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", and the same evening as "Highway Don't Care". (mid to late August). It follows on from the events in those stories, so it might not make sense without having read them (the characters certainly won't!)

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.

Shakedown The Dream

"All men dream: but not equally. Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their minds wake in the day to find that it was vanity: but the dreamers of the day are dangerous men, for they may act their dreams with open eyes, to make it possible."

~ Col. T. ("Lawrence of Arabia")

Prog 1 : Dreams

You are about to wake when you dream you are dreaming.

The lawgiver kicked in her hands like the stand-ins had on the training range, the ejected brass sparkling in the harsh halogen streetlights. The ammo-read in her visor's HUD dropped by one and a kneeling perp dropped, too. He tumbled with a neat hole punched in the side of his head, hitting the asphalt loose-limbed, a marionette with cut strings. She spun, bringing her lawgiver up, the leather of her new uniform creaking, her gloves shiny and slick on the sandpaper-sharp diamond-cut grip-plates of the weapon. The helmet's unaccustomed weight brushed her collar and neck, her hair coiled and piled underneath it to cushion the top of her head.

Recent memories flooded through her – running from the safety of an aircraft's hold, crimson lights flashing, leaping from a ramp yawning over an ocean of gunfire and jammed cars. The wind whipping past her face, the singing-hiss of the arrestor cable running through the brakes of the rappelling harness. The weight of the longarm in her hands, the embrace of the armored uniform, the shock in her knees as her boots hit the asphalt.

She looked over iron sights at another perp swinging at her with a crowbar. Her shot went through empty space as he stumbled to the side. A widowmaker round had slammed into him, entering under his arm and exiting through the opposite clavicle. He flopped to the ground, dead before he hit.

"Clear!" called the Judge who'd fired.

"Cl . . . clear!" stuttered another.

The Judge with the widowmaker turned to look at her, his visor glittering, his scarred jaw and lips set. "Cadet?" he prompted in a voice she didn't know. "Cadet? Cadet Quartermain?"

"Cadet Quartermain!" Novak's voice and the sharp whack! as her daystick cracked into the brushed-steel surface of her desk woke her from her distracted divination.

"Clear!" she cried, blinking her green eyes at the unaccustomed brightness of the classroom. She shuddered a breath into her, feeling light and airy in the pale blue cadet jumpsuit, missing the weight of the armor web, her hands painfully sensitive out of gloves. Unbidden, her hand stole towards her uniform and she could not disguise the faint moan of disappointment as her questing fingers met nothing but soft cloth. No leather, no metal, nothing of her dream remained.

"You with us, Cadet?" asked Novak, her hands on her hips. Quartermain looked around the room, at her classmates eying her derisively and trying not to be too obvious about snickering. She swallowed her tears and nodded.

"Yes . . . yes, Ma'am," she said. "I'm sorry, Ma'am – I just . . ." Her voice trailed off.

Novak's stern face softened. "I know," she said. "Perhaps it would be appropriate for you to sit out if you're unwell . . ."

Quartermain's narrow jaw tightened. "I'm not sick, Ma'am!" she ground out through gritted teeth. "I'm just . . . different." Novak narrowed her blue-gray eyes to steely slits and Quartermain mastered herself with an effort. "Begging the Tutor's pardon, Ma'am," she apologized. She pushed her chair back and got up, standing at sharp attention. "With the Tutor's permission," she said, "I will sit this class out – I will visit your office later to organize a make-up period."

Novak looked at her for a second, and then turned to the rest of the class. "Pair off," she ordered, "by the numbers. Pistol disarms, go." She glanced at Quartermain and flicked her head, pointing with her daystick. "Let's step outside, Cadet," she said crisply.

One of Quartermain's classmates scoffed and jeered; Novak didn't even spare the glance beyond that necessary to keep her daystick on target. He crumpled to the ground with a gasping cry of pain. "Up and down the emergency stairwell," she ordered. "Foundation to roof and back. And I mean run." She stepped towards the door, pushing it open with her baton so Quartermain could walk ahead of her. "I understand you're not a volunteer, Cadet," she began gently as the door swung shut.

Quartermain knew where this was going – she didn't need to be a precog to manage that. "Ma'am, no!" she exclaimed, all-but-falling to her knees but still clutching her hands in front of her. "Ma'am, please – no. I want to be a Judge, Ma'am, I really do. It's . . ." Her voice faltered as she saw just how cliched what she was about to say sounded. She gathered her courage and straightened. "It's my dream, Ma'am," she said very quietly. "Don't take my dream away."

Novak considered. She shook her head. "I don't think the Academy environment is conducive to your training, Cadet," she said seriously. "Especially given your . . . gifts." She nodded and seemed to make up her mind. "I will speak with Principal Griffin and . . ."

"Ma'am, please!" Quartermain whined. "I know the Academy can't have J-Dept jeopardized by inefficiency . . . but, please?" she begged.

