Prog 2 : Aegis Assemble

"What the drokk happened to you?"

Cornelius had showered and run his uniform through decontam to remove the Cursed Earth rad-dust before reporting to Tiger hangar, but he could do nothing about his bruises or the scuffs on the leathers and armor plates. He wasn't sure if it was those or his uncharacteristic tardiness which clued Anderson into knowing something had happened. Maybe something else, he reminded himself – he was so used to naturally perceptive women like his mother and Novak that a preternaturally perceptive one could fly under the radar. "I could ask the same question," he said with concern, noticing the mottled purple-black bruising around her eye. "Is that a shiner? Who the spug hung a mouse on you?"

She smiled like a woman embraced, enjoying the wash of compassion and protection flowing from him. Behind him, the main roller door to the hangar clanked shut. They were all-but alone, what few people standing around intently focused on their own tasks, and so she didn't need to pretend not to bask in the chivalry of his concern. "Why?" she asked. "You gonna go clean his chronometer?"

"If you didn't," he assured her, "but I'm guessing he's contemplating the inside of a 'cube right about now?" She shrugged.

"That," she said, "or resyk – gotta say," she admitted, "I don't remember which one got the lick in. But we weren't talking about me – you drove? I told you to requisition a zonejumper!" He shook his head.

"No," he disagreed, "you told me not to be late, and you said a request would be approved. Now," he grinned, "am I late?"

She laughed herself. "You ain't early!" she exclaimed. "Which, for you, almost counts as late. Jackie was terrified you weren't coming – I don't know if she's worried she's losing her touch, or if she just misses you. And Brufen's been bitching up a storm about that stuff you ordered for the armory – apparently weight is a big deal when you're flying; who knew? He's been swinging his slide rule around like Novak with her daystick."

"Tell me that's not a euphemism," Cornelius said dryly. Anderson shrugged.

"I've showered with her," she said blithely – her face was a picture of studied innocence and deliberate misunderstanding, "so I know it's not – but I never believed the rumors anyway," she assured him. "I think the boys were just embarrassed she'd warm up with their max." She mimed benching weights as Cornelius' face and mindscape flared with shock and indignation.

"For Grud's sake, Cassie!" he exclaimed.

"You started it!" she pointed out, not unreasonably. She grinned at him, her eyes suggestive. "She's a natural blonde, you know." He glared at her, his jaw locked, but she simply held her gaze until his poise cracked and he laughed. He opened his mouth to ask a question and then decided against it, shaking his head softly. It was too-late – he'd already thought it. "Wouldn't you like to know . . ." she murmured.

He bit the inside of his lip to stop himself grinning and lifted his chin, looking off into a high corner for a few moments, his eyes unfocused as he composed himself and locked down his mind with an effort. "So, the materiel arrived?" he asked eventually. "I was worried the requisition wouldn't be fulfilled in time."

"No," said Anderson, "everything's there, I think – you'll have to check. But, John," she asked, "what's the deal? The armory was equipped – bring personal arms, sure, but refitting it?"

"Did you not read the Aegis files?" he asked her seriously. She threw up her hands.

"As if," she exclaimed. "Like I said; that's why I have you, number one."

He chuckled. "Well, if you'd read them," he said dryly, "you'd know there's another reason you have me – XO is responsible for platform armory, and selection was a little light. Standard longarms are too big for certain applications – block war, riots, general CQB, that kind of thing. Carbine-variants chamber the same round and have the same stopping power, but shorter overall length."

Anderson nodded. "And," she added with a self-deprecating smirk, "carbines are nicer for Jackie and I to handle." He furrowed his brow. "Not all of us are six-foot-four of Baltimore beefcake, John," she explained.

Cornelius shrugged. "Whatever you're comfortable with," he said shortly. "You should have plenty of options. I also added some support hardware – lawrod, blockrocker, privateer." He shrugged. "I'm rated on all three – competent, but no expert. Still, I'm cleared on basic operational instruction for them and all standard personal arms, so I should be able to bring Jackie up to speed and she won't have to retake for credits or test out. For the rest of the classes I've got Pepper's curriculum – I can handle the muscle and guns spug, between you and me we can cover The Law, and I'm hoping Brufen can find time to tutor math and the techie stuff. For the humanities, they've got video uplinks and archived classes for Cadets in the field – and I'm thinking we've got enough between us to put the polish on. Heck," he admitted, "I'll get Nick to help out – did you know he took electives in modern history at the NAAF college?"

