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Chapter Six : Out With The Old . . .

Cal smiled at the gaudy, iridescent flashes of multicolored scales weaving their way dumbly through the plants and rocks and itty-bitty castle. "Do you like fish, Judge Anderson?" he asked.

"Don't often get to eat it, Sir," she said dryly, "not on my salary. Dredd and I took down a juvie gang vandalizing a church a couple of weeks ago. It was a Friday, they had a fish-fry. Priest was kind enough to give us some wrapped in a screamsheet. Chips, salt and vinegar, and some green mush. Think it was vat-grown, but it tasted good."

The Deputy Chief Judge turned to face her, smiling thinly. "Really, Judge Anderson?" he asked.

"The joke? Nervous habit, I'm afraid," she said with neither apology nor smile. "Or do you mean me telling the head of IA my partner and I accepted inducement from a leader of an organization officially designated 'potentially subversive' by the Department?"

Cal's smile deepened – he couldn't help but admire her moxie, her confidence, her excellent political antennae and skills at manipulation. It was a shrewd move by the Chief Judge to have chosen her, and he made a very quick calculation if more was to be gained by aiding or breaking her. "It'll take more than that to get you out of this assignment," was all he said.

"I could go trip-six," she offered mockingly. Her hand hovered level with but a clear foot away from her hip and lawgiver. Cal laughed.

"I'd prefer you didn't, Judge Anderson – getting mud out of the cushions is one thing; blood out of the carpet, however . . ." He switched his incongruous playfulness off. "What do you think?" he asked, gesturing at the folder.

Anderson stood and walked to the 'windows', standing with her nose inches from the glass. Even at this distance, the effect was flawless – she wondered how it was done, how the view shifted stereoscopically as she moved closer and turned her head, how things blurred to her vision as she shifted her focus to nearer or farther objects. She looked down at the folder in her hands. "I think I should have seen this coming," she said, a little bitterly.

"I wasn't aware you were precognitive," Cal remarked. "There is a Cadet, detailed in appendix A, . . ."

Anderson slammed the folder shut and spun to face him; he'd out-joked her, pushing past her breaking point. "Do I get her, Sir?" she snapped. "You want me to head up a mind-crimes squad; but it's clandestine, need-to-know, off-the-books, my only resources will be auxiliaries or leveraged Judges? Chief Judge isn't presenting this to me – you are, after you and your boy with the sticky mind undressing me with his eyes tried to get me for IA. What is that?" she asked. "Cover? If this goes south and you need to burn me, she can clean her hands with plausible deniability and you can go to apologetically to the Council and say you so wanted to have the crazy mutie reined and muzzled with SJS, but you made a mistake?"

Cal just looked at her for a second – a second during which she held herself at quivering attention and wondered if she hadn't gone too far. "I would never call you 'mutie', Judge Anderson," Cal said softly but with dreadful control. "And I will make anyone who does wish he'd drawn a one-way to Aspen. But other than that?" He gave a wintry smile. "You're absolutely right."

The candor hit her like a widowmaker round in the gut. "Sir?" she asked.

"Your . . . abilities were always classified," Cal explained, "but speculation about them – and suspicion of you – has spread via the powdervine. The Chief Judge has enemies – as do we all; but hers become enemies of the city and justice itself if they weaken her or call her judgment into question. The Chief Judge believes in you – as do I; appointments to the Special Judicial Service are not offered as party favors, Judge Anderson . . ."

"I realize that, Sir – thank you for the vote of confidence, Sir, but . . ."

"I was speaking, Judge Anderson," Cal said pleasantly, "kindly shut the drokk up until I'm done. We have the utmost confidence in your abilities – and I mean that in the broadest sense possible – to engage and sentence, to administer and recruit from psychic divergences in the city and perhaps beyond."

"Divergences," repeated Anderson softly. "Thank you, Sir."

"Like I said," Cal told her, "I would never call you mutie. This is not a straightforward assignment, I understand that, and I realize the limitations we have placed on you to protect the Department do not make it easier. Beyond the obvious difficulties of adjudicating what you perhaps accurately call 'mind-crimes' without a clear framework, there are political considerations. But, to repeat, the Chief Judge and I have confidence in you. This is a first; neither Mega City Two nor Texas City – in fact, no-one we are aware of – has established any kind of psychic Judicial force."

