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 approximately two years after the 2012 movie. Although not essential for understanding it, the story "Dredd 2" (faved on my profile) is canonical for this story.

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.

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Aegis (Part I)

"So which one's mine?" growled Dredd, looking through the one-way mirror glass at the class of senior Cadets in the room beyond. Behind him, Judge-Tutor Novak gave a throaty, gravely chuckle.

"Same old Joe Dredd, huh?" she asked. She quickly rifled through the stack of files in her arms and selected one of them, offering it to him. She tossed her head and pointed with her chin. "Tall, dark and handsome at the back of the room," she said. "John Cornelius." Dredd opened the file and ran his eyes briefly over it. "He's good – that's why I assigned him to you. His hand-to-hand combat is phenomenal – he's been teaching classes to the juniors the past three semesters."

"But?" asked Dredd. Novak – herself the Academy's senior hand-to-hand instructor – grinned.

"How do you know there's a 'but'?" she asked.

Dredd gazed blankly at her. "There's always a 'but', Kim," he said.

If Tutor Novak were surprised at her old classmate using her first name, she didn't show it. She turned and looked through the mirror glass herself. Around her, senior Street Judges were flipping through the files on their soon-to-be Rookies, talking amongst themselves, sharing the odd joke. These few moments of safety and calm were a welcome respite from the pressures of the streets for the Judges chosen to adjudicate the cadets' final assessments; the assessments themselves an opportunity to do more than merely judge, an opportunity to teach, to pass on lessons hard-won on the streets. Most Judges welcomed assessments, were proud and eager to undertake them.

What Dredd felt about it, of course, was impossible to know. He stood apart from his fellow Judges, visor inches from the glass, seeing his own reflection projected on the youthful faces of the cadets and – perhaps – already making a judgment as to whether it fitted or not. He didn't pass many Rookies – the last had been Anderson, some two years before, and that had been entirely unexpected. The Chief Judge had called 3% "marginal" - Novak had called it what it was; a failure. She wondered if Dredd had seen it like that, and what had changed his mind.

But Novak was confident Cornelius would pass, and that he would benefit from Dredd's assessment. He mirrored Dredd's own isolation; his classmates were clustered in small groups chatting nervously, here and there casting what they thought were surreptitious glances towards the mirrored wall, while he was sitting quietly alone, scrolling at a data terminal.

"He always follows through," Novak explained. "Never leaves anything on the table."

Dredd turned to her. "Don't know I see that as a problem," he said.

She shrugged. "He needs some real-world experience; learn how to prioritize, know when to let go, you know?" She looked up at him, her blue-gray eyes sympathetic. "It's a tough world out there, Joe," she reminded him. "I don't want these kids to get broken."

"Don't have to tell me that, Kim," Dredd said, the very corner of his mouth twitching. It wasn't clear which statement he was responding to. He hit the control in the corner of the mirror window, tabbed a couple of buttons. He grunted as what Cornelius was reading was displayed on the glass in front of him – the daily briefing. "Cadets have access to that?" he asked. She shook her head.

"Rookies do," she answered. "I upgrade their status just before you guys come in."

Dredd nodded. "Eager beaver," he murmured.

"Conscientious," she corrected him with a very slight edge. He didn't react. Greatly daring, she reached out and took his arm, spinning him to face her. "Hey," she said, "he's a good Cadet, a good kid. Knocked me on my ass and marked Rawne. Twice. He'll make a good Judge."

Dredd glanced down at the shorter woman's hand on his bicep, felt the vice-like strength in those slim fingers. "You telling me my job, Novak?"

The blonde woman shook her head wearily. "You judge, Judge," she said shortly. She turned to face the room in general. "Alright, people," she called, "let's go meet your Rookies!"

oOo

"A Rookie-Judge on assessment is likely to involved in armed combat. One in five don't survive the first day. You may be required to carry out on-the-spot executions of convicted perps. Incorrect sentencing, is an automatic fail. Disobeying a direct order from your assessor, is an automatic fail. Losing your primary weapon or having it taken from you . . . is an automatic fail. You ready, Rookie?"

Dredd turned to face Cornelius – the Rookie was taller than him by a inch or so, broad across the shoulders and chest, lean in the hips and light on his feet. His hair was black in the way Novak's was blonde – shockingly, stunningly so – thick with body, styled in a practical crew cut that was nevertheless attractive. Dredd was no judge of such things, but Kim had called him handsome – his cheeks were high, his jaw angular, his neck bulging with cords of muscle. As Dredd watched, he lifted his helmet from under his arm and set it on his head. "Yes, Sir," he said firmly.

"Your assessment starts now." The two of them had reached the garage, swinging themselves onto their lawmasters. Cornelius tabbed a control and the earbead in his helmet squawked to life;

" . . . on L-ramp of Metro Parkway. Jumper on floor fifty-nine of Coolidge hab-block. Robbery with violence at corner of Nine and Wagner. Futsie at . . ."

Cornelius lifted his wrist. "Control, Dredd and Rookie will take Nine & Wagner. Requesting more details." A map with locations highlighted flashed on his screen, crawling red dots tracked by aerial drone. "Dispatch medi-teks to victim's location – we're going after the perps," Cornelius ordered.

"Wilco, Cornelius," Control confirmed. Dredd watched with interest as his mouth twisted with annoyance.

"You can use your name, Rookie," he assured him. "You do have one."

Cornelius turned to him and grinned grimly. "Not yet, Sir." He kicked down, starting the engine and sending his bike weaving into traffic.

oOo

The victim had been a well-dressed businessman – high-fashion kneepads and a polka-dot suit with a popped collar – who'd just come from a leisurely breakfast. The 911 call reported two men coming up behind him, one of them driving a knife hard into his kidneys and the other ripping the briefcase from his hand. The grainy video feed from the drone camera, projected by laser on the inside of Cornelius' visor, showed two perps running away – one carrying the briefcase, the other after riffling quickly through their victim's pockets and extracting a wallet and some kind of personal computer.

"Control's database IDs one of the perps as a repeat offender – additional three years on top of any other sentence." Cornelius sounded calm as a Judge-Tutor at drill, even as he weaved his bike through traffic, zooming along the elevated roadways to cut off the running criminals. A couple of bike-lengths behind him, watching his Rookie's driving with a critical eye – Cornelius was a careful, measured driver, not taking unnecessary risks but rather moving swiftly and safely through the morning rush – Dredd listened across their shared-circuit.

"Gotta catch him first, Rookie," he growled. In his earbead, he heard Cornelius gently laugh.

"That is my intention, Sir," he said. Dredd saw his head turn, visibly looking in his mirror and indicating his slide into the left lane well in time. Dredd followed him down the spiraling off-ramp, brake lights gleaming. Cornelius made the final loop seconds before Dredd, swinging his bike around the front wheel with a scream of burning rubber so it straddled the slidewalk. Lawgiver out and leveled like a duelist, he pointed it at the two figures running towards him. "You're under arrest," he announced, his voice amplified by the bike's speakers. "Drop any weapons and . . ."

The perps skidded to a shocked halt, one of them glancing around, panicking and unsure what to do. The other – scruffily dressed, twitching and with pin-point pupils – reacted with unnatural swiftness, reaching into his jacket and beginning to draw a pistol. Lunging and reaching with his other hand, he made to grab a slender woman who'd been walking on the slidewalk and was now sprinting out of the line of fire.

Cornelius' first bullet tore through his stomach, doubling him over, and the second crashed into his wrist, driving fragments of shattered bone into his abdomen. He crumpled backwards, his gun falling from nerveless fingers and his belly a bloody mess. As Dredd pulled his bike alongside his Rookie's, Cornelius eased himself off his lawmaster and walked towards the other perp. He glanced down at the one he'd shot as he walked past, kicking the gun out of his reach. The perp looked dead – there was no flutter of pulse in the wounds – but it paid to make sure.

The other criminal had his hands up. "Don't shoot!" he begged. "Don't shoot! I'll come quietly!" He dropped the suitcase he was carrying and put his hands on his head. "It was his idea! His idea!"

Cornelius holstered his weapon and grabbed the perp's wrist with his other hand, spinning him around and reaching for the cuffs. "Robbery with violence, seven years," he sentenced. "Repeat offender, additional three." He jerked the man's wrist down and slapped one bracelet on. "Can you do the math yourself, or you want me to add it up?" He reached for the other wrist.

The perp spun abruptly, Cornelius' hand still holding the cuffs so he was anchored to him. "No fair, Judge!" he exclaimed. "No fair! It was his idea! His idea!" From a couple of yards away, Dredd watched to see how Cornelius would react – there was a danger here; the Rookie didn't have complete control of the perp. He hadn't frisked him for weapons yet – a knife that close could be lethal, and the whole aggrieved victim act could be just that; an act.