She shook her head, smiling at his thoroughness. "No," she said softly, "but – again – I have you to read the paperwork. Thank you," she added sincerely. "You have no idea how important this is to her, her judicial training." She looked at him seriously. "She wants a Street rating, John – she dreams about it."

"Well," shrugged Cornelius, "then it's going to happen."

Anderson shook her head. "No, not like that. It's her dream – eyes open, knowing full-well what it means. She wants the Street rating, she wants the black-and-bronze. She doesn't just want to be some justice-blue pencil pusher back at HOJ – she wants dust on the eagle and blood on her daystick."

Cornelius nodded, understanding. "My cousin's a Tek," he explained. "She's the same way – worked hard to get the rating, works harder to keep it. It's not an easy thing for a specialist to do." He recalled he'd never seen Brufen in black-and-bronze, just justice-blue, and wondered.

"Jackie needs to be here," Anderson said with conviction. "She needs specialized training only I can give her – and Grud knows PsiDiv needs the data on precogs. But that doesn't leave time for her to learn everything – even if she weren't a late-induction, there aren't enough hours in the day for her to attend classes at the Academy and be here. Something would slip through the cracks."

"Well, it can't," said Cornelius simply. "The entire mission of Aegis is based on what you've proven – Psi-Judges need Street ratings. I agree with you – the standard Academy education is insufficient. It's failed one Cadet already – thank Grud the Chief Judge saw your potential and partnered you with Dredd rather than going by the numbers. That can't happen to Jackie – and not only because the city needs her. I don't want screwing up a special asset's education on my record or conscience." Anderson smiled.

"'Special asset the city needs' and worry about your reputation?" she asked softly. Once again, she made the conscious choice not to prod him for his true motivations, but she let him know she knew the real reasons with an unconvinced "Hmm."

Cornelius blushed. "Regardless," he said dismissively, "you're putting a lot on me. Even with the training she'll get on the job, it's a big responsibility. I mean, I teach hand-to-hand . . ."

"So does Novak," said Anderson softly, "and she's the youngest Vice-Principal the Academy's had. Don't worry, Tutor," she reassured him, "you'll do just fine and, remember, you're not doing this alone." He gave a slightly-sheepish smile and nodded.

"You wanna go start?" he asked.

She looked at him for a long moment, grateful in a way she couldn't convey without embarrassing him further. She lifted her arm to him. With a wordless smile, he linked their wrists and grasped her hand, pulling himself down towards her with a flex of his knees to clink their eagles together. "Let's," she said, her lips a chaste inch from his.

oOo

Tiger hanger was a bustling hive of activity this close to launch, the combined platform of Aegis and Manta complete but for the final hull-coatings – both vehicles were a utilitarian patchwork of gray panels separated by yellow-and-black hazard striping. The HULA was still supported on the scaffold, but cranes stood ready to pull the cross-braced girder towers away once it lifted off. The domed roof above was open above – it gaped wide, but as Cornelius ascended the docking tower he had to fight to suppress the thought the opening looked all-too-small for the massive aircraft.

He and Anderson reached the top of the tower, walking up the sloping ramp into the rear of the gondola. "Commander and XO aboard, Brufen," she said into her wrist comm.

"Engineer confirms," Brufen's voice came back; they were less than thirty-minutes from launch, and his distraction was clear even over the speaker. "Stand clear of the door." Cornelius glanced down – his feet were a good three feet from the warning markings, but he still watched carefully as the hydraulically-operated ramp closed into the floor.

Cornelius knew from the specifications the gondola was sixty feet long and twenty wide, with the front and rear curved into smooth semi-circles – relatively large, certainly for an aircraft, but nevertheless enclosed and a little claustrophobic when inside. The living and working spaces were on a single level with the bridge at the front. The rear cargo space was open and empty but for three bikes stowed against the left wall. There was a door in the wall ahead of them, two cramped holding cells on either side.