"Can't imagine the Sovs haven't," Anderson mused. "There were reports during SoAz . . ."

"Quite," agreed Cal. "Can you imagine the danger to the city, to our way of life, if they have that advantage and we do not? The Department cannot afford to let the opportunity you represent – not only the most powerful psi we have encountered, but also a highly-skilled and -decorated Judge with an excellent record and phenomenal command potential – to either pass us by or be jeopardized by scuttlebutt within the Department. Your squad needs clandestine anonymity for its own protection as well as that of the city – once it has stabilized, grown and proven itself I am certain it will be an asset which cannot be lightly dismissed."

Anderson nodded slowly, mollified not only by Cal's praise and the flattering warmth of being included on heavy-bronze politics for the first time, but also the fact she couldn't psynse even a hint of deception from him. "Thank you, Sir," she said.

"So, do you accept the new assignment?" asked Cal.

Her eyebrows went scrambling up in surprise. "I have a choice?" she asked.

"About whether to obey orders?" Cal asked. "Absolutely not. About whether or not you accept the assignment? Of course you do." He fixed her with a gimlet gaze. "Well?" he asked.

She gave the impression of considering – the actual choice had been made months or years before, of course; ambition was burned out of Judges at the Academy, but it was replaced with a solid faith in the decisions of those above you. If you were offered bronze, no matter how ludicrously heavy it might seem, you stepped up and took a swing because you knew those offering it knew you could knock it out the park even if you didn't believe you could. Anderson, Psi Division she thought to herself. It had a nice ring to it.

"I'm your huckleberry," she said.

Cal beamed. "Excellent, Judge Anderson, excellent!" he exclaimed. "Congratulations. I shall have the paperwork filed immediately. If you could move to your new facilities tomorrow morning . . . ?"

She nodded. "I'll clean out my locker this evening, say goodbye to the guys at the Sector House," she said. "That is, if that's okay? I won't disclose any details of my assignment, but if I don't . . ." Cal nodded, understanding.

"Quite so, Judge Anderson, quite so," he agreed. "Good thought." He stepped towards the table and lifted the plate, offering it to her. "Don't forget your cake – I'm sure that will sweeten the bitter departure for them."

oOo

Vanderbilt left the Hall of Justice and walked briskly across the plaza, heading towards the sector 3 transit terminal. It was busy with the mid-afternoon rush, but her height and bearing let her move easily though the crowds. She ducked into the bathroom, entering a stall and quickly stripping out of her immaculate uniform. Underneath she was wearing a skin-tight pair of black elastane leggings and a form-fitting white T-shirt. She folded the gray tunic and pants into a neat pile and exited the restroom, walking briskly towards the automated MCPS store. Out of uniform now, nothing of her figure left to the imagination and no mystery about what she was wearing under the figure-hugging clothes – very little, as it happened – she turned more than a few heads. She pretended to neither notice or enjoy the attention she got from the commuters; jealousy from the women, admiration and lust from the men.

She bought a flat-rate box from the automat and ignored the robot's pre-programmed conversational gambits. She put her uniform in the box, sealed it and addressed it to her new office in sector 27. From other automats she bought a couple of sports drinks, some candy and a self-heating sack-snack, and then took the underground to the Morgantown Railhead.

The subterranean magrail consisted of fully-automated hermetically-sealed cars levitated within and pushed through dedicated airless tunnels by magnetic constriction. Nothing short of a major disaster or terrorist attack delayed the timetable, and although it only ran between a few major transport hubs it was the fastest way to get around Mega City One; the cars never dropped below 250mph and on the longer straight runs exceeded 300. It was barely forty minutes later that the train eased to a smooth halt and Vanderbilt walked across the platform and took the escalator to ground level.

