance. He took off his helmet and held it under his left arm, extending his right hand. "John Cornelius, Sector One . . ." he began, and then checked himself with a self-deprecating laugh. "Sorry – Psi Division," he corrected.
The Judge was wearing a long cloak over street fatigues and armor as protection against the scouring wind and dust from the Cursed Earth. It was gleaming justice-blue, the hems overlapping on the right side, a massive gilded-bronze eagle similar to that of Class I Dress on the shoulder. The helmet was a full-face model, the cylinders of bulky filters jutting either side of a snout-nosed respirator. The featureless visage turned towards him. "Hello, JC," the Judge said. The voice was muffled badly by the mask, but he thought he recognized it – certainly, he should recognize the voice of anyone using his old Academy nickname!
"Kris?" he asked, uncertainly. His face and eyes were screwed up against the wind, sand being driven into his teeth as he spoke. "That you under there?" A laugh came from behind the mask – a laugh he did not recognize and could not interpret, thanks to both the muffling respirator and the fact he had not, now he thought about it, really ever heard Kris laugh before. "Oh, come on!" he exclaimed. "A minute breathing this spug won't kill you – uncover, for Grud's sake, and put me out of my misery!"
With a short, economical movement, the Judge flicked the cloak over her shoulders and reached up to take the mask off. For the second time in as many days, Cornelius was treated to the cliched reveal of beautiful Judge's face as she removed her helmet and shook her blonde hair out. "You didn't recognize me?" Crystal Hawkridge asked. She did not sound petulant or mocking – there was a touch of genuine hurt in her voice. "I know we weren't tight at the Academy, but . . ."
Cornelius had the good grace to blush – both in shame at not having recognized her, but also as embarrassing memories came flooding back. It was certainly true he and Hawkridge hadn't been particularly close friends at the Academy, but that had not been for want of him trying for at least two particular semesters.
Crystal Hawkridge had been – and still was, if he was honest – the most mechanically beautiful woman he had ever met or even seen. She was a tall, shapely blonde; long-limbed and cleanly muscled, with relatively broad shoulders, comfortably wide hips and an athletically-narrow waist with delectable hard-soft abs. Her face was exquisite – pitch-perfect symmetry framing sapphire-blue eyes and a flawless cupid's-bow mouth. Even now, after being compressed in a helmet, it only took a single shake of her head for her hair to fall back into its chin-length banged bell, the tapered ends curling into her jawline. Despite himself, he felt his heart thump once, twice; heavy and hollow and empty in his chest.
Hawkridge and Cornelius had been part of the same induction at the Academy, and they should have shared more classes than they did. But, as fate (or perhaps luck, Cornelius reflected as he remembered just how doe-eyed and foolish he'd been over her just a few years ago) would have it, they'd been assigned to separate, parallel streams for almost everything. They'd shared the same free periods and not-a-few friends, but beyond that had little contact. That had not stopped Cornelius from developing a hopeless crush on her – or, perhaps, had even contributed to it. Without any real interaction he'd been able to project some idealized notion of womanhood onto her, subconsciously convincing himself he should love her chastely from afar as relationship, marriage and consummation were impossible because of both of their betrothals and impending marriages to The Law. Declining grades, bad poetry slipped into her locker, and a lot of reading of Le Morte d'Arthur had followed.
The Academy's shrink had assured him it was natural, nothing to be concerned about, and even expected and planned for within the Academy's psychological programs. He'd nevertheless urged Cornelius to speak to a tutor he trusted, and he'd willingly gone to Novak. She – his long-time confidant – had been unabashedly direct. "So help me Grud, Cornelius," she'd snapped, "I'm going to ban you from reading all that drokking Malory spug. You're not Lancelot, this is the Academy of Law not Camelot, and she's no princess. You barely know her – honestly, if you did, I don't think you'd like her. Get your head out of fairytales and back into the textbooks. You're not so good I can't kick your ass, and don't think I won't." Knowing the power of both Novak's logic and her left hook, he'd done as she advised.
Cornelius wasn't even sure if Hawkridge had known of his . . . whatever it was (he still didn't really have a name for it) for her; he'd not signed the poems (although there had been clues enough within them to guess) and he'd never expressed his feelings to her. Maybe mutual friends had mentioned it – if so, she'd not said anything to him on the infrequent occasions they spoke. Perhaps she'd thought it best to just let it go – she had not, of course, been unused to male Cadets crushing on her. As they entered the last few years of the Academy, they'd had less and less interaction as he spent a lot of his free-time tutoring the younger Cadets and she started to take more and more SJS-friendly electives. It had been an open secret Rawne had been grooming her to enter IA when she graduated.
All of this went through Cornelius' mind as she smiled nervously at him. "I'm sorry, Kris," he said, "I just didn't expect to see you here." He immediately regretted his choice of words – wall duty wasn't a plum assignment, although Pittsburgh Gatewarden was a surprisingly senior position for someone only five-months out of the Academy. At least he hadn't mentioned her expected position in SJS. "It's good to see you – how've you been?"