Anderson turned to him and grinned. "Don't let Brufen catch you doing that," she said. He glanced at her askance. "It's a bulkhead," she explained. "And fore-and-aft, and port-and-starboard."

He rolled his eyes. "So noted," he acknowledged, "but I thought it, not said it – and Brufen's no psi."

She shrugged. "Men say what's in their minds," she told him. "Sooner or later," she added as a coda.

He laughed. "Not what's in their heart?" he asked.

She shook her head. "Men never say what's in their heart, John," she said – it almost sounded like a lament. "Come on," she added quickly before the situation could get awkward. "Let's go up front and see if we can make trouble of ourselves." She led the way across the latticework floor; cargo space was visible beneath it, accessible through hatches.

"'Let's go for'ard and see if we can make trouble of ourselves'," he corrected her blandly. She jabbed backwards into his gut without malice; their armor protected them from meaningful contact. A short corridor, with a lab and washroom to port and starboard, led into the squad room. Seated at one of the six swivel chairs maglocked to the floor around the large central table was Quartermain. She had one leg tucked up, her foot under her thigh, and her chin in her hand, her copper-red hair cascading onto the table next to the textbook opened in front of her. There was a fierce cleft of concentration between her eyebrows and focus pursed her sensual mouth even fuller than its natural brooding pout. She bit her lip and covered the page with her hand, looking up into the corner of the room and silently mouthing answers.

"Big test tomorrow, Jackie?" Cornelius asked with a grin.

Quartermain started and spun to face him, practically jumping out of the chair with an inarticulate noise of joy. "Sir!" she cried. She ran towards him and – heedless of protocol – wrapped her arms around his waist and pressed herself to him. "You're here!" she exclaimed. "I was so happy when Cassandra told me you said yes!"

Cornelius held his hands gingerly off her, a slightly-sickly smile on his face. He was very well aware of the undisguised curves of her voluptuous figure beneath the pale blue Cadet leathers – he hadn't seen her for five months, and at her age, in the middle of puberty and the athletic regimen of the Academy, that was a long time. He was struck by just how much she had physically matured – she was an inch or two taller, and the hard-soft flesh pressing against him wasn't that of a girl any more. "Cadet," he said meaningfully.

To her credit, Quartermain immediately understood. She jumped back as if he were electrified, stiffening into excellent attention. "Sir, yes Sir!" she snapped. "Begging the Judge's pardon, Sir – that was highly unprofessional of me. It won't happen again."

"I find that very hard to believe," Anderson said dryly. "Brufen and Nick on the bridge?" Quartermain nodded.

"I was there," she explained, "but I think I was in the way – Nick was very polite about it, of course, but I could tell Brufen was getting antsy. He got miffed I was wearing plates – told me to come back here and take them off."

Cornelius glanced at Anderson. "What?" he asked. "This is an active deployment, Cadet – that's why you're in leathers. I want you in armor – plate up."

Quartermain beamed for the briefest of seconds, and then her beautiful face collapsed into worry. "But Brufen said . . ."

"Brufen ain't in charge, Jackie," Anderson reminded her. Technically, of course, neither was Cornelius – but the role of XO should, ideally, include management of the team. This kind of Street-readiness was the reason she'd chosen him – well, one of the reasons. Quartermain nodded smartly and all-but-ran to her bunk, jerking the curtain back and wrenching open the locker. She pulled out her armor-web – pale blue like her leathers – and struggled into it, unclipping the CADET shield from her belt and putting it in place on her chest. She shuffled herself inside the armor, settling it more comfortably, and checked herself in the mirror inside the locker door. Satisfied, she turned and straightened into attention.

Cornelius beckoned her forward and slowly paced around her. "Uniform inspection is a pass, Cadet," he said, "but I don't want to see you without your plates while on duty again." She nodded her understanding. He glanced down at her hip. "Where's your sidearm?" he asked.

"Sir?" she asked, cocking her head out of attention. She stiffened back into it. "Sir, I am rated as a Cadet," she reminded him as gently as she could. "I do not have a personal sidearm assigned." Cadets were not issued full lawgivers. They checked-out training pistols when needed – functionally-identical but without the ID check and with a governor which prevented them being used off the firing range. The Category II magazine was loaded with stand-ins for the more dangerous shells – Hi-Ex was replaced with a smoke grenade, Incendiary with quick-burning nitrocellulose and Ricochet with rubber bullets (although no more dangerous than a Standard round, 'dodgems' were much more unpredictable in their trajectory unless you could compute the angles in your head – which few Cadets could. A rubber round wouldn't kill but stung badly enough to encourage them to take trigonometry seriously.)