The Morgantown Railhead was about fifty miles due south of the Pittsburgh Gate. It was here that the transcontinental railroads came through the boundary wall, bringing bulky goods from Mega City Two, Texas City or even farms and mines in the Cursed Earth. Most of the trains were fully-automated, crewed by dedicated robots with quasi-independent processors slaved to a central computer in the caboose. They came through the wall via a heavily-armored gate into a unloading dock and cargo staging area – also, as was common, staffed by simple-minded robotic forklifts. This and other commercial infrastructure was separated from the rest of the terminal, a major transportation hub for the citizens, by fences and patrolling security guards.

Vanderbilt checked the time and hurried through the terminal, sticking to the shadows as she moved towards the commercial area. A few minutes reconnoitering found a place where the razor-wire was missing from the top of the chain-link fence. Glancing either way to make sure she was not observed, she jumped and grabbed the top of the fence, scrambling over to land crouching on the other side. A second after she hit a challenge rang out, "Hey!"

Her reaction was automatic – she snatched up a handful of gravel and leaped to her feet, sprinting towards the guard. He grabbed went for his collar radio and started to draw his flashlight-baton, but she was used to fighting Judges and he was just far too slow. He yelped and clutched at his face as the gravel hit him in the eyes. Running full-tilt, her knee hit him in the stomach and doubled him over, her elbow crushing the back of his neck. She grabbed him by the hair and hauled him upright, snatching the heavy flashlight from his belt. She threw him against a shipping container and smashed him across the clavicles with the barrel of the torch. He gave a choking scream and slumped down.

Dispassionately, not even particularly out of breath, she stood silently, every sense on alert for alarms or running feet. She could hear nothing except the soft hubbub of the railhead and the wheezing gasps coming from the guard's crushed windpipe. Tiring of the noise she flipped the flashlight in her hand, jerked the cap from his head, and stoved in his temple with a single, judicious blow.

She tucked the flashlight under her arm and set the cap on her head, dragging him into a narrow gap between two shipping containers. He wasn't small or short by any means, but she handled his corpse easily and without any revulsion. She efficiently stripped him of his uniform coveralls, pulling them on herself. They were mass-produced, barely tailored and utilitarian. Even so, she could make them look good – she cinched the belt tight around her waist and tucked the hems of the pants into her boots. She was buttoning the chest when a wicked thought took her; she stripped out of the jacket and let it hang around her waist as she peeled off her T-shirt. She was naked beneath it, her enhanced breasts needed no more support than the tight undergarment provided. She slipped her arms back into the coverall, leaving it unbuttoned to her navel so she had the ultimate cleavage.

She did want Rico to be happy to see her, after all.

She peered out from between the shipping containers, making sure she wasn't being watched. Satisfied, she walked briskly towards the unloading dock. She arrived with a few minutes to spare; the train wasn't here yet and the platform was deserted except for a few dumb robots and a single guard sitting bored in a booth. No matter how disinterested he looked, there was no way he would miss the alarms when she walked onto the track – he'd have to be dealt with.

She walked boldly up to the booth, her hand ready to draw the flashlight at a moment's notice. The guard looked up as she approached, his eyebrows going scrambling up in surprise. "Whaa . . . ?" he began. His eyes seemed glued to her breasts – even if she were going to leave him alive, there was no way he could have given a description of her face. He chuckled and nodded. "I get it," he said. "Kurt put you up to this, right? Revenge for that grinder dressed as a Judge I got for his stag night?" He glanced at his watch. "Alright," he said, "but you've got to be quick – train's coming in in three minutes." He reached out and grabbed her lapel so she was pulled towards him, one of her fine breasts spilling out. "Woah . . ." he murmured, his eyes greedy as his other hand reached out almost of its own volition to cup the firm mound.

His fingers never made it – her fist crashed into his groin with the force of a jackhammer. Before the pain reached his vocal cords, the heel of her other hand had come up under his chin and her thumb-and-forefinger were squeezing his nose, pinning his airways shut and the scream inside his throat. She grabbed his shoulder and twisted with surgical precision. His neck snapped with a grisly crunch of gristle.