Her smile broadened – she seemed genuinely excited to see a friendly face, someone she knew, someone with the dust of the street on his uniform and blood on his daystick. "Good, good," she said a little too-brightly. She immediately shifted the conversation to him. "How about you?" she asked. "I heard you got Dredd as your assessor? How'd that go?"
Cornelius shrugged. "I passed," he said with a grin. "He's a really good Judge – learned a lot from him. You?"
"Gibson," she said shortly. She looked down at the screen on her bike – glancing surreptitiously, he could see it showed the all-access portions of his file. She scrolled quickly through. "Level seven?" she asked, amazed. "And what's P.S.I. Division? Weren't you in sector one-nineteen?"
He smiled, but there was a careful thinness to it. "It's psi," he said. "You been following my career, Kris?" he asked softly.
She laughed, pointing at the screen. "It's all right here, JC," she told him. He found he didn't like her laugh – she'd smiled often at the Academy, but laughter had been rare. "Executive officer of HULA Aegis?" she asked. "What's a HULA? What's Aegis?"
"Do we really want to talk about our assignments?" Cornelius asked rhetorically. He didn't give her an opportunity to answer. "I thought you were going for SJS," he said. "What are you doing on the wall?" Her blue eyes narrowed and ice gathered in their corners. Cornelius was struck, once again, by her mechanical perfection – she could have, without a single piece of biosculpting, held her own against the most superb of Mega City One's supermodels, even given the computer-generated SimOnes a run for their credits. She was suddenly frosty and distant, her eyes cold and her straw-blonde hair tart as a lemon. Unbidden, the gasoline-fire blue of Anderson's eyes, the richness of her thick, unruly hair and the tumbling, muscular rainstorm of her laugh stole into his mind and he realized he was totally over Crystal Hawkridge.
What he might have realized or not about Cassandra Anderson was a different matter.
Hawkridge shrugged. "Tutor Rawne was my ticket to the fast-track," she said, a little bitterly. "So, if I want SJS – and I'm not really sure I do, anymore," she added, a little too-casually, "I have to do it the regular way. They want to see broad experience – the more divisions the better."
Cornelius nodded. "Pittsburgh Gatewarden's a good position," he said encouragingly. "You should be proud." She shrugged.
"My luck, I guess," she said. "Position opened up, I volunteered; the previous Gatewarden's doing time in Aspen – rumor is it was the same investigation that got Rawne killed." She enveloped Cornelius in her cold stare. "You heard anything on the powdervine about how Rawne died?"
He shook his head. "No," he truthed with extreme precision. "You?"
She shrugged. "Rumor says it was a Judge – blew him up with a grenade."
Cornelius nodded judiciously – just how much did she really know? "Dirty?" he asked.
She looked at him like he was stupid. "Why else would Rawne be investigating him?" she asked.
Cornelius gave a one-shouldered shrug. "I guess," he admitted. "I'm sorry; I know you two were close."
She furrowed her brow. "Not particularly," she said. "I mean, he was helping me but . . ." Her voice trailed off as he pointed at her boot where the skull-pomelled dagger was sheathed.
"Isn't that his bootknife?" he asked. The bequest of personal weapons was not uncommon among Judges – with the exception of lawgivers, of course – and it seemed perfectly reasonable Rawne's protege would have ended up with his blade. Hawkridge nodded, smiled.
"Yes, yes it is," she said easily. She drew her foot back, behind the curtain of the hem of her cloak. "I guess he was . . ." Her words fumbled to silence. "I should probably stop carrying it," she opined. "If I'm not considering the SJS, I mean," she explained. "It might give the wrong impression."
Cornelius shrugged. "Nothing wrong with having aspirations, Kris," he told her. "And no harm in remembering a friend – heck, I'd carry Novak's daystick if anything happened to her."
Hawkridge laughed – he still didn't care for it. "They'll encase that in boing and put it in the Hall of Heroes," she joked. Cornelius grinned.
"True enough," he admitted. He glanced at his chronometer. "I'd love to stay and chat," he said, "but I've got to bounce – I need to make Big Tri by this evening." Hawkridge nodded and keyed a couple of buttons on her bike's screen.
"You should be fine," she said. "Weather report is clear – no major storms predicted, radiation level is medium. Your authorization for Big Tri via the Toledo Highway is good." She glanced up and allowed herself a very small, yet slightly bitter and fragile, smile. "Although with level seven you could have signed this yourself," she said. He shrugged with embarrassed modesty. "Alright, the questions I have to ask; have you taken your rad-binders, following the dosing instructions for mass and body fat percentage?"
He nodded. "I have."
She glanced up at him, running her expert glance over him, her eyes cool with professional appraisal. "With your muscle density," she said, "I would advise a sonic massage to cleanse any lingering radiation toxicity when you reach Big Tri. It doesn't leave lean tissue as easily as it does lipids; don't want it depositing out in your bloodstream or bone marrow." He smiled his thanks as she continued. "You are aware that while the road is Mega City One territory and you are required to uphold your judicial oath while on it – and that violations of the oath, The Law, or failure to abide by or uphold same may result in Special Judicial Service investigation – the Justice Department cannot and will not guarantee back up, assistance or projection to anyone – Judge, citizen or alien – on the highway?" Cornelius smirked at the long-winded legal precision.