"As you were, Cadet!" Novak's bark snapped her to attention. "I said gifts, damnit! I'll speak with Principal Griffin and we'll work something out that will better serve your needs." She licked her lips and gave a very slight shudder – the girl's insights scared her more than Anderson's had; with the telepath, it had been a knowledge of what you were thinking and you could change your mind. This fire-haired precog knew what was going to happen – and, more often than not, there was nothing you could do to alter it. "As I was going to say," she said with a sickly smile, "the Academy will not have J-Dept jeopardized by inefficiency. You are an asset, Cadet," she said seriously. "I won't risk losing that."

Quartermain smiled a watery smile. "Thank you, Ma'am," she said seriously, grateful in a way she couldn't convey. "I apologize for my outburst, Ma'am," she added sheepishly.

"Plural," said Novak. "And you're forgiven." She smiled and lay a hand on Quartermain's shoulder. "This is your dream, Jackie?" she asked. The Cadet nodded and the Tutor shook her head. "One day, you'll wake up – I just hope you won't be sad it's come true."

"Hey, sleepyhead, wake up." The shaking on her shoulder was insistent. "Wake up, willya? It's eighteen-hundred – we're doing final pre-flights for Aegis. Brufy wants to button her up."

"Hmm, wassup?" she asked blearily, lifting her head from where it was pillowed on her arms. She'd been cuddling her stuffed kitten, leaning on an open textbook. She rubbed her eyes, looking around the pre-fab building that served as her dorm in Tiger hangar. "Oh, wow – sorry, Nick," she muttered. "What a weird dream," she said distractedly.

"Yours always are," opined Betancourt, but she shook her head.

"No, no," she said, standing and lifting her bag onto the surface of the table. She jammed the kitten into it without embarrassment and zipped it closed, slinging it onto her shoulder and tucking the book under her arm. "It wasn't the future . . . well, I guess it was. I dreamed about something that happened before I was assigned to Aegis, when I was first at the Academy. I had a vision in class, and Tutor Novak pulled me out and . . ." She shook her head as if to clear it. "It's fading," she said softly. "Precognitive dreams don't fade."

Betancourt smiled and clapped her on the shoulder. "Come on, Jackie Q," he chuckled. "One more hour, and your dreams come true." She laughed and shook her head.

"Not mine – yours and Brufen's, maybe," she said, "but not mine. Not yet, at least," she clarified. "You want to fly, Brufen wants to . . . I dunno, tinker with gears and engines and spug like that? I dunno what makes him tick. But I want to be a Judge. I will be a Judge," she said decisively.

Betancourt pushed held the door open for her, giving her an opportunity to look around what had been her home for over a year, but other than a cursory sweep to make sure all her posters were off the wall and in a folded stack inside her textbook, she didn't waste time with nostalgia. She smiled her thanks and stepped past him. "But you are," he said as they got aboard one of the electric carts and drove through the bustling hangar towards the airship. "You're part of Psi Division, on the crew of Aegis. Cass trusts you implicitly. Okay, you're a Cadet-Judge, but . . ."

Seated in the passenger seat next to him, she shook her head. "Judicial-Cadet," she corrected him precisely. She gestured at her uniform – she was wearing leather and plates in pale Cadet-blue, the buttons and fasteners faux-chrome. She slapped her empty holster. "No black, no bronze, no lawgiver," she said, a sad trifecta. "I'm not a Judge – I am a student who might become a Judge."

Betcancourt glanced at her. Seated, neither had a height advantage. She was still shorter than him, but she'd grown over the last few months, broader and bulkier beneath the heavy armor. Since DCJ Cal had given PsiDiv divisional recognition with the right to train Cadets internally (even though she still took most of her classes at the Academy) she'd been more confident, more assertive, standing a little straighter and willing to have her opinions known. "Uncertainty ain't like you, Jackie," he said.

"Oh, I don't mean it like that," she said brightly. She settled the bag on her lap, untangling herself from the shoulder strap and tucking the textbook into a side pocket. She whipped her hair from where it had been pinned with a flick of her head. It blazed in the bright lights, a flash of color against the utilitarian industry of the hangar. "That's what a Cadet is, but not what I am."

A glimpse of seriousness and mentoring showed through a chink in Betancourt's armor of casual flippancy. "Pretty cocky for a girl they don't trust with a gun," he said softly. She glared at him – but embarrassed and accepting the rebuke.

"I'm a precog," she explained. "You don't understand – I knew the Department was going to take me from my family before it happened, I knew it. And I came to terms with it, because I knew I was going to be a Cadet and I know I'm going to be a Judge. I had all the time I needed to come to terms with it – the other draftees weren't that lucky. The orphans, I mean. None of us chose it, but I came to terms with it," she repeated, almost as if she were trying to convince herself. She'd been staring down, speaking quietly and urgently, but now she looked up and faced Betancourt. "It's not some pipe-dream, Nick," she explained. "I have worked and sweated and sacrificed. And I know what it's going to be like – really what it's going to be like. We were taught that, not some sanitized recruitment drive spug with all the fun stuff emphasized and the horror glossed over. And I just know.