She let go of his corpse, slipping herself inside her clothes once more and wiping her hands on her thighs. Craning her neck she could see the headlamps of the engine coming down the track. She carefully arranged the body so it looked like he was sleeping in the booth and turned her attention to the control board. It wasn't hard to decipher – it was designed to be operated by minimum-wage doofuses only one step up from losing their jobs to robots. The train came into sight and eased to a stop a few feet from the buffers. It was bulky and blocky, high and square sided, the paintwork scratched here and there but bright and gleaming; water ran off the sides and pooled on the ground beneath the track, streaming onto the platform – as it entered the city, it had run through a decontamination shower to sluice off the rad-dust. The board lit up – all she had to do was confirm each detail as it appeared, giving the robots authorization to start unloading the cargo. She hit each control in turn, switching all of them to green, and then muted the alarms and confirmed that she was sure when asked.

She hurried out of the booth, weaving between the bustling forklifts and dropping off the platform onto the track. The robots ignored her, mono-mindedly concentrating on their tasks. She ran down the train, ducking to look under each car. Under the third one from the front she found what she was looking for – a man in a bulky enviro-suit clinging to the underside between the bogies. "Rico!" she called. "Rico, baby! It's me!"

The man didn't move – the noise under the train as it rattled over the tracks through the Cursed Earth must have been deafening, and the over fifty-hour ride without food or water numbing. She crouched and waddled under the carriage, reaching out to touch him. The armorweave outer skin of the suit was gritty and scoured, the thick layers meaning he wouldn't feel her touch. She shook him by the shoulder. "Rico!" she exclaimed.

The figure's head turned toward her slowly – he couldn't see; there was a thick hood drawn over the fragile visor of the helmet, the front edge fastened to the chest of the suit. His arms and legs trembled as he unhooked them from where they had been locked around stanchions and supports for over two days. She hastened forward and caught him as he fell, cushioning his impact with her own body. "Rico, baby!" she sobbed, fumbling for the latches and zippers of the suit. "It's okay, baby – your honey's here!"

She tore the hood back – the visor was streaked with dust, scratched to opacity even under the protective cloth. She tugged at the helmet until it came off; her lover stared back at her, his thin, pale and drawn face a dead-eyed mask of weariness. His lips were puffed and cracked with dehydration, and a disgusting stench of recirculated air and two-days of bodily waste wafted up to hit her in the nose. None of that mattered – she flung herself at him and embraced him furiously. "You did it, baby!" she gasped between kisses. "You did it!"

He didn't respond, lying limp in her arms, his lips only wet with her kisses. "Water . . ." he gasped.

She nodded, pleased with her forethought, and set him gently on the ground. "Here, baby," she said, lifting his head so he could sip the electrolyte-rich liquid. "Drink it slowly, don't gulp. Got some candy, too – your favorite. And a thick, juicy munceburger with real facon."

Rico sipped carefully; he felt the drink glug through his body, almost fancying he could feel the moisture soaking through every fiber of his dedicated body, restoring life to a long-dead desert. He wasn't much given to metaphor or imagination – Judicial training and the rigors of prison life had made him direct and to the point – but there was something appropriate about it. He smiled as he thought about it; he, Rico Dredd, left for dead, left to rot in the grave of Aspen, coming back to Mega City One. This was more than his return – this was his resurrection.

He took a large gulp of the enriched water and set the bottle aside, sitting up and grabbing a piece of candy from Vanderbilt's offered hand. It was one of the gooey mint patties he preferred – they had been rare in Aspen, not often available to buy in the shop even for trustees and commanding high prices on the prison black market, and it had been years since he'd had one. He stuffed it greedily into his mouth, barely tasting it, enjoying the luxurious jolt of sweet energy.

Vanderbilt smiled at his look of childlike-joy as he chewed messily, a small cleft of worry appearing on her forehead when she saw a cloud pass over his face. She picked up the sack-snack and tore the plastic strip away, ripping the bag open. As the inner surface of the vacuum-sealed bag came into contact with the air, it began to steam and smoke, heating the meal inside.

It was the thick, juicy scent of hot, greasy munceburger that brought Rico from his memories – memories of him and his brother when they were junior Cadets, saving their meager weekly allowance to buy these peppermint candies from the commissary; memories of he, Rico, sharing his stash with him, Joe, after an error in class got his candy confiscated. He shook himself and started, licking his lips as his mouth watered, reaching out to grab the burger, hot grease burning his fingers as took a massive mouthful and chewed noisily.