Cornelius' response was immediate, surprising and almost balletic in its beauty and simplicity; he kept a tight grip on the cuffs and punched the perp in the gut, doubling him over with a grunt of pain. He grabbed the back of his neck and flipped him, stepping backwards as he slammed the perp to the ground. With a single step he pinned the nearest wrist beneath his boot and drove his daystick with paralyzing force into the other elbow. The perp lay semi-conscious on his back, his mouth opening and closing slackly like a fish out of water. It was very possible his brain still thought he was upright, so swift and sure had Cornelius been. "Two years for resisting arrest," he said dispassionately. He reached down and hauled him upright, spinning him around and cuffing his other wrist. His free hand quickly swept the perp's chest and thighs, pulling a long, double-edged blade with a tape-wrapped handle from a hidden sheath. "Concealing a deadly weapon, twelve months," he announced. "Have you been keeping track?"

The perp groaned, his eyes glazed. Cornelius glanced over his shoulder at the woman the first perp had lunged for. "Are you uninjured, miss?" he asked. "Would you like me to summon a medi-tek?"

She gulped and shook her head. "No, no," she stammered, immoderately loud. She stuck a finger in her ear and wiggled it. "Thank you, Judge," she said with feeling. She wiggled her finger again. "Can you hear that ringing?" she asked.

Cornelius ignored her for a moment and lifted his wrist. "Control, I have one slab and one grab – requesting catch- and meat-wagons to my GPS." He lowered his wrist and turned to the woman. "You should see an aural specialist, miss," he advised. "A lawgiver discharge is commonly in the 90 to 100 decibel range, within the danger zone for hearing damage." She blinked once or twice, dumbly. "If you would clear the crime scene, miss?" Cornelius asked with a twitch of his head.

The woman gasped theatrically, her hand at her mouth, and nodded. She started to reach for him, thought better of it, and then ducked away. "Thank you, Judge," she repeated.

Cornelius smiled ruggedly. "You're welcome, miss," he called after her. Around the little tableau of two Judges, two bikes, and two perps a ring of gawking bystanders had gathered, keeping a distance that was both respectful and frightened. "See?" remarked Cornelius to his prisoner. "Admiration for The Law. Lack of that is why no-one likes you."

The perp twisted, trying to jerk his hands free. "Drokk you, man," he spat over his shoulder. "Drokk you right in your spuggly face." Without particular malice, Cornelius put his hand on the back of the perp's head and bounced his skull off the bollard in front of him. Cartilage and enamel crunched and blood sprayed.

"See, it's stuff like that," said Cornelius. "Insulting a Judge in the performance of his duty? That's, like, six months. I'm going to pretend I didn't understand the street slang." Dredd's voice cut off any reply the perp might make;

"What do you make of this, Rookie?"

Cornelius glanced over his shoulder, seeing the senior Judge crouched down next to the dead perp, pulling his collar down. "Take five," hissed Cornelius in his perp's ear, tightening the ratchet on the cuffs and kicking him in the back of the knee so he faceplanted with a cry. He turned and crouched beside Dredd, who stood to give him access. "Hypospray injector site," Cornelius said briefly. "Directly over the carotid, not a recommended location for self-administration." He probed the angry, inflamed circle with a gloved fingertip; puss squished in subcutaneous blisters. "Infection, localized chem trauma – definitely a narco injection site." He looked up, perhaps wanting to see confirmation or approval, but what could be seen of Dredd's face was unreadable as his visor. Cornelius tried not to let it faze him. "I've not seen it before, Sir," he continued, "but I think this is Boost." Dredd's face remained impassive.

"Can't write a report on 'think', Rookie," he growled.

Cornelius was already patting the perp's clothes, pulling objects out of his pockets. A few credits, a badly-maintained knife, presspulp calling cards with glossy pictures of alluring women on them. He laid each item neatly by the cooling corpse, only pausing to half-rise from his crouch and – without looking – sweep his leg so the feet of the other perp, struggling upright to run away with cuffed hands and all, went skidding out from under him. He crashed to the ground with a cry of pain. "Add on another three years for attempted escape," Cornelius said without even turning around. "I said take five. Next time, I'll let you run far enough to justify a bullet." He didn't wait for a response, instead giving a little grunt of satisfaction as he pulled a pharmaceutical hypospray out of the perp's pocket. He stood up and showed it to Dredd.

"It's a disposable," he said with distaste, "but they'll reuse them on the street, especially for narcotics. Might even share them – likely where the infection came from." He twisted the hypospray and the dispenser and reservoir came apart. He reached behind his hip for a portable chem analyzer, pulling out the wand from the body of the device and gingerly dipping it in the gloopy maple-colored residue. The analyzer thought for a second and then beeped. Cornelius glanced at the readout and nodded. "Class 1 restricted substance, 88% match for Boost."

"Eighty-eight?" asked Dredd. "The machine's not having a good day?"

Cornelius couldn't help but crack a smile – he knew very well what Dredd was doing, and was happy to indulge his assessor. He glanced down at his perp, still lying on the floor, no longer trying to move away. "Incomplete match is common, Sir – could be any number of reasons. Contaminated or degraded sample, cut with something else – floor cleaner is surprisingly popular, same viscosity and color, because aesthetics in drugs is apparently what the cool kids these days are all about." Dredd didn't smile, but Cornelius hadn't expected him to. "Or, it could be a new recipe Control hasn't seen."

"So," asked Dredd, "what do we do?"

Cornelius held up the analyzer. "Already transmitted the results to Control – they can confirm. Forensics analysis on this perp" Cornelius nudged the corpse with his boot "might shed more light."

Dredd didn't seem impressed. "And how long's that gonna take, Rookie?" he asked scornfully.

"Oh, days, weeks," said Cornelius lightly. The lab was always backed up, and chem analysis on a dead perp with no direct pending investigation wouldn't be a priority. "Which is why I'm only doing it because those are regs. We do old-fashioned police-work." He glanced down at the other perp, blowing bloody bubbles with his spit as the pressure on his laboring lungs became too much. "You think he knows anything?"

"He looks pretty clean to me," Dredd said with expert obfuscation – he was still assessing, and this was the Rookie's call. Cornelius had already dropped to a crouch – his knee in the small of the perp's back, eliciting a yelp of pain – and was riffling expertly through his clothes. Other than the usual pocket litter of a small-time hoodlum, he came up empty. He grabbed him by the collar and hauled him upright as he stood.

"I'm gonna ask you once," Cornelius warned. "Your buddy here – where'd he get the dope?"

The perp twisted in Cornelius' grasp. "Drokk, I don't know!" he sobbed. "Grud's truth, man, you gotta believe me! I never even saw him before today! He ain't my buddy – I just met him in a bar. Crazy tweaker, said he knew about some suit we could hit for scratch. I don't know anything 'bout him 'cept that – no idea where he got the drugs."

Cornelius cocked his head, looked at the perp carefully. "You called him a tweaker – so you knew he was using restricted substances illicitly? You suspected he would use his cut of the proceeds to purchase additional restricted substances without a prescription? When you agreed to participate in criminal activity with him?"

The perp didn't seem long on education, so it took him a few seconds and a long, drawn-out, "Whaa . . ?" to realize what Cornelius was asking. "Yeah," he said eventually. "Yeah, I knew he was a tweaker – pretty drokking obvious, right? Twitchin' all over the place like a rad victim." He shrugged. "Sure I knew he was gonna buy dope – what else is he gonna do with the scratch? Flowers for his me-maw?" He chucked at his own joke.

"Premeditated participation in a narcotic-related crime with full knowledge thereof," said Cornelius dismissively. "Additional eighteen months. I make your current sentence seventeen and a half years." He ignored the perp's protests and turned to Dredd. "I don't think he's any use for us in running down the source of the narcotics, Sir," he said. "I recommended we slap him in lockup until we can determine for certain, of course."

Dredd looked carefully at him, Novak's warning returning. "You want to find the supplier, Rookie?" he asked. "Small-time hood, probably buying from another small-time hood? There's a lot of other crimes out there."

Cornelius didn't immediately answer, instead turning away to the approaching meat-wagon. A pair of medi-teks brought a stretcher over and started to lift the corpse onto it. "I want that taken to the lab before resyk," Cornelius ordered. "Full chem and tox screen – he's on something."

The older medi-tek rolled his eyes. "C'mon, Judge," he moaned, "you know we're backed up." Cornelius turned away as he answered.

"The lab will get even more backed-up if I take you in for refusing to follow regulations, medic," he said easily. He didn't wait for an answer, instead shoving the perp back to his knees and moving towards his lawmaster. He straddled the saddle and accessed Control's database. Dredd moved to stand at his shoulder.

"Are you trying to impress me, Rookie?" he growled.

Cornelius didn't look up from the information he was punching into his bike's screen. "No, Sir," he said firmly. "I'm trying to do my job. I know they're backed up – I don't need miracles, I need diligence. So does the city."

"I mean about finding the source," Dredd clarified. "Like I said, lots of crime out there. This sort of investigation . . ."