"I have been so advised," he said. "What's the practical skinny on that?"
She shrugged. "Practical skinny is you're on your own out there," she said, "use your own judgment. It's pretty much a temporary Long Walk – enforce what you want, ignore what you need. SJS is less interested in seeing you in Aspen than they are not seeing you in resyk. Officially, judicial authority and responsibility extend to the road and not beyond – but, unofficially . . ." Her voice trailed off, as if to avoid saying something she shouldn't. He nodded.
"Gotcha," he said. "Any action I should know about?"
Hawkridge shook her head. "Nothing in particular J-Dept is aware of," she said, "but you're the first Judge to take the highway for a couple of months – I'd speak to a caravan guard if I were you."
"I was about to ask about that," Cornelius said. "I'd like to ride in convoy if I can – strength in numbers and all that, help protect some trade, you know?" Her sensual lips twisted into an amused holly leaf.
"That's why you're driving, not flying, isn't it?" she asked with a grin. "Level seven could have got you a zonejumper – but you thought it was your duty to play outrider?" He didn't answer, simply looking at her levelly. She shook her head. "Good old JC," she chuckled, "always the boy-scout."
"Flash the bronze," he said tightly.
His idealism and seriousness embarrassed her despite herself. "Hell," she admitted, "I shouldn't mock. If more Judges were like you we'd need less of us. You're a credit to the Street, JC," she said sincerely.
Something about the way she said it caught Cornelius' ear. "'Us'?" he asked.
"Judges," she said shortly, with a slightly sickly smile. "If more were better, we'd need fewer, you know?" She turned in the saddle and pointed. "The beige eighteen-wheeler with the red stripe?" she said. She looked down at her screen and tabbed a couple of controls. "That's a Bethlehem Plasteen transport bound for Big Tri, scheduled to leave at noon. It's not a caravan, just a single truck, but there are two outriders with it. Mercs, not corporate solos – you don't mind muties, do you?" she asked carefully. "You see a lot of them on the wall – they aren't allowed in the city unrestricted, of course, but out here . . ." Her voice trailed off once again; probably for the same reason.
Cornelius gave a humorless smile. "Not at all," he assured her. "Some of my best friends are divergent." Hawkridge laughed – now, it was truly unwelcome.
"Very politically correct, JC," she said, "but the highway don't care about your politeness; on the wall and beyond that ain't the word." She pointed. "Girl with the purple hair by the big bike – she's a stront, name's Harley. Got a good rep, no priors, no warrants, knows the terrain better than anyone." Hawkridge gave a suggestive smile. "Rumor is she likes her guys meaty – go turn on the charm and you'll have her eating out of your hand."
Cornelius just glared at her – what kind of drokking game was she playing? "Is it just that she's a mutie," he asked acidly, "or is there some other reason you think she's a slut?" The implied insult of him didn't even rise to the level of acknowledgment.
Hawkridge looked at him with incurious puzzlement. "She's female," she said blandly, "and she ain't blind." She shrugged. "I'm just trying to give you some leverage – you don't want to shake what Grud gave you? Be my guest; stick your helmet back on and go flash the bronze," she said dismissively. "See how far it gets you with a divergence."
Cornelius looked at her for a long second, and then nodded, turning to walk back to his bike. "Thank you, Gatewarden," he said shortly, mounting up and firing the engine.
Regret flared in her, coupled with lack of understanding – really, what had she said? Stronts frakked like rad-rabbits – everyone knew that – and a womutie like Harley wouldn't be above doing the nasty to get what she wanted. Cornelius had to believe that. "JC!" she called after him. "Wait . . . !"
Her voice was drowned out by the noise of the bike, Cornelius flashing her a cursory salute as he peeled off the ramp, driving towards the staging area and the big beige rig with the red stripe. She snorted and shook her head, sliding her helmet back on and drawing the cloak around her body once more. Level seven and a divisional appointment? She guessed it was easy to get that if you were prepared to spout the words the desk-jockeys in CapZone expected you to. "Less flashing the bronze and more polishing it," she muttered derisively to herself.
It was a mark of just how suited she was for SJS that she almost believed it.
A /n : This is an odd story, in many ways. I am gradually establishing relationships, character interactions, and doing world-building in my "Dredd" fanon. This story is, in many ways, utterly superfluous to the overarching narrative of my stories – mostly, it introduces characters and engages in world-building; although there will be a central plot revelation which will prove semi-important later on (but not that important!)
Really, this story was just an excuse to write something I wanted to write . . . the entire plot ("Cornelius travels to Big Tri") could have been handled with a single line in another fic ("You got here then – excellent" or something like that!) But . . . I wanted to write the story . . . it allows me to explore the Cursed Earth, the boundary wall, even my notion of robots in "Dredd" (I am writing them less as sentient machines with personalities and more as dedicated computers which give the illusion of being able to engage in human interaction – although as the story progresses, you might see more 'personality' for machines; but this is likely an illusion caused by clever programming.)
Come on – you've read this far; might as well leave a review. The box is right underneath here – just type what you thought and submit it. Will take you a minute, tops.