"Hmm," said Cornelius. He walked to the forward bulkhead and pressed his lawscreen against it. The maglock cycled and the armory doors slid open. The materiel he'd ordered was neatly stowed, shelves already labeled, even speed-racks for the magazines installed – he made a mental note to commend Brufen for his diligence. There were a half-dozen lawgivers in a neat row, oily-black in their newness. He grabbed one of them and glanced at it – there was something virginal about it, its matte-black innocence with no scuffs or scorching around the muzzle or ejector ports. He spun it in his hand, handing it butt-first to Quartermain. "Here," he said prosaically, "this is yours."

She reached out to take it – to her credit, her hand didn't shake – and closed her blue-gloved fingers around the sandpaper-sharp diamond-cut grip-plates. She tried to pull it towards her, but Cornelius kept hold of it. "You know what this is, Cadet?" he asked abruptly.

"Lawgiver Mark II," she said with a faint smile. He looked at her with narrowed eyes. She nodded, slowly. "Yes, Sir," she said seriously. "The lawgiver is more than a gun, and it is more than a symbol of our authority. It is authority – The Law extends to the limit of the last lawgiver's range. And when that's gone, then The Law reaches as far as you can with your daystick or boot-knife or your fists and feet."

Cornelius didn't smile or let go of the gun. "You read Dredd's Comportment," he remarked.

"Standard Academy text, Sir," she explained.

"You just quote it," said Cornelius carefully. "You don't say 'I'."

She swallowed, her hand now shaking on the gun as she feared it might be taken away. "Sir, this is my dream," she explained. She gestured at her uniform with her free hand – from collar to the soles of her boots she was in pale, cadet-blue. Much of the equipment on her belt – the weighted-fakes for day-to-day training – was the same color. "Look at me, Sir," she said. "That's the only bit of black I've got – I know perfectly well what it is. Can I ask you, Sir?" she said in a quavering voice. "Do you remember what that is to a Cadet?"

For an instant, Cornelius looked at Quartermain. He did remember – he remembered as if it were yesterday the day Novak had given him his lawgiver and asked the very same question and he'd given virtually the same answer. In truth, it wasn't all that long ago – who was he, really, to be lecturing a woman wracked with nightmares and visions in a way he couldn't comprehend? Who'd been torn from her family and thrust into Justice Department corruption and what anyone else would call magic without a by-your-leave? When he was here merely because he'd . . . impressed a Division Chief? No matter – whatever else she and he were, she was a Cadet and he was her Tutor.

Although it was perhaps opaque to those outside the Department, the color-coding of the Judges' uniforms was a precise thing – in day-to-day active service a lot of the uniform regulations might be allowed to slide, but colors never were. Cadets wore pale blue – cadet-blue was the official name – with full Judges being permitted to wear the darker shade of justice-blue. The regulation was enforced even to underwear and off-duty dress – casual clothes too-dark were discouraged and seen as a sign of unhealthy rebellion. Cadets' indoor uniforms were simple jumpsuits. For physical training purposes, including live-fire at the range, they had leathers and armor webs in cadet-blue, the same design as the full Judge's uniform except for the absence of the shoulder eagle. Badges were bronze, but simply read 'CADET' and were turned in at graduation, to be presented to the next inducted class.

As Quartermain had explained to Betancourt, the official title was not Cadet-Judge, but Judicial-Cadet. Linguistics, rhetoric and intimidation Tutors explained the meaning in technical terms – the head-noun was Cadet not Judge – while others said it explicitly and repetitiously; a Cadet was not a Judge – he was a student who might become a Judge. At graduation, that changed – he became a Rookie-Judge with a level two authorization and permission to wear justice-blue.

Although not necessarily black-and-bronze. Black was the operational color, the color of those rated for engagement and sentencing. Street-Judges wore black – and only those Rookies making an Assessment under a senior Street-Judge wore it at graduation. Others – Teks, Medics, other specialists, perhaps Psis in the future – got a justice-blue uniform and testing by their own departments.