"Takes time," Cornelius finished for him. He turned to face him. "Yes, Sir, I know – but it also pays dividends. We take a supplier off the street, maybe people think twice about dealing. Addicts have to go somewhere else for their fix – they're off their routine, they stand out, they get caught. Costs the gangs resources." He shrugged, glanced around the nervous crowd keeping back from the crime scene. "And it shows the citizens we can be more than reactive, Sir," he said quietly. "Gives them hope that maybe things can be turned around."

Dredd looked at him for a second and then nodded. "What you got?"

"No point in trying to trace the drugs themselves," explained Cornelius. "Narcofabs don't exactly keep records. But the dispenser" he held it up for Dredd to see "is a common brand, with a serial number. Now, he could have stolen it, found it in the trash, even had a legitimate prescription for something . . ."

"Or some doc dealt it under the table?" finished Dredd.

Cornelius nodded. "If we're lucky. Manufacturer's database keeps good records; serial number matches to a batch shipped last month." He scrolled through the data, and grinned. "And we're in luck. The whole batch – a pallet of twenty-five boxes of a gross each – went to Boots' Pharmacy on level 34 of the Cosgrove hab-block. Go there, flash the bronze, lift some rocks and see what scurries?"

Dredd shrugged non-noncommittally. "Your call, Rookie," he reminded him.

Cornelius nodded and punched up a map on the screen of his bike. "Two miles away – can we leave the perp tethered here or do we wait for the catch-wagon?"

Dredd swept his eyes over the crowd. "They'll leave him well enough alone," he grunted without really seeming to much care about or believe it. "Cuff him to the railings, update Control. I'll remind them of the penalty for vigilantism."

oOo

"Can I help you, Judge?" The girl behind the pharmacy counter was pretty in a forgettable way, with chubby dimpled cheeks and a spiked blonde bob with green-frosted tips. Like all the staff, she was wearing a white labcoat with an oval blue badge. Cornelius, his helmet under his arm, kinked one side of his mouth in a rugged smile. Dredd remained standing impassive at the door of the pharmacy; arms folded, looking at nothing, seeing everything.

"Perhaps," said Cornelius. He laid the injector on the counter. "Tell me about these." She looked at it.

"It's a disposable hypospray, Judge," she said carefully. "They're supplied with intravenous medication."

"Any other times when they're supplied?" asked Cornelius. "You sell them? Any record-keeping on who gets one?"

The girl looked nervous. "They aren't a prescription item, Judge," she explained. She glanced over her shoulder. "Perhaps I should get the pharmacist . . ."

Cornelius ignored her offer. "That means you don't have records?" he asked. "Or does that mean you sell them, give them out?" She shook her head emphatically.

"Oh, no, never," she said firmly. "They are given out with prescriptions only. They can be misused."

"This one was," said Cornelius shortly. He looked around the busy pharmacy, the patrons coming and going, the constant flow of movement. "How easy would it be for someone to steal one of these?"

The girl shrugged nervously, stepped backwards to point at a box at her feet just behind the counter. "We just keep them here," she admitted, "and we don't count them out – someone comes in with a prescription, we grab one and drop it in the bag with the drugs. When the box is empty, we go into the back and get a new one." She bit her lip. "I'm sorry, Judge."

Cornelius shrugged. "No law against that," he assured her. "Someone would have to get behind the counter – jump it, reach over – to grab one, right? You've got cameras running?" She nodded.

"And we'd see that – there's always someone here." She gestured behind her. "A lot of this stuff isn't prescription, but it's only sold over the counter – we don't keep it in the aisles." She held her gaze with his, hoping he believed her. "I don't think anyone stole it, Judge," she said. "Not from us, at least."

"Maybe stole it from the legitimate user?" he asked. She nodded. "That's most likely it – I just had to run down possibilities, you know?" She smiled and nodded again, eagerly. He looked down and away, holding his chin in his hand, giving the impression of being in disappointed thought. He looked up. "Who handles inventory?" he asked sharply.

The girl blithely turned and gestured further along the counter. "Aaron does," she said, pointing at a slim young man with acne-pocked cheeks, bleached-white hair buzz-cut so the scalp showed through and scrawny, knobbly wrists protruding from the sleeves of his lab coat. He had a presspulp cup of coffee – the real stuff, not synthi-caf – in front of him under the counter and as Cornelius watched he reached down and took a sip. "Hey, Aaron!" the girl called. "Judge wants to talk to you."

Aaron started and turned, a look of worry on his face. Nervousness when dealing with Judges was to be expected, but this was a little more than normal and almost enough for Cornelius. Still, he wanted to be sure. He lifted the dispenser off the counter and held it up. "Recognize this?" he asked. "I found it on some tweaker – any idea how he got it?"

Aaron's face assumed an almost comical look of horror and then – abruptly and without warning except the inevitability of the attempt – he turned and ran. He slammed into someone coming out of the back room, knocking them aside in a shower of pill bottles and bolted through the doorway.

Cornelius had vaulted over the counter almost before Aaron was moving, the girl diving out of his way. He sprinted through the doorway Aaron had darted through, two paces behind him as he weaved through desks and shelves. Cornelius didn't bother chasing him – he just shoved hard against a table and slammed it into the fugitive on the other side. Aaron yelped and crashed to the ground, rolling over and clutching his ankle. "You broke my leg, man!" he cried.

Cornelius reached down and grabbed him by the collar, hauling him upright. "Ain't that a shame?" he asked as he cuffed him. "If only you knew someone who could hook you up with some painkillers."

oOo

The booking officer at the Hall of Justice looked up as he keyed in Cornelius' ID to process the perp. "Interrogation room A-12 has been assigned for this prisoner," he reported, reading from his screen. "You are to transfer custody there."

Cornelius, his massive hand a vice-grip on Aaron's shoulder, generously holding the wounded perp upright to limit weight on his busted ankle, glanced over at Dredd for a moment. "Excuse me?" he asked the booking officer. He shook his head. "My collar, my perp, my interrogation."

"I think I'm gonna be sick, man," Aaron moaned. "I might've got an embolism, man, did you think of that? I could be getting a blood clot or something. They call it thrombosis. Did you know that?" The Judges ignored him.

"You're on assessment, Rookie," said the booking officer pointedly. "If anything, it would be our collar, our perp, our interrogation." Muscles bulged at the points of Cornelius' jaw, but it was Dredd who spoke.

"His collar, his perp, his interrogation," he growled. He was leaning against the booking desk, idly picking at a frayed seam on his glove. Abruptly, he looked up, pointing his visor directly at the booking officer. "That's assessment," he explained pointedly. "His call, his successes." He turned to face Cornelius. "His mistakes," he added.

The younger Judge tried not to be too obvious about swallowing nervously. "Who requested custody transfer?" he asked the booking officer. The desk jockey keyed a few buttons, his brow furrowing with confusion.

"Records say . . . Aegis," the booking officer said slowly. He looked up at the two Judges. "I don't have anything more than that. But it's a level eight request."

Level eight was minor divisional administration, one level above sector commanders. Cornelius thought for a second, trying to remember something he was pretty sure he never knew but really should have done. He turned to Dredd. "My apologies, Sir," he said humbly, "but I am unfamiliar with Aegis." He suddenly looked much younger than he had mere moments before, appealing to Dredd with a what do I do now? expression on his face.

"You're not the only one, Rookie," Dredd rumbled. "I guess it's above our paygrade."

"You guess right." The Chief Judge's voice appeared as suddenly as she did. Cornelius snapped to immediate attention as the compact woman addressed them, taking his hand off Aaron's shoulder. The perp gave a wail of distress and stumbled, putting weight on his broken ankle and crumpling painfully to the floor. The dark skinned woman smiled. "At ease, Rookie," she said kindly.

Cornelius broke attention into a perfect parade-ground ease. "Ma'am," he said crisply.

"You know I hate politics," Dredd complained. She turned to face him.

"You know I don't care," she said evenly. She glanced over and up at Cornelius – he was a full-head or more taller than her, jaw set, gazing at nothing, a classic product of the Academy. "How's he doing?"

"I'm still making my judgment." Dredd wasn't about to be drawn. "I want a full shift out of him before I decide." Next to Cornelius, Aaron tried to stand – the Judge grabbed him under the arm and jerked him to his feet.

"Ma'am, can you tell us what this is about?" asked Cornelius. Behind the glass of his visor, Dredd's eyes swept from his Rookie to the Chief Judge and then the booking officer, and back again. Us. Not me, us. It was a minor thing, a small fracture in Cornelius' confidence, but he noticed it.

"The case you're working falls within Aegis' jurisdiction, Rookie," the Chief Judge said. "Control flagged it when you transmitted evidence. Take the perp to interrogation room A-12 and transfer custody. Then get back on the streets." She raised a single brushstroke brow. "You understand, Rookie?"

"Hey, this ain't fair!" Aaron exclaimed. "Sure, I stole some dispensers but you can't just hand me over! What about my rights?"

Cornelius turned to him. "You're a convicted perp," he reminded him, "you have no rights." He shut him up with a glare and faced the Chief Judge again. "Yes, Ma'am," he said tightly. "I understand. Transfer custody to Aegis. Ma'am," he asked with a faint air of belligerence, "what is Aegis?"

