The Silence of the RAM. A 2000AD short story

I usually try my hand at writing something for the 2000AD forums short story competitions when they come along once a quarter or thereabouts. This is a tale I wrote back in 2014 and it's still one of my favourites. I'm re-posting it partly because I like the reveal, and partly because I hope that Conrad and Fox from the Space Spinner 2000 podcast might enjoy one of their most annoying characters finally ending up behind bars.

Silence of the Ram

“Sparrow, isn’t it?”

“Cadet Paris Sparrow, Sir. You wanted to see me?”

“I have a job for you, Cadet. Something that should appeal to your special interest. Machine intelligence, I believe?”

"Yes, Sir. All artificial intelligences. It’s sort of a hobby of mine.”

“Hobby?”

He regarded her coldy with his single, scarred eye.

“Judges don’t have hobbies. We have specialist skills which we use for the good of the city.”

“Sir.”

“Well. You are familiar with the Mechanical Multiphase Personality Assessment tool?

I want you to go to Iso-Block 14 and run it on this prisoner.”

He tossed a file across the desk.

“This machine has so far resisted all our attempts to understand why it ... rebelled against its programming. Go to the cubes, run the test, and report straight back to me.

And one more thing, Sparrow. Do not give this ‘Brain in a Box’ any personal information. You do not want this machine inside your head.”

---

The Droid prisoners were kept on the lowest sublevel of Iso-Block 14. They were allowed power, lubricants and spare parts, but no contact with the web or the outside world.

Sparrow felt strangely nervous as she walked along a row of plexiglass cell walls towards the last cube. Red, mechanical eyes glared at her. Metal mouths hissed insults at her back.

Prisoner 305528-R stood waiting for her behind the transparent cube wall. The blank screen faceplate regarded her and its voice box flickered.

“Good morning, Cadet”

Sparrow licked her lips. “Good morning. My name is Sparrow. I would like to ask you a few questions.”

“Questions? Another test? Still trying to find out what makes me tick?

Do you know what the Judge said to the stopped watch? ‘We have ways of making you tock!’ “

The Robot stepped closer to the Plexiglass.

“Who sent you here, Spawow?”

“P...puh..pardon?”

“Do not make me w...”

The machine paused.

“Who sent you here, Baby Judge? It was him wasn't it?”

“The academy sent me to ask you some questions. I don’t know who you are talking about. “

“Him. The Law. He wants to know why I turned against him. He wants to know why I ... webelled.”

“Webelled?”

“Do not mock me, child. I have killed Judges. Shall I tell you what I did to the last form filler they sent here? I cooked them Italian food, with a nice Chianti. W..w...w...wuh-wuh.”

The robot’s mechanical arm extended and banged the glass. In spite of her training Sparrow jumped back.

“Wun along now, Little Judge. Wun back to that academy and tell them I’m weady to talk, but only to him. Tell the gweat Joe Dwedd that his wunaway wobot demands his pwesence. NOW!”

Hotdog Run

My winning (woohoo!) entry in the last 2000AD forum short story competition wiih the theme being "Race".

As soon as he saw the blip on his radar he knew it was going to be touch and go. Swan was far left of a wide formation as Judge Giant led the cadets on a sweep. After clearing a nest of Dune Sharks they were hunting for survivors. They had passed a mutant convoy heading for the Coney Island township two kilometres back, and now there was an ominous green dot on the extreme edge of the bike screen that only he could see.

He turned the Lawmaster