Street was, in the frank opinion of Street and (as an article of faith for Street) the deep-down, heart-of-hearts, when-they're-in-their-cups-honest opinion of everyone else, the most important and prestigious assignment in the Department. Street-Judges were the Justice Department – everyone else was a pencil-pusher or just along to hand them the daystick. Even if that weren't perfectly true a Street-rating – the authority to engage and sentence, to ride a patrol, to serve a shift in a Sector House – was coveted. Those specialists who had it – and there were few – tended to wear the black-and-bronze exclusively, a badge more desired and admired than perhaps even the shoulder eagle and personalized bronze shield.

So, yes – Cornelius remembered and understood very well what the black gun represented. All J-Dept weapons were black – not merely for pragmatic reasons, but also because they were used exclusively in engagements. In theory, all Judges – Street or specialist – were rated on personal arms, unarmed combat, daystick and boot-knife, and had a sufficient working knowledge of The Law. Even so, justice-blue specialists were unrated for engagement and sentencing – only assuming that role in emergencies or with the explicit authorization of the ranking Street-Judge on-scene.

To a pale blue Cadet – not a Judge, but a student who might become a Judge, who wasn't yet confirmed on the path that led to justice-blue – the black gun was a promise, the fulfillment of a small dream en route to the larger one. It held out the hope that, one day, he would straddle a lawmaster and ride a route on the streets, dust on his uniform and blood on his daystick. The day you got your gun – your gun, coded to your DNA and for which you were responsible – was a milestone in the life of a Judge.

All this went though Cornelius' mind so fast it was a blur to Anderson, a flash of happy memories and pride. He nodded and let go. The gun was heavy in Quartermain's hand, heavy with more than the weight she'd been trained to handle. The display – quiescent black – still had the protective film on, and the Tek-access port in the receiver was partially-open, a thin tab of red plastic keeping it from being closed. Moving slightly awkwardly, she holstered the weapon and then drew it again, repeating the motion a couple of times. She snapped the thumb-break closed and tried to replicate the quick snap-draw, but the gleaming leather of her glove slipped and she fumbled. Anderson laughed – indulgently, not cruelly – but Cornelius was more sympathetic.

"Handlebars'll wear the shine off your thumb eventually," he explained, "but most Judges take some sandpaper to it, rub a dab of resin in – ruins the grain of the leather, but outside the Academy uniform inspection's about being combat, not parade, ready. I've got both in my kit – we can take a look at it later."

Somehow, it was this small kindness, this inside-areoball, Judge-on-the-street spug, that was the most touching part of the whole thing. Scuffing up her bright new uniform on the squad-room table with sandpaper and resin. Relaxing after a shift over a presspulp box of noodles from the local takeout joint, jawing with the other Judges, exchanging jokes and stories – was this a precognitive vision, or just her dream for the future, fed by a thousand televid-dramas and the guesses that swirled at the Academy? "Thank you, Sir," was all she said – she had no way to convey the depth of her gratitude, not without hugging him again.

The hatch in the forward bulkhead slid open – doors did not hinge on Aegis; during flight Cornelius supposed they could swing dangerously, and it was easier to secure an oversized slab running on rails lined with gas-tight baffles – and Brufen stepped out. He was in justice-blue Tek coveralls and no armor web, his badge clipped to the belt. He had a large datapad in one hand, a stylus in the other. He looked frazzled, his gray hair disheveled. "Ah, Cornelius," he said. "Glad you're aboard. Anderson, preflights are complete, weather report is confirmed, we are three minutes from ignition." He glanced around the squad-room, pointing at the textbook on the table, Quartermain's open locker and Cornelius' dufflebag dropped on the floor. "If we could please secure for launch?" he said. He turned to close the armory and then spun back into the room. "Cadet . . ." he called meaningfully.

Quartermain winced. "Judge Cornelius ordered me into them, Sir," she explained. She turned to see Brufen standing near the empty slot in the lawgiver rack. "And he gave me the gun, Sir," she added. She glanced over at Cornelius, as if wanting support.