The Chief Judge's face was flint. "Like I said, Rookie," she said silverly, "that's above your paygrade."

Behind his own visor, Cornelius rolled his eyes. "Yes, Ma'am." His voice was bitter. He seemed to consider. "Ma'am, I'd like to remain with this case – I understand the final decision will likely be Aegis', but I would appreciate it if you would make the recommendation."

The Chief Judge hadn't been really directing her full attention to Cornelius, but now she did – looking at him carefully, sizing him up, her expert gaze taking in all the little details and clues; the pristine uniform, the well-organized equipment, the every-ready combat stance even while at-ease. She flicked her eyes sideways at Dredd, perhaps seeing if he would come to his Rookie's rescue, but the older Judge was – once again – leaning against the desk, studiously examining a frayed seam on his glove. "Let's step away for a second, Rookie . . ." she flicked her eyes downwards "Cornelius."

If Cornelius was nervous, he gave no sign. He inclined his head and took a couple of steps away, around the corner from the booking desk. Aaron jeered and laughed. "Yeah, man!" he exclaimed. "Police brutality, man! Getting out of here on a technicality! Sweet!" The Chief Judge 'accidentally' caught him with her boot in his bad ankle as she moved away, and he crashed to the ground with a cry of pain, his cuffed hands unable to break his fall.

"The Chief Judge wished to speak with me privately?" Cornelius spoke as if he had been summoned from three sectors away to the office high in the Hall of Justice, politely attracting the attention of the over-worked woman bent over her desk piled high with papers. The Chief Judge stared at him for a second or two, diminutive in front of him, wondering just what game the Academy – what Novak, she realized – was playing.

"Are you shining me on, Rookie?" she asked. "Or is this a misguided attempt to impress me? Or Dredd?" She didn't wait for an answer. "Let me let you into a secret; it won't work. On either of us."

"No, Ma'am," said Cornelius without moving his jaw – his teeth were not quite gritted. He was staring at a distant point above her head, still standing at effortless ease, his helmet now under his arm. "I'm not trying to impress anyone. I'm trying to do my job." He looked down at her, held her dark eyes in his – his were large, warm chocolate brown with flecks of gold in the iris. "Ma'am," he said earnestly, "I ran this punk down – he's dealing dispensers under the table."

The Chief Judge snorted and threw up her hands. "What's the street value of those things?" she asked. "Five creds apiece? Aren't there better things for you to be doing with your time?"

"I'd ask a level eight clandestine division the same question, Ma'am," Cornelius said solidly. He sighed and ran his hand through his hair – the Chief Judge was suddenly struck by just how young he really was; despite the height and weight, confidence and undoubted skills, he was still a Rookie, out on the streets for the first time. "Look, Ma'am," he pleaded. "I took a risk – I admit that. This could have led nowhere – some tweaker stealing a five cred piece of Sino-Cit plastic crap at best, a total dead-end at worst. But it didn't – that perp back there" he pointed with a long arm "is dealing these things. He says he only shifted one box – I don't believe that for a second, but it doesn't matter. He's moving hyposprays to someone – probably the narcos. I can follow the chain from him to them, take them off the streets."

"And so can Aegis, Rookie." The Chief Judge's voice was calm and measured. "I understand – you want the collar, you want to finish this up. I get that – I really do. But – and here's a little practical law maybe Novak didn't teach you – sometimes you don't get to finish things up."

For a second, Cornelius looked at her, his mouth half-open. And then he slowly nodded. "I see," he said. He folded his arms and looked at a corner of the ceiling. "I get it."

The Chief Judge put her hands on her hips. "You see what, Rookie?" she demanded. "You get what?"

Cornelius looked down at her, half-turned his head almost as if he wanted to glance at Dredd, didn't. "Permission to speak freely, Ma'am?" he asked.

The Chief Judge actually laughed. "You haven't been so far?" she derided. She gestured theatrically. "Please, proceed."

Cornelius bit his lip before he spoke, tamping down his frustration and the sense of injustice. "This isn't about me wanting to close a case, Ma'am," he explained. "It's not about the collar. I really don't give a spugging damn about that, you've got to believe me."

The Chief Judge folded her arms very slowly. "Go on," she said evenly.

"We can respond to six percent of crimes," he said. "You know that, Ma'am – and you know improving that is all-but-impossible right now. But which six-percent do we respond to?" he asked. "Do we just deal with superficial symptoms of the problem, or do we pick a crime, follow the leads, drill down, find the source, snuff it out and move on to the next?" He pointed back towards the perp again, his movements and voice passionate. "He'll roll on the next link in the chain and we can follow that back and bust the whole nest. Take the problem off the streets for good."

The Chief Judge seemed to consider. "You'll make enemies doing that," she remarked.

Cornelius rolled his head on his powerful neck, twitching the side of his mouth. "It's a cliché, Ma'am, but I ain't here to make friends." She laughed.

"That you are not," she chuckled. "But you might find yourself with some anyway," she added obliquely. She turned away from him, her chin in her hand. Seconds passed. Cornelius squirmed.

"Ma'am," he said eventually, "if I've overstepped, I apologize, but . . ." She turned to face him as his voice drifted off. She gestured for him to continue. He inhaled deeply and straightened into his elegant ease. "Ma'am," he said earnestly, "just tell me Aegis'll chase this down and won't just let this go. Obviously, there's something bigger than I know here – their investigation, their collar. Just promise me they'll follow through."

The Chief Judge shook her head. "Can't promise you that, Rookie," she said apologetically. "That's a call for whoever's got point . . . and, as of this moment, you've got joint with Aegis." She lifted her hand to forestall his thanks and flicked her head. "Get your perp to A-12 – I'll square things with Aegis. They'll meet you there."

oOo

"You gave him a painkiller, Rookie?" For the second time that day, Dredd looked through mirror-glass at the subject in question. Cornelius, coming through the door to the interrogation room's observation chamber, nodded.

"Yeah," he said wearily. "Hopefully that might stop him bitching for five minutes." He glanced around – other than the two of them, the room was empty. "No sign of Aegis?" he asked. Dredd shrugged.

"I guess not," he growled. "Whoever they are."

Cornelius stepped over to the synthi-caf machine set against the wall. "'Caf?" he asked. Dredd shook his head. Cornelius slipped a presspulp cup under the spout and tabbed one of the buttons. The smell of the scalding liquid was inviting, but the taste as he sipped it was something else. "You know anything about them, Sir?" Cornelius asked.

Dredd shook his head. "Never heard the name before today, Rookie," he admitted. "But level eight is pretty high – a minor division, or a sub-division. Aegis . . ." He ran the word around his mouth.

"It's ancient Greek; the shield of a goddess, the decapitated head of Medusa used to terrify," Cornelius glossed.

The corner of Dredd's mouth twitched. "Academy education's a wonderful thing," he murmured.

Cornelius shrugged modestly. "I like to read," he said.

"What else do you like to do?" asked Dredd abruptly. Cornelius looked at him with a furrowed brow. "When you're off-duty, what do you like to do? You're still on assessment, Rookie," he reminded him.

"Yes, Sir," Cornelius answered. He thought for a moment. "Gotta say I don't get a lot of free time, Sir," he admitted. "With classes, gym, assignments – it's nice to just sit for an hour and read a book. Not much space in the Academy dorms, either – but you know that." Dredd nodded. "My mum paints, oils. Always wanted to try that."

"Academy lined you up with an apartment?" Dredd handled small-talk the way other Judges handled interrogations, but Cornelius didn't mind. He nodded.

"Yes, Sir," he said. "Got my first choice; Dalton hab-block. Moved my stuff in two days ago." He grinned sheepishly. "A pile of books, my uniforms, not much else."

"Already moved," Dredd remarked. "That sure you're going to pass?"

Cornelius shook his head. "That sure I'm leaving the dorms one way or another, Sir," he explained.

"Heh." Dredd didn't quite laugh. He thought for a second. "Dalton hab. That's sector one-nineteen, right?"

Cornelius' face was suddenly unreadable. "Yes, Sir," he said tightly. "Yes, it is."

"Hmm." Dredd stared through the glass at the perp, his hands twitching with impatience. Abruptly, he turned. "Hope this isn't a dead end, Rookie," he growled. "Lot of time cooling our heels." Cornelius swallowed and nodded.

"My apologies, Sir . . ." he began. Dredd shook his head.

"If it wasn't worth it I'd have closed the nutcracker, Rookie," he remarked. "I'd be back at the Academy with Novak saying she told me so. You want to run deep not wide?" He gave a one-shouldered shrug. "Your assessment, your call – how many times do I have to tell you that?"

Cornelius nodded, grateful. "Thank you, Sir."

"Besides," Dredd continued as if Cornelius hadn't spoken, "I want to know about Aegis – level eight clandestine division?" He shook his head. "Can't be good news."