He ate messily, stuffing his face and not worrying about bits of half-chewed food that dropped from his mouth. As he ate, Vanderbilt prattled excitedly. "You did it, baby!" she exclaimed. "Everything went okay? You killed the guards and got into the enviro-suit and used the grav-shute to get out of there before the firebug went off? You weren't hurt when you landed? I can find a doctor if you were . . . it wasn't too far to Butte Junction, was it? You must be exhausted. Oh, Rico!" she sighed. "I'm so happy you made it, baby!"

He gulped and stuffed the last of the burger into his mouth, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. He took another glug from the bottle. "Yeah, honey," he said distractedly, "me too. Bring me up to speed – where are you with the rest of the plan?"

If Vanderbilt was offended by him dismissing her care, she didn't show it. "I was very clever, baby," she explained eagerly, "you'll be proud of me. I've found out all sorts of stuff – your brother's getting a new partner, his old one's going to a new assignment. There's a gang called Los Santos – he was going to hit them tonight, but the Chief Judge has put someone else on that. I think the raid's still gonna happen."

Rico turned to her, his eyes flint. "You saw my brother?" he asked. Suddenly fearful, she gulped and nodded. "How's he look?"

"Good?" she ventured nervously. "I mean, he looks like you – not as handsome as you, and he doesn't care like you do, but . . . like you, baby. That was always the plan, right? You're pleased about that, aren't you?" she begged. He looked away and his lips twitched in anger. "I got us an in with the Justice Department," she said urgently. He turned to look at her, half-smiling. "The contact I'd made before? Who had beef with your brother? I persuaded him to give me level two access; that's the same as a Rookie gets. I should only have level one as an auxiliary – now I'm not running Aspen even that should be restricted. But with level two, we can get details on this gang, find out who their leaders are, use that as leverage." She smiled with coquettish triumph, set her shoulders back and shimmied them a little so her full breasts jiggled with heavy allure. "I guess he . . . liked me," she explained lusciously.

Rico nodded slowly. "He didn't . . . ?" he asked, a dangerous edge to the question.

"Oh baby, no!" she exclaimed. "I'd never . . . I'm just for you, baby. They can look, but they can't touch." She smiled again and batted her eyelashes at him, looking from under heavy lids. She lay her fingertip lightly on her collarbone and drew it slowly down her cleavage. "I dressed like this for you special . . ." she purred suggestively.

Mollified, Rico shrugged himself out of the battered enviro-suit. He was wearing a prisoner's florescent jumpsuit beneath it. The fact he'd survived, that he'd made it through the Cursed Earth back to Mega City One, invigorated him. The way the plan was falling into place perfectly encouraged him. And Vanderbilt's gorgeous body, so sluttily and wantonly displayed for him and him alone, fired him. He grabbed her by the back of the neck and jerked her roughly forward, mashing his lips against hers and kissing her brutally. Her arms encircled him eagerly as his other hand slid inside her coverall, his fingers encompassing the massive bounty of her breast, the pad of this thumb tweaking the puckered hardness of her nipple. "And I like it, honey," he grunted hot and wet in her ear, his lips roving over her neck as she flung her head back and groaned in pleasure. "Let's find some no-tell-motel that rents rooms by the hour and make the walls shake, and then go see if we can't get ourselves a gang."

oOo

Dredd didn't bother turning on the light when he entered his apartment that evening – he knew the layout perfectly and the streetlights filtering faintly through the windows provided enough illumination. He dropped his bag by the door and unfastened his belt, pulling out his lawgiver to toss it on the table together with the take-out pizza he'd bought. Deep dish, stuffed crust, hydroponic-grown veggies, mushrooms, and whitemeat chikin. He walked to the bathroom, peeling off his uniform as he did so, stepping into the shower and just standing there for five minutes while the water pounded his battered body, sluicing off the sweat, dirt and blood, running over the bruises and scars.