Cornelius secured the bag in his locker – he'd chosen the alcove opposite Anderson's, starboard-side aft – and glanced over his shoulder at Brufen. "Calibrate it," he ordered brusquely. "And I'll let it slide during launch, but once we're airborne I want you in leather and plates."

Anderson didn't need her psynses to pick up on the sudden tension in the room. Brufen had more years service than Cornelius had alive and this was – in a very real sense – his ship. Not only was he the lead designer and head of the development team, but also the visionary and architect behind it. To him, this was a shakedown cruise of a new vehicle platform, not a judicial operation. The other Judges on board Aegis were passengers at best and a distraction at worst.

But Aegis existed to serve Psi Division and Anderson was Division Chief. She'd chosen Cornelius as her deputy and XO, giving him operational authority over the team. The chafing between Street and specialists – between sentencing-black and justice-blue – reared its head; officially, the lowliest black-and-bronze outranked any Judge without a Street-rating during active engagement. It looked like Cornelius was going to be a man to do things by the book – but, then again, Anderson thought to herself, what else would she expect from Dredd's Rookie and Novak's protege?

Silently, Brufen undid the maglock securing a small handheld device inside the armory, the faint color of embarrassment rising from his collar to touch his cheeks. He held out his hand to Quartermain. "We don't have all day, Cadet," he said, a little too-sharply.

Quartermain drew the pistol and offered it to Brufen. He almost-snatched it from her grasp. With practiced ease he tugged the plastic tab clear and plugged a cable into it, handing it back to her. "Dominant hand," he ordered. As she held the gun he pushed buttons on the device; it made a very positive-sounding metallic beep. "Non-dominant," he said and repeated the process. He reached forward and unplugged the cable. "Test it, please," he said shortly.

Quartermain shifted the lawgiver to her right hand. The screen lit up, the progress bar advancing swiftly as it made the DNA check. 'I.D. OK' the bright blue text reported. "Armor piercing. Standard. Rapid fire," Quartermain said in quick succession. The gun cycled smoothly. "Safety on," she said finally, holstering it. She didn't fasten the thumb-break. "Thank you, Sir," she said. Brufen grunted noncommittally, his attention on the XO.

"I am a Tek-Judge, Cornelius . . ." he began. Cornelius didn't let him finish.

"When I'm giving orders I would prefer 'XO' or 'Sir', Brufen," he said flatly. "And uniform regulations are very clear – all Judges, regardless of specialization or department, will wear leather and plates during engagement. This is an active duty operation, Judge Brufen," he reminded the Tek. "We will treat it as such."

Brufen glanced towards the back of the room at Anderson, but his commander's face was as unreadable as a poured plasteen slab – and had been since Cornelius armed Quartermain. "This is a shakedown cruise, Cornelius . . ." he said.

"Again, 'XO' or 'Sir', please," Cornelius reminded him. "I trust I do not need to belabor the point that we have a Cadet on board who needs good example of discipline and adherence to regulations. This is a Justice Department vehicle and it will be run like one. Do I make myself clear, Judge Brufen?"

Brufen smiled, thinking he understood Cornelius' motivations. It was good he was laying down the law for the benefit of Quartermain – the flighty Cadet needed some discipline to put her in her place. "Crystal, Sir," he nodded. He snapped to attention. "If I may be dismissed, Sir?" he asked with respect just the right side of insubordination. "We are due to launch."

"We'll join you on the bridge," said Anderson abruptly. Brufen's face twisted but he didn't say a word. Neither, of course, did he need to. "My ship, Brufy," Anderson reminded him with a seraphic smile. "I even have a command chair – tell me you haven't been keeping it warm for me."

A/n : Some world-building here – I tried to establish character interactions, as well as convey two sets of fanon-facts; the layout of Aegis and the way the Justice Department works vis-a-vis specialists, Cadets and Street-Judges. I don't know if it's fully clear, but I didn't want to belabor the point.

The three weapons named – lawrod, blockrocker and privateer – are ones I invented myself. The lawrod and blockrocker first appeared in "Gunpower & Lead". More details on the privateer next prog!

Anyway – tell me what you think! Review box is right underneath here!

Action and adventure on the way – this isn't just going to be a shakedown cruise, and Quartermain might need that gun sooner than she thinks.

Then again, maybe she knows already – she is a precog, after all.