Cornelius once again didn't take the bait to speculate without information or evidence. He stared at his half-empty cup of synthi-caf, grimaced and dropped it in the trash. "Is there ever any other kind?" he asked. Dredd didn't answer.

"Novak says you teach the younger cadets, hand-to-hand – you might continue if you pass?"

Cornelius nodded, seemed to consider. "I think I'd like that, Sir," he said.

"Some Judges split their time." Dredd didn't sound impressed. "Not sure if I agree with it, but the Chief Judge and Principal do. Rawne still teaches knives, right?"

Rawne was a senior member of the SJS – Special Judicial Service, internal affairs – and perhaps the deadliest knife fighter in the city. Cornelius nodded. "Three classes a week, Sir."

Dredd turned and looked at him, his jaw set. "Can you take him, Rookie?" he growled. Cornelius laughed and shook his head.

"Drokk, no!" he exclaimed. "Not with blades, at least," he clarified.

Dredd grunted noncommittally. "Might want to work on that," was all he said.

"That's why I carry a gun, Sir," said Cornelius dryly.

Although it didn't seem quite possible, Dredd actually gave a very small laugh. "Heh-heh," he chuckled. He looked his Rookie up and down. "Yeah," he nodded.

The door to the observation room opened and a single Judge entered, a hardshell folder with a cup of coffee balanced on it in one hand. She was dressed in well-maintained Street fatigues that had seen hard wear, without the armor web or helmet. She was pretty – beautiful, actually, to Cornelius eyes – with a tousled cascade of rich blonde hair framing a heart-shaped face in which sapphire-blue eyes kinked mischievously. Her mouth was wide and generous, rose-pink and – despite its current immobility – held every promise of a wonderful smile. Her badge was clipped to her belt, just above her left hip. Cornelius dropped his gaze there – Dredd said the name aloud as he read it.

"Anderson," Dredd rumbled in greeting. "You're Aegis? Wondered what you'd been doing this last year." Anderson walked to the table, set the file folder down and picked up her coffee.

"Miss me as your partner?" she asked. "You could have looked me up, you know," she reminded him. She sipped her coffee and smiled – Cornelius had been right; she had the most wonderful smile.

"Ma'am," he said by way of formal greeting. She enveloped him with her butcher-blue gaze and more, sliding her awareness around the edges of his mind. She walked towards him, her eyes on her feet, stopped with her toes a boot's length from his. He didn't break from parade-ground ease, didn't quail or take a step back. She lifted her chin, found herself staring at his chest, tilted her neck back so she could look him in the eye.

"John Cornelius," she said softly. She was a clear foot shorter than him, her torso seemingly half his width, compact and slender but with – to his expert martial-artist's eyes – dense muscles and excellent proportions of shoulders, chest, waist, hips and limbs. "Top of his class, Novak's protege, devoted, focused . . ." She glanced over at Dredd. "Conscientious. Pushed the Chief Judge for every good reason. Hmm . . ."

Cornelius was still assessing her; she would be a competent fighter, quick and precise with a possibility of cruelty. This close, he was in range of her scent – clean sweat and polished-leather, unfragranced shampoo and a soap he couldn't place. His lips twisted into a wry grin despite himself. "You read my file or my mind, Ma'am?" he asked.

She turned away, sitting at the table and pulling the file towards her. "It's sandalwood," she said. Cornelius blushed.

"Guess that answers my question," he said. He paused for a beat. "What's Aegis, Ma'am?"

She didn't look up from the file. "Initiative codeword," she said shortly. "Classified, details are need-to-know and," she looked up and smiled apologetically, "you don't need to know." A very quiet rumble deep in Dredd's throat – Cornelius glanced over at him; his assessor was leaning against the glass, looking in at the perp slumped glumly in his chair. The message was plain as day – your assessment, your call.

Cornelius stepped forward, leaned on the table and loomed over Anderson. "I've got joint point on this case, Ma'am," he reminded her softly. "Where's my perp come in?" Very deliberately, her eyes wide with surprise, she closed the file and slid her hips forward, dropping lower in the chair, her feet sticking out between his ankles.

"Are you trying to intimidate me, John?" she asked with a broad grin.

He shook his head. "No, Ma'am," he said firmly. "But," he asked, "if I were, would it work?"

She held his eyes in hers for a few seconds – the gold flecks were fascinating, the broad cheekbones lovely framing for them. His chin was shaved blue, his uniform laser-level precise – but it was the chiseled lips and rich, slightly-ruddy skin-tone that caught her attention. "No," she said. Once again, she brushed her mind against his, pushing in a little deeper this time, probing to see what he knew other people thought about him. "Novak's right," she remarked. She pushed herself back from the table and stood up, turning away and giving him her back.

Cornelius straightened. "I'm tenacious like a robohound?" he asked. She shook her head, but still agreed.

"Yes, but not just that." She looked over her shoulder. "You're handsome, too."

Thick tension in the small room, dense enough to cut with a bootknife. Cornelius narrowed his eyes, took a step towards her. "You flirting with me, Ma'am?" he asked, with a faint air of disgust.

She gave a wicked grin and turned to face him. "No," she assured him. "But, if I were, would it work?"

He folded his arms and set his jaw. "No," he said decisively. Their gazes fenced for a few instants, feeling the fire crackle and roil between them; layers of complex dominance and subordination, instinct and training, anger and attraction. She shrugged, raised a single eyebrow.

"At least one of us is lying," was all she said.

"Let's move this along." Dredd's voice was the crack of a whip, the glare that enveloped them both clear even behind his visor. "You wanted my Rookie's perp – why?"

Anderson sighed and was suddenly, instantly, impossibly all-business, her uniform immediately that of a minor divisional chief even though she hadn't clipped a single speck of bronze to her collar. "We're losing the war for this city," she said. "You both know it. I was given an assessment because the Chief Judge thought my . . . ability could make a difference." She looked at both men, hoping they would understand and believe her. "The number of psychic divergences within the city is increasing – significantly."

Cornelius furrowed his brow. "Psychic divergences?" he asked. He glanced at Dredd. "You mean incidents of psychic power use?" Dredd shook his head.

"She means psyker muties, Rookie," he growled, his eyes on Anderson as he spoke. "'Divergence' is the feel-good term these days."

Anderson's face twisted – neither she nor Cornelius were prepared for the pang of pain her discomfort caused him. "Maybe we want to 'feel good' about ourselves, Dredd," she said acidly. She inhaled deeply and mastered herself. She directed her remarks exclusively at Cornelius. "Yes," she said. "Psyker muties in the city."

Cornelius nodded, understanding. "And the Chief Judge is worried about the potential for crime?" he asked.

"Yes," agreed Anderson, "but not just that. Officially, I'm the most powerful psi the Department has encountered – by a huge margin. But it's not about power – it's about control, the ability to harness it, the ability to not go off the deep end." She turned to the wall, seeming to look straight through it to the city and the Cursed Earth beyond. "There are divergences out there with enough muscle to crush you two like umpty-candy," she explained. "But, a lot of them don't fit together too well." She turned back to them and gave a sickly smile. "Mewling blobs, vestigial limbs, malfunctioning organs – barely make it out of the womb. Pathetic victims of the rad deserts."

"And psis without your control and advantages could be a threat, even if they mean no harm?" Cornelius asked. Anderson nodded.

"It's not easy," she told them. "Doing what I do, being what I am. People's thoughts, emotions, feelings – sloshing about, lapping against your mind, leaking inside. This is a crazy city – eight hundred million people? Social structures crumbling more than the infrastructure? Walls, highways, pollution, mile high buildings, crime like a disease?" She shivered and ran her hands over her face, sweeping her hair back. "Grud knows," she hissed through gritted teeth, "it's a good day if I can get through it without flipping the spug out." She rounded on Dredd. "So, cut me some drokking slack when you bring an Adonis to my investigation and I think he's cute!" he yelled.

Stunned silence echoed in the small room for a second, and then Cornelius asked, "Adonis?"

Anderson turned to him and – suddenly, mercurially, calm and happy – grinned. "You like the reference? I am the goddess with the shield, after all," she quipped. The smile came off Cornelius' face like he'd been slapped.

"Stay out of my head," he told her sharply.

"Quit inviting me in," she retorted. She looked meaningfully at him, felt his mental landscape close up, reverting to ingrained patterns of formalized thought. "Better," she said. She sat down on the edge of the table, lifted her coffee cup again. "Chief Judge wants a squad to handle it – police them, judge them, recruit from them. She tasked me to head it and assemble it."

"How's it going?" asked Dredd.

She shrugged, sharing a glance that could only be appreciated with the experience of inter-departmental pissing contests. "Politics," she said, as if that explained everything. To Dredd, who nodded, it certainly seemed enough.

"And that's Aegis?" asked Cornelius. "This . . . Psi-Division?"

She shook her head. "No, Aegis is something else – codename, classified, compartmentalized." Her voice was deliberately light, dismissive. "But I do like Psi-Division," she added with a grin, saying the name as if to test it. "Nice imagination."