His arms hung heavy at his sides, the weight of his swollen knuckles pulling them down, his shoulders slumping. He bowed his head and leaned it against the cool tile, letting the water slam into the back of his neck and flow down his spine. Only when the heat got uncomfortable did he straighten and reach for the soap.

He'd not taken the elevated express highways home from the CapZone, instead using surface streets to get to sector 13 and Yates hab-block. Inevitably, this had left him – even off-duty as he was – with no choice but to help out his fellow-Judges, engaging and sentencing in sectors not his own, burning hours of his evening when he could have been at the sector house or home. It had occupied his mind, leaving him without the luxury of brooding thought – but now, as he scrubbed, enjoying the feel of getting clean, of being out of the uniform, unencumbered by duty and armor, his thoughts turned to Rico. Showers for his brother couldn't have been like this, not for twenty years. Had he had to watch his back, eyes sliding furtively as he scrubbed quickly, wary of violence or worse? Had there been water for washing high in the Rockies, in the center of the Cursed Earth rad-desert? Or had it been a luxury unavailable to prisoners? There certainly wouldn't have been take-out pizza, or noodles, or beer, or candy. He smiled as he remembered the gooey peppermints he and his brother had enjoyed when cadets. It had been a long time since he'd tried one – he wondered if they still tasted as good.

And now his brother was dead, killed in a freak accident. He'd meant what he said to Vanderbilt – that Rico had served his time, that he had a right to go where The Law allowed, unhindered unless he offended again. It was ironic, like a Judge being cut down a week before he put on a Tutor's uniform; Rico had died mere hours from freedom. Maybe it was better this way – could Rico have kept his nose clean, or would he have returned to crime? And what would he, Joe, have done if the Chief Judge had told him Rico was alive and well in Mex-Cit, sipping margaritas and flirting with the chicas in some dingy bar? Would he have found an excuse to go there, suited-and-booted in the black-and-bronze, convincing himself but not Rico his interest was professional? Would he have had the guts to take some of his accumulated-but-never-used leave and gone there in mufti, sinking a cold Corona with his brother and seeing if something could be salvaged? How might either of those scenarios have ended?

He'd never know now. A man of supreme control, he merely clenched his fist and pressed it hard against the tile, muscles bunching. He slammed the water off and stepped out of the shower, roughly drying himself and wrapping the towel around his waist. He lived alone and had no plans to be anywhere else that evening. Moving on autopilot, he reached for the hypno/stim dispenser, programming the machine to mix the time-release capsule that would put him deep into REM sleep in minutes, keep him there for as long as possible and then wake him to crystal-clear clarity in time for his shift. And then he paused, calculating in his head. Oh-nine-hundred shift – that meant a seven-thirty alarm; ten and a half hours away. More than enough time to enjoy his pizza, watch some mindless dreck on TV, and still get a solid eight without drugs.

He found one beer in the fridge, hiding at the back next to a packet of slopdogs that had expired the year before – he couldn't even remember buying it. He popped the cap and slumped on his couch, opening the pizza and flicking the TV on. It was tuned to the news channel – he watched it while getting ready in the morning, reviewing the crime briefing via HUD as he drove in. He surfed through the channels as he munched the pizza and swigged the beer, eventually landing on a brain-dead action movie; a ridiculous plot where some pretty-boy martial artist played twin brothers, fighting himself through split-screen effects and unconvincing doubles. It wasn't a good movie, but it aired often – it was cheap for the station, and the unnecessary grind-bar scenes with their gratuitous nudity made it popular. Dredd had never watched it all the way through – he always flicked off it, the subject matter hitting a little to close to home even through the cornball dialog and sets. But now he left it on, relaxing on his couch and letting his mind wander.

He was tired from his shift, and the couch was comfortable and the beer surprisingly strong. He was asleep by the middle of the third act, and so he never saw how the final confrontation between the brothers played out. But neither did he need to – there was, after all, only one way those things ended in the movies.

oOo

"Are those tears, Judge?"

Anderson turned at Matheson's voice. Unashamedly, she wiped at her eyes. "Yes, boss," she said.

The Sector Chief nodded judiciously. "Guess that tells me, huh?" he remarked.