"And, you know what, Nick?" she said with conviction. "I'm ready and I want it. I didn't ask for it, but I want it. I'm tired of waiting for the inevitable. I want to be Judge Jacqueline Quartermain with my boots on the street and blood on my daystick. I want a badge and a lawgiver and the black-and-bronze."

Betancourt nodded, his gray eyes introspective. He brought the cart to a stop at the base of Aegis' docking tower and jumped smartly off, flinging his own bag on his shoulder. "How long you got?" he asked as the two of them climbed the stairs. "Four years?"

"Probably five or six," she admitted. "I'm a late induction, and being assigned to PsiDiv means I missed a lot of stuff I'd need. Gotta make that up."

"Isn't JC gonna be doing that?" Betancourt asked. Quartermain smiled at the nickname.

"Yeah," she admitted. "If he ever gets here," she added darkly. "Have you seen . . . ?" Betancourt shook his head. She sighed. "See, I just worry – I knew he was going to say yes before Cassandra told me, and now he's not here. So, what does it mean if 'know' I'm going to get the black-and-bronze?"

"Aegis shakedowns in sixty," Betancourt said decisively as they walked through the rear cargobay and into the squad room. "She'll graduate to Judicial Asset within the week. And you're aboard, on active deployment. How many Cadets get to do that?" He tapped the blue-painted metal of her plastron with a knuckle. "You wearing this for the look of it?"

She stopped just short of stomping her foot in frustration. "Kinda, yeah!" she snapped. "You don't get it – I'm not rated for engagement or sentencing, not even cleared for live-fire, for Grud's sake! That's . . . that's . . ." She fumbled for a metaphor. "That's like you not being cleared to fly! It's what Judges do, it's what we are!" Betancourt's handsome face demurred with sympathy.

"I thought you said you weren't a Judge," he said softly.

She gave a little self-deprecating chuckle. "I did," she agreed. "I'm a Cadet, a pale-blue. And my dreams are so real, and I know they'll come true, that waiting for them is just aching. Don't get me wrong – this brings me closer to it, so close I can taste it. But . . ." Her voice trailed off.

"But it doesn't make it any easier," finished Betancourt for her.

She nodded. "Quite the opposite," she said with a self-deprecating smile. She shook herself and shrugged, looking excitedly around the room. "Anyway, what am I getting so sad about?" she said brightly. "Where's my rack?"

"Brufy and I have got the two bunks at the front," said Betancourt. He was leaning casually against the ladder that climbed to a circular hatch in the ceiling. "They're nearer the bridge, so that makes sense," he explained. "But anything else is yours – which one do you want?"

The gondola's central chamber took up about half its length and the full width with an eight-foot ceiling. It was not only the squad room and bullpen, but also the main living quarters and even sleeping space – there were dormitory alcoves against the outer skin of the craft, three to port and three to starboard. Each had a shelf-cot at around Quartermain's eye-level and a locker that took up half the width beneath. A chair seat and a simple table could be folded down from the walls in the remaining space. There were thick-glassed round portholes above the beds and in the sitting cubicle. Curtains could be drawn to give privacy, but now they were all pulled back, letting the hangar's light into the cabin. "Oh, I don't mind," she told Betancourt. "Where's Cassandra sleeping?" she asked with artful casualness. The pilot grinned and pointed.

"Port rear," he said. Quartermain should have been able to work that out herself – the psi's gear was stacked in the locker, the door swinging open and her duty belt with a torn holster lying on the table. "She'll need to secure that before we take off," he remarked, but Quartermain ignored him.

She stepped towards the alcove just forward of Anderson's, opening the locker and chucking her bag in. She unzipped it and pulled out her stuffed kitten, tucking it under one arm as she stood on tip-toes to dismantle her rack. She flipped the bedclothes around and remade the cot, putting the pillow towards the rear of the gondola so it was separated from Anderson's by only a thin metal wall. She pulled back the sheet and tucked her kitten under it, stepping back to admire her handiwork. She turned back to face Betancourt. Suddenly, it all seemed so-much more real to her. "This is going to be fun," she announced decisively.

Betancourt chuckled, but there was a nervous edge to it. He'd heard enough green recruits say that – and seen them come back from their first sortie shaking and puking. Sometimes, it was their last sortie – and not always for a fatal reason. Sometimes they just realized they weren't cut out for it. "You sure?" was all he asked.

"Oh, trust me," Quartermain assured him. "I'm rarely wrong."

A/n : This was originally intended to be a very short, almost silly story – nothing more than some action and adventure, bringing a current event into the Dreddverse (this event is why late August is the date for all of this – the event in question happens during late August!) I'd originally planned to get it written in time for the event itself, but events conspired against me.

But then, as I was writing it, I realized this could really serve as Quartermain's origin story – not so much in the sense of where she is from and so forth, but the story that really introduces her. "Highway Don't Care" is Cornelius' first solo-outing, "Gunpowder & Lead" is Anderson's, and while this won't be just Jackie Q, it will be her first active engagement.

Review box is right under here – just type what you thought!