He didn't smile. "Trying not to have one right now, Ma'am," he said tightly. "What's my perp got to do with all this? Snot-nosed hypochondriac punk, shifting hyposprays to some Boost dealer – where's your angle?"

She sipped her coffee, leaned back to reach behind her, crossing her ankles as she did so, her uniform tightening. She pulled the metal folder towards her, flipped the file open and extracted a sheet of paper. "It ain't Boost." She handed the report to Cornelius and took another sip. "That's what Control flagged for me – that perp you slabbed, his poison of choice? They call it Jak – it's a Boost variant. Same effects on reflexes and the central nervous system, but it also targets portions of the cerebral cortex. Bottom line?" She hopped off the table and stood in front of Cornelius, proffering him the full file. "It enhances existing psychic ability, perhaps creates it. Unpredictable, unexpected, uncontrolled."

"That's a big problem," said Cornelius. "And you don't know the source?"

Anderson threw up her hands. "We don't even know how it works," she complained. "The effects seem random. We can't get samples to test it – dealers seem to know when it's being bought for the Justice Department. We've busted no major dealers – they always seem one step ahead of us."

"Did you think maybe they're psychic?" suggested Cornelius dryly. Anderson narrowed her eyes and stuck her tongue out like a child.

"So far, your lead's nothing special – we've been here before." She shrugged. "But, I've got to chase everything down. So, now he's sat there and hopefully got nervous," she took the folder from Cornelius, "I'll go talk to him." She slid past Cornelius, moving between him and the table, twisting her hips and shoulders so she didn't brush against him.

Cornelius reached out and caught her by the upper arm, plucking the file from her grasp as he did so. "My collar, my perp, my interrogation," he said. Slowly, she looked down at the massive hand around her slender bicep, roving her gaze up the bulging forearm. She slid the fingers of her free hand around the cuff of the gauntlet, gradually tightening her grip.

"Wow," she breathed, gazing up at him from under heavy lids. His face twisted and his hand flew off her arm like it was electrified. There was a dangerous confidence in her blue eyes as she addressed him. "Joint lead, Rookie – and I'm not only senior, but a division chief." She tapped the side of her head. "And I can get answers easier than you can." She reached out and gripped the top of the file, but Cornelius didn't let go.

"With respect, Ma'am," he said, "you've already told me you had no luck cracking this case. And I think I can get answers easy enough." He gave a self-deprecating shrug. "Besides," he admitted with a glance at Dredd. "I'm on assessment – don't show me up, huh?"

She looked at him for a second or two and then, wordlessly, pursed her lips so she didn't laugh and snapped her fingers open, letting go of the file. She waited for him to move away, but he didn't, instead craning his neck to look over her at the table. "That the real stuff, Ma'am?" he asked. She turned to see what he was looking at – her coffee – and nodded. "May I?" He was already reaching around her, his hand actually encircling her waist. She bent at the hips, pushing her pelvis forward and her shoulders back, her body arching theatrically to keep his arm a chaste six inches from her body. He picked the coffee up. "Thanks," he said, leaving the room with the file in one hand and the presspulp cup in the other.

Anderson spun to face Dredd. "Grud on a greenie!" she exclaimed. "Where'd you find him?"

oOo

Aaron lifted himself up in the chair as best he could with manacled wrists and a busted ankle when Cornelius entered. "Thought you'd forgotten about me, man," he complained.

Cornelius shook his head, set the cup on the desk in front of him and reached behind him to undo the cuffs. "Naw, man," he said, helping him sit up. "You and me?" He crossed the first two fingers of his left hand and slapped his chest twice with his right fist. "We're tight. Buddies. I brought you coffee – the real deal, man." He pointed at his ankle. "And sorted some PK for you, right? I hooked you up."

Aaron sipped the coffee experimentally. "J-Dept field dressings are opioids – gotta control that stuff. Can't just slam it in there. Did you check if I had any contraindications? Any potential drug interactions?" He looked angry. "Medicine's serious business, man."

Cornelius sat down opposite him, opened the file and read through the first page for a second or two. He looked up. "And you know medicine?" he asked. "You know this serious business? Is that why you're slipping dispensers to narcopushers?"

Aaron's face twisted. He thrust a finger at Cornelius, pointing to emphasize his point. "I'm providing a service, man!" he exclaimed. He got no further before Cornelius, using only his thumb and one finger, caught his wrist and twisted it and him to the surface of the table. "Argh! Drokk it, man, drokk it!" Aaron's cheek was pressed flat, tears and snot mingling with spilled coffee, blowing bubbles through lips compressed against melamine. "You're gonna break my wrist, man!"

"Believe me," said Cornelius calmly, "if I wanted to break your wrist, I'd break your wrist – without so much effort. I know just how much pressure it takes to fracture the carpus and just how much pressure it takes to break you." Abruptly, he let go. Aaron struggled back to sitting upright, cradling his bruised wrist. "A service," Cornelius said slowly.

"Yeah, man," said Aaron. "A service. Tweakers out on the streets, gonna shoot up any which way. Disposable hypospray is hygienic, man. Apepsis, man, apepsis." He looked scornful. "You know what that is?"

"It's asepsis," said Cornelius. "And, yeah, I do." He laughed. "And that only works if they ain't reusing or sharing them. I'm gonna put a crack in your idealism along with your tarsus – street-tweakers don't follow best practices."

"Hey, man," Aaron exclaimed. "That ain't my fault. And there ain't no law against giving out disposasprays. They ain't regulated, man – you can't prove I had any knowledge of what they were going to be used for." He folded his arms triumphantly. "So, you're gonna let me walk outta here."

Cornelius shrugged. "Well, limp," he remarked. "But . . . yeah." His face fell. "Stomm," he said despondently, "I guess you're right – sorry, man." He stood up, folded the file and walked to the door, opening it. "Nothing illegal about giving out disposasprays unless I can prove you knew they'd be used for narcotics." Aaron grinned and struggled to his feet, limping to the door with as much swagger as he could manage. He was half-way through the doorway before Cornelius remarked. "Oh, one more thing . . ."

Aaron turned, to find Cornelius' steel-trap hand grabbing his shoulder, lifting him off his feet and hurling him back into the room. He crashed into the chair in a sitting position, his momentum sending the metal frame squealing across the rough-poured concrete floor in a shower of sparks. The chair would have tumbled over with him in it, but Cornelius was on top of him in a split second, grabbing him around the throat, lifting and slamming him against the wall. The flimsy metal chair rang and clanged underneath Aaron's dangling feet as he gurgled and struggled for air. "You ain't giving 'em out, man!" Cornelius yelled in his face. "You're not running some happy little street clinic giving smears to slidewalkers and cots for tweakers to crash – you're stealing and selling. I've got you banged to rights – now give!" Aaron choked and spluttered, blood-tinged saliva drooling from his lips, his face darkening to purple-red. "Who you selling to? Next link in the chain, perp! Roll on him!"

Aaron's eyes were flickering back in his head, his consciousness dimming. With an expert eye, Cornelius relaxed just enough pressure on his carotid artery to prevent him passing out. Aaron gagged and choked, tried to speak but couldn't. Cornelius relaxed his hand more and lowered him to the ground, holding him upright on his useless ankle. A trickle of blood from his skull smeared the wall behind him. "Yeah, yeah," Aaron croaked, "I'll cop to stealing the box of disposasprays, but I don't remember who I sold them to." His bloodied mouth twisted into a smile and craftiness crept into his eyes. "I guess all this cranial trauma had a negative impact on my long-term memory."

Cornelius glared and tightened his fist, lifting Aaron off his feet again. Briefly, he considered just giving up and calling in Anderson – she could sift through his mind like reading a report. He glanced at the mirror, seeing his own reflection staring back at him. The Judge, the implacable enforcer, upholder and embodiment of The Law, a forbidding figure in black and bronze. Aaron was a fragile, already-broken, sniveling wreck that just needed to be pushed a little harder to fall. He didn't need the psi, yet.

He dropped Aaron, who barely stayed upright, grasping at his throat and coughing. "You give," said Cornelius quietly, "or I throw the book. You understand?"

"Can't prove I knew narco, Judge," Aaron croaked, taunting him. "All you can get me for is theft – and a box of those is cheap-as-chips, man." He laughed, and then hacked and coughed, spitting out a bloody glob of sputum. It splattered on the abdominal plates of Cornelius armor. "What can that get me? Ninety days?" He shook his head. "Man, I got a sister!" he said urgently. "So, for her sake, I don't remember nothing!"

Cornelius dusted his hands off, smoothed his hair, thinking. "Twenty three years, eight months," he said abruptly.

Aaron looked at him with disbelief and horror. "You what, man?" he asked. "You're outta your drokking mind!"

"Twenty three years, eight months," repeated Cornelius. "One hundred forty-four individual disposasprays stolen and sold; ninety days each. You do the math." Delicately, he reached down and dabbed at the spit on his uniform. He lifted his gloved fingertip, showed Aaron the blood-flecked saliva, wiped it on his shirt. "Plus, Judge-assault during investigation of crimes with an aggregate sentence of twenty years or more. El-wopped."