He and Anderson were alone in the squad-room, but the table was strewn with an untidy litter of synthi-caf cups, plastic forks and plates, and greasy napkins that had either been used for eating slopdogs or cleaning guns; perhaps both. The chief sighed at the mess; it was the unmistakeable sign of a hurried departure; his Judges had just rolled out on the Los Santos raid. Anderson was circling the table, throwing the trash into a plastic bag. "Leave it for the robots," he said.

Anderson shrugged. "Don't wanna leave it untidy, you know, boss?" she said, her voice tight and her eyes misty. She knotted the bag and stuffed it into the garbage, grabbing a cloth and bottle of cleaner from the side of the sink. She sprayed the tabletop, energetically wiping. Matheson stepped forward and caught her wrists.

"Leave it for the robots," he repeated. He could feel the tension in her arms for a second and then she nodded and relaxed. "The guys are pigs, I know," he said sympathetically.

"Yeah, well, Colt ain't much better," she snorted. "Hate to see her apartment."

"Pristine, apparently," he said. "She has a robot," he added meaningfully. She finally laughed. "Gonna miss you, Anderson," he said with feeling. "You're a good Judge, one of the best."

She chuckled. "You know I can read your mind, right?" she joked.

He narrowed his eyes as he looked at her. "Do you?" he asked darkly. She shook her head.

"Don't need to," she said. "You put me in for a string of commendations as long as my arm – either you think I'm a good Judge or . . ." Her voice trailed off.

"Or what?" he asked.

She shrugged. "Like I said," she grinned, "I didn't read your mind. If you are crazy, you can take that to resyk."

Matheson smiled – he was definitely going to miss her; her insights, her irreverence, her compassion, the naïve determination she'd kept longer than green-helmets newer than her. He watched her as she walked over to her locker, opening it for the last time and stowing her things in a rucksack. Most of it was J-Dept equipment; gun cleaning kit, modified DMR scope that would fit a lawgiver, dopp kit, K-rations, pistol shoulder-rig – but she had a makeup compact, a can of hairspray with an elastic scrunchie holding a double-ended comb / brush combo to it, a bottle of synthetic-but-good sandalwood soap, and jeans, T-shirt and jacket that wouldn't get her thrown out of a club towards the back. She packed it all carefully away and zipped the rucksack closed. She reached in and pulled the last item out of her locker – a heavy riot shield; scuffed, battered, dented. She flung it on her back and pulled the carrying strap tight across her body.

There was only one thing left – she slid the nameplate out of the slot on the front and pocketed it. All of the claimed lockers had a Judge's name on them, with one exception; Dredd's label had been lost years before and his door was unmarked, veterans and green-helmets alike quickly learning which was his. Anderson reached for the rag and cleaner, intending to sweep her locker out, but Matheson's look stopped her. "For the robots," she said. "Got it, boss."

There was an unfolded box on the counter – Matheson lifted his chin to look at it. "You brought cake?" he asked, disbelieving. He knew how expensive such a thing could be. "Anderson, you didn't need to . . ." She shook her head.

"DCJ gave me it," she assured him. "Couldn't eat the whole thing myself, you know? Boss?" she asked carefully. "Judge Cal . . . is he . . . I dunno? Cake?"

"You'd rather he was more like Slocum, Anderson?" Matheson asked. She shook her head.

"Too-many guys are like Slocum – they just hide it better," she said knowingly. "Anyway – I've got Slocum's measure, and I don't mean like that. It just seemed a bit . . . weird?"

"Cal's a cagey bird," agreed Matheson. "Plays an odd game; he'll try to throw you off, get you to make a mistake, see what you're made of. But he's a good man," he assured her. She nodded slowly. "So," he said, "Cal gave you your new assignment, huh?"

She winced. "Probably shouldn't have told you that, boss," she said sheepishly. "Could you . . . try to forget that? It's a classified assignment – I wish I could tell you more, but . . ."

"Chief Judge already called me," he said. "Made it very clear it was above my paygrade. She asked me what I thought."

"What do you think, boss?" she asked.

"You're the psi," he said.