Aaron's face showed incomprehension. "El-wopped? What's el-wopped, man?"

"Life," said Cornelius easily. "Without possibility of parole." Aaron gawked. "How old's your sister?" he asked. "Younger, right? Cute as a button? Friendly? She's just beginning to blossom? What's she gonna do with you in the 'cubes? Make some new friends?"

"Alright!" sobbed Aaron. "Alright! But you've gotta promise me I go down for one count of minor theft and you drokking-well nail this guy, alright? You don't leave any loose ends my sister gets caught in, okay?"

"You know," said Cornelius, "I think you're gonna be really glad this case landed in my lap. Far as I'm concerned you never opened the single box and you sold it as is to a guy who's not going to see daylight for a very long time. Now," he said icily, "give, you snot-nosed punk – before I change my mind."

oOo

Dredd's face was flint. "The Academy, Anderson," he growled. He pushed himself off the window and stepped towards her. "You watch yourself," he warned.

Anderson squared up to her former assessor and partner, hands on her hips. She wasn't the marginal-fail Cadet given a chance to be a Rookie any more, nor a Rookie under assessment, a newbie Judge or even his partner. She was a two-year vet with significant experience and the bronze of a division chief. "He's on assessment," she said dismissively. "If he can't handle me, he can't handle the city."

"Not sure I agree," said Dredd. "But I'm not just talking about him – you know the regulations. Fraternization of any kind is discouraged, romantic liaisons strictly prohibited."

Anderson rolled her eyes, stunned. "You thought that was . . . ?" Her voice trailed off. "Do I have to spell this out for you?" she asked. Dredd didn't react and she shook her head in amazement at his obtuseness. "I guess I do. He's a Rookie on assessment. Level two; temporary, probationary, supernumerary. He's got good grades and better genes and Novak gushes over him? He flashes those chocolate-browns at the Chief Judge and she somehow gives him joint lead on my case?" She shook her head again. "Spug you if you think I'm not going to ride him hard – and there's more than one way to do that. He's uncomfortable with me, he's not ready for it. Out there, in the city? There are girls who practically live in the biosculpting parlors, use pheromone sprays like I use painkillers."

"How is the head?" asked Dredd. The sudden concern threw her for a second. Flustered, she brushed it off.

"No worse than any Street Judge's muscles – I'm just whining," she said. "I'm pushing him because he needs to be pushed, and this is one of the ways I can do it."

Dredd was silent for a moment. "That's your story?" he asked, glaring at Anderson. She held for a second, but broke off before she could wither. "It's the one you're sticking to," Dredd realized.

Anderson turned to the table, realized neither her file nor her coffee were there, lifted her hands as if to hook the thumbs into the loops of her armor web, realized that wasn't there either. She drummed her fingers against her thighs and fiddled with her hair. "He's open to me," she said crisply. "Too open. Too trusting."

"He's a Rookie." Dredd didn't quite offer it as an excuse. "And you're a division chief – he's supposed to trust you."

Anderson snorted. "At the Academy, sure. On the streets? Drokk no, and you know it!" she exclaimed. She stepped towards the window, placed her hand on it and looked through at the young man – only a few years her junior, truly – expertly interrogating a perp by precisely following regs. "I have to teach him people are dangerous," she said softly, "that he needs to lock down."

Dredd didn't move, but to Anderson the shift in his mindscape was comforting as a hug, intimate as a kiss and appropriate as a handshake. "You're bitter." It wasn't a question. "Sounds like you're speaking from particular experience."

Anderson shrugged, not looking at him. "Politics," she said shortly. The weight of his concern didn't waver. She turned to him. "I didn't want to trouble you with it, Joe."

If Dredd were surprised by her using his first name, he gave no sign. "I'm here to be troubled, Anderson," he said.

She didn't respond, instead turning back to look at Cornelius. She reached to turn the audio on, thought better of it. "He's too open," she repeated. "To me particularly." She glanced at Dredd. "Did I turn his head?" she asked plaintively. "If he can't handle me . . ."

Dredd shrugged. "Maybe," he admitted, "but you play pretty rough and some slidewalker would be nursing more than a bruised ego if she tried it on the street. He can't exactly cold-cock a division chief. And," he added, "you're more than a pretty face." Anderson turned to him, puzzled. "He didn't charm the Chief Judge – he stood his ground, made his case, and sounded a lot like you doing it. He wanted to follow through and make a difference."

"Run deep, not wide," Anderson murmured.

"Yeah," said Dredd slowly – after a year without her, he was unused to her insights. "Got his first choice of deployment – sector one-nineteen. Now," Dredd asked, "you tell me – what's he thinking?"

Anderson hung her head. "I'm not a hero," she said. "And I was never in charge of that, it was just my idea." Her generous mouth turned down at the corners. "And that project isn't going all that well," she said glumly.

"Never said you were a hero." Anderson noticed Dredd didn't actually say she wasn't. "He didn't either – but it was your idea. It's your M.O. - maybe his, too. It's not going too well – put a guy like him on the streets, maybe it will."

She snorted. "You think one Judge can make a difference?" she asked scornfully.

Dredd's response was barely a question; "You don't?"

Before she could answer the door opened and Cornelius stepped back in. "I owe you a coffee, Ma'am," he said without preamble. "I've got a target to raid." He held a printout to her – she stepped forward and took it, holding it so Dredd could see too. "Our perp gave up the name of the guy he sold to – got his home address, but I had Control run down his financials. He owns a shop in the atrium of Caledonia – I pulled the drone footage; heat sig doesn't match. It's a front."

"Quick work, Rookie," remarked Dredd. Cornelius shrugged.

"You'll be surprised at the response you get with level eight clearance, Sir," he said dryly. "Tac data is already loaded into our bikes." He addressed Anderson. "Give me the idents of whoever you're sending with us, Ma'am, and I'll get it to them too. I estimate a hour, tops; you'll have prisoners and answers."

Anderson coolly sized him up, glancing at Dredd to see if there was anything she'd missed when she decided there was nothing he'd missed. There wasn't. "Sending with you, Rookie?" she asked. She shook her head. "You can buy me that coffee on the way – I'm coming."

oOo

"Call it, Rookie."

The three of them had stopped just outside the gigantic main door of the Caledonia hab-block, the dirty walls thick with layers of graffiti and hung with blue banners emblazoned with white saltires and flags of cross-hatched color. Inside the door, the scuffed remains of a painted floor mural could be seen – some kind of ugly, spiky plant with a horned horse on either side. In the corner of the atrium a Grud-awful noise wailed – a hairy, red-headed nuisance in a pleated skirt manhandling a collection of pipes attached to a bulging bag.

"If he doesn't have a busking permit it's two years," began Cornelius, "but we're here for the drug bust." He punched up the interior plan of Caledonia. "Presuming there's nothing on the ground that isn't on the map," he said, "there are only two exits – the storefront and a door to the service corridor. I'll crash the front – kick some tables, flash the bronze. I don't want customers to book – could lose a client of the drug operation. I'll hit the door with a glue grenade, secure the storefront, go though into the back." He looked at Dredd. "Can you take the service corridor, Sir? Make sure no-one bails?"

Dredd was conflicted – the plan was solid, a textbook assault – but . . . "You're on assessment, Rookie," he reminded him. "I need eyes on you." He flicked his chin at Anderson. "She can take the back." Cornelius shook his head.

"I'd like her up front with me, Sir," he explained. He turned to Anderson. "You can tell who's packing heat, right, Ma'am?" he asked.

Anderson lifted the lid off her cup and took a generous glug. "This is really good coffee," she remarked. She looked up. "Sure," he said lightly. "Pretty much – I can read guilt, nervousness, hints of intention. Which means we can secure the front quickly so we don't get shot in the back without killing anyone." She looked at Cornelius. "Right, Rookie?" she asked. "That's your plan, huh?"

"You wanted intel, Ma'am?" Cornelius asked. He shrugged. "Slabs don't blab." He reached down and drew his widowmaker from the saddle-holster, shucking one of the magazines and slamming a clip of suppressor rounds in its place. He flipped the shot-selector to that magazine and racked the slide, ejecting the deadly shell and chambering a non-lethal round. "Service corridor is cramped – you might not have enough room to swing a shotgun, but if you can use daystick and stun rounds I'd appreciate it," he said to Dredd. The older lawman looked impassive.

"I can watch him and report, Dredd," Anderson offered.

Dredd tossed his head. "You think he needs it?" he asked. He swung himself off his bike, drawing his lawgiver and deploying his daystick with a wicked krak! "Gimme two minutes to get in place."

oOo

Anderson didn't like to admit it, but the three-feet of the widowmaker shotgun was sometimes too-much of a handful for her to effectively use, especially in the confined space of the storefront. She drew her lawgiver as she and Cornelius strode through the atrium. As they neared the store, the door opened and a customer walked out, a plastic bag of purchases in his hands. Anderson paused briefly, her hand on his shoulder stopping him, her concentration palpable. "Clean," she said, "but quit lying to your wife." She marched past him without another word.

"You scare me," Cornelius with feeling. He reversed his grip on the shotgun, shoving the store door open with the butt and stepping through in one smooth motion.

"Good," said Anderson from behind him. She kicked the door shut, reaching out across the landscapes of the patrons' and clerks' minds. She grabbed the viscosity ordinance from the back of her belt, snapping the chemphial with her thumb and slapping it on the latch of the door. "Blue shirt, your four," she said crisply.

Cornelius took one step back and to his right, turning to place his body between Anderson and the perp she'd flagged. Blue-shirt's hand was barely lifting from his side as Cornelius drove the butt of the shotgun into his throat and jaw, sending him crashing back into a display carousel. As he slumped, the glue grenade detonated with a suppressed gloop!, the oxygen-activated epoxy hardening instantly in the air, fusing the door shut. The blue shirt swung open, revealing a greasy white vest stuffed with fat belly and a heavy pistol with a sawn barrel in a shoulder rig. "Concealed and illegally modified weapon," Cornelius said automatically. "Three years."

"Behind the counter," said Anderson. Cornelius raised the shotgun to his shoulder, taking another step so he was once again between her and the target. The proprietor – an attractively-dressed woman with a striking face well-made-up – had her hands under the counter. She'd managed to half-clear the pump-action shotgun before the suppressor round hit her in the chest. The cloud of microcapacitor beads, linked by the net of conducting filaments, expanded from the barrel, enveloping her torso with a crackle of chained lightning. She crashed, twitching, to the ground.

"On your knees!" snapped Cornelius, sweeping his gaze and the barrel of the widowmaker around the room – his height and proximity to Anderson allowed him to move it above her so she didn't impede any line of fire. "Hands on your heads! If you're innocent, all I'm wasting is your time." He looked at Anderson. "We clear, Ma'am?"

She nodded. "I think so." She wasn't expecting the weapon discharge, and flinched from the roar in her ear, painfully audible even though the plugs, as Cornelius fired over her head. She whipped around, to see a thick-set man falling to the ground caught in the electrical net of a suppressor round. "Well, I did say 'pretty much'," she quipped. He had a pistol already drawn and in his now-nerveless fingers. "Thanks." Cornelius nodded, distractedly, his attention on other potential targets unwavering. They were all on the floor, hands on their heads, one child wailing and the mother trying to comfort him without disobeying orders.

Cornelius made a decision, an acceptable risk. "Cuddle him," he told her. He didn't wait for a response, instead sweeping around the counter and into the back of the store, Anderson following in his wake. He found himself in a small stockroom, shelves on the walls, no doors. He shouldered the shotgun, yanked a set of shelves clear one-handed and brought the gun back to bear, switching the shot-selector to the alpha magazine. "Ready?" he asked Anderson.

She demurred. "I'm just observing, Rookie," she reminded him.

"Right," Cornelius agreed. "Observing." He blew out the hinges of the concealed door, barging the cementboard panel with his shoulder as he switched back to suppressor rounds, ramming through into the hidden narcofab behind. "You're all under arrest!" he yelled. "Face down, on the ground! Move, move, move!"

The narcofab was typical of such things – a wide-open space filled with a makeshift assembly-line on cheap prefab metal tables, latticework catwalks suspended above. The workers – impoverished-looking lowlives in dirty labcoats with cheap dustmasks over their mouths and noses – screamed and scattered. Cornelius took a single step into the room, spinning around and aiming upwards into the danger-zone of the corner above him. Fluorescent lights flared, neon tubes bursting as the suppressor rounds smashed into them as well as the gunman above. He tumbled off the catwalk, crashing to the floor in a shower of broken glass, other lights shattering sequentially as the shock-current overloaded their capacitors.

Anderson advanced into the room, immediate crouching down behind a solid crate, a two-handed grip on her lawgiver, choosing her targets with care. Three shots put three men, twitching and stunned, on the floor. Cornelius lifted the widowmaker, blasting suppressor rounds into anyone running and not surrendering. He was standing in the open, legs braced, his concentration a solid pillar in Anderson's awareness, the whole tactical situation held perfectly in his head. He chose his shots based on who would be able to fire on him, ignoring those already shell-shocked by his assault.

The workers had, almost to a man, run rather than surrender, trying to exit out the back. Shouts and confusion, bellowed orders from Dredd and the unmistakeable sound of a couple of stun rounds rang out. The workers came stumbling back into to the narcofab, hands on their heads, driven there by Dredd with a few judicious daystick blows.

The room was filling with acrid smoke – the mercury-fume of shattered lights, but also from a fire started where a suppressor round had caught the glass tangle of a narco still. The Judges' visors switched to enhanced vision, Anderson beginning to regret her tendency to leave her helmet at the Hall of Justice. She reached for her goggles and respirator.

The beta magazine of the shotgun ran dry, the weapon automatically cycling to lethal rounds. Cornelius didn't want to kill anyone he didn't have to – he snapped on the safety and slung it over his shoulder, securing it with hidden electromagnets to the carapace plates of his armor web.

At that moment, as he was unarmed and distracted with stowing his weapon, his breathing and vision impaired by smoke and chemicals, a hulking brute of a man burst through a row of boxes, scattering them, and charged him with a roar, barreling into Cornelius like a freight train.

The Judge was tall and solid, but the perp – perhaps an inch shorter – was heavier; a dense core of solid muscle wrapped in a thick layer of fat, a steroid-junkie powerlifter. He was tripped out on something – likely Boost – his pupils pinpricks and his mouth foaming as he bellowed in rage. The impact lifted Cornelius off his feet, the hulk wrapping his ape-like arms around the Judge's chest, charging forward, crashing into tables heedless of impact, smashing through glass and boxes. The intent was clear – slam the Judge into the wall, crush him between brickwork and three-hundred-fifty pounds of fast-moving muscle, wind him, snap ribs, finish him off at his leisure.

Cornelius' left arm was pinned to his side, but his right – where it had been stowing the widowmaker – was free. He tightened his fist and brought his elbow down on the giant's back with tremendous force and a surgically-precise blow. There was an ugly snap; ribs broke, the shoulder separated. The giant didn't feel it – the adrenaline and narcotics roiling through his bloodstream anesthetized him – but no force on earth could keep strength in his arm. It sagged limply, Cornelius slipping from his grasp, getting battered by pounding knees as he fell to the ground.

The Judge twisted, tangling the perp's calves in his boots, wrenching himself upright even as the giant tumbled and faceplanted. Cornelius stood, his bootknife gleaming in his hand, a thin gloss of crimson on the blade. At his feet, the hulk lay face-down, a gradually-spreading lake of blood underneath him. Cornelius bent, wiped his knife clean on the perp's clothes and sheathed it. Breathing heavily, clutching cracked ribs and favoring his untwisted knee, he grabbed the heavy guy by the shoulder and, with an effort, flopped him over onto his back. Ropes of intestines, blue and red and white, spilled from the disemboweling abdomen wound like laundry from a basket. Slowly, his hand on his knee, Cornelius painfully straightened. "Drokk me," he muttered.

"Clear!" Dredd yelled from the back of the room. Behind the crate near the entrance, Anderson scanned what she could see.

"Clear!" she called, leaping up, out of cover, and rushing to offer the limping Cornelius support.

But she'd made an elementary mistake; with a three Judge team, complex interior topography, blocked lines of sight, each should call 'clear' based on what he could see, sweeping the structure room-by-room or zone-by-zone until the commander himself announced 'all clear'. Perhaps it was because hierarchy was ambiguous here; she, a division chief; Dredd, the senior Judge; Cornelius, the Rookie – his assessment, his call.

Regardless of the reason, she exited cover in an uncleared environment, compassion for the battered Rookie driving her forward, holstering her lawgiver as she moved, reaching for her medikit. Cornelius' head whipped around, looking up and to the right. "Ma'am, down!" he yelled.

But it was too late – she turned to follow his gaze, her hand fumbling for her pistol, to see a final gunman on a gantry high above pointing a high-powered rifle directly at her heart. Time seemed to slow as he slid his finger onto the trigger and squeezed.

A/n : A note on terminology; the movie used the term "psychic" to refer to people with mental powers (and, presumably, as an adjective for those powers themselves). The comics often use "psi" (pronounced like the guy who made the "Gangam Style" song). I've used "psi" as the noun referring to people, "psychic" as the adjective and "psyker" (taken from Warhammer 40K and other sources – appropriate, given the historical links between Games Workshop and 2000AD) as a semi-pejorative noun for psis.

Although it has little (if any) impact on the plot, this story runs over three days – the action opens on March 24th 2101, the next morning (which begins in part III) is March 25th, and the closing scene of part III takes place on March 26th.

You're at the bottom of the screen, where the review box is! Please – so I know what you think, so I can write better stories, stories people want to read – just take a minute or two to type what you thought and hit submit. If you sign it, I'll write back and I will review your stuff – promise!