He couldn't be sure if she 'read his mind' or whatever, but her eyes were glassy and inward-looking for a second and when she spoke she echoed his thoughts; "You don't have to like it." She sighed. "You've been a really good boss . . . boss," she said, gulping back fresh tears. "You've been understanding, and patient, and helpful, and . . ." Her voice choked a little.

"Is there any cake left?" he asked abruptly, turning towards the counter. Little remained except battered crumbs and smeared frosting; it had been hacked about, Judges taking pieces without respect to the unwritten rule you cut wedges. "For Grud's sake," he muttered, gathering the fragments together on a napkin. "Some people . . ." He turned back to face her, plucking at morsels. "Good cake," he said. "Everyone got some? You got a chance to say goodbye to everybody?"

"Except Dredd," she said, answering both questions. Matheson stopped with his hand halfway to his mouth, his lips hanging guiltily open, the expression so comic she couldn't help but laugh. Her shoulders shaking with mirth, she went to the fridge and took a plate from where she'd hidden it behind a stack of takeout containers. There was a wedge of cake – neatly-cut, generous, saved from the hordes – on it. She set it very deliberately on the table in the exact center. "He wasn't here," she said tonelessly.

"Yeah," said Matheson. "Chief Judge gave him the night off – you could go see him at home," he offered. "He wouldn't mind," he added

"I could, and he might, so I won't," she said. Matheson inwardly winced.

"Look, Anderson," he began, "about Dredd. He's . . . difficult; I know that. But just because he doesn't show he cares doesn't mean he doesn't . . ."

"I know." She said it as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

He gave a wan smile; it was something he'd always been subconsciously aware of, that no-one could have any secrets from Anderson if she didn't want them to (and, maybe, couldn't have any even if she wanted – he didn't really know how her abilities worked), but now its isolating quality struck him. Everyone else based their lives on the carefully-constructed lies and facades of human interaction, but Anderson saw through all of that; knew who hated her behind their politeness, who thought of her as 'mutie', 'witch' or worse. That would be bad enough, but only now did he realize someone hiding his care behind silence or flippant indifference might be harder to bear. "You can read his mind, right?" he asked.

Her gasoline-fire eyes held him transfixed for a second. "Do I?" she asked.

"You don't need to," he realized. She smiled as he understood. "I'm glad he had you," he said. "It was good for him, I think." Suddenly formal, he held out his hand to her. "Good luck, Anderson," he said. "If you need anything . . ."

She nodded. "Thanks, boss," she said. "Appreciate it – but . . ." She gave a lopsided grin and a little shrug. "Once I get settled, it's probably going to be the other way around," she said prophetically. She flung the rucksack onto her shoulder and pulled her notebook from her belt, scribbling a note and leaving it on the slice of cake. "If anyone else eats that . . ." she warned as she walked to the door.

Matheson watched her leave, the door swinging shut behind her, her empty locker yawning open, and sighed deeply. "Nosir," he said to the echoing room, "don't have to like it at all."

A/n : A rather longer chapter, but we are starting to move into the action now (and approaching the point where I have totally run out of even the vague idea of a plot – so any suggestions gratefully received!)

There aren't many comic references in here – a lot of the stuff comes from my own fanon, and also from the work of other authors on this site. Specifically, there is a shout-out to Rhinne (and the excellent story "Shielded") with the riot shield, and to Giraffe On The Moon with the names of two of her sector-mates (taken from "Boundaries"). Neither of those stories is canonical for this, but I really like them and wanted to have a tip of the hat to these authors.

One comic reference is "Yates hab-block"; in the comics, the blocks are named after famous people (real or fictional) often in a satirical way. Dredd lives in "Rowdy Yates" Block (Rowdy Yates is the name of Clint Eastwood's character in "Rawhide", an old TV show – Clint Eastwood characters are inspiration for Dredd's no-nonsense policing style!) I liked the idea of the blocks named after famous people, but wanted it to be a little more subtle than the overt satire in the comics; so I just went with "Yates" block.

You've read this far – why not review? I see lots of hits but very few reviews – so I don't know if people are reading out of interest or morbid curiosity! And, as I said; I am not sure where this is going at all – not after the initial bit of plot I have devised. Suggestions might help inspired and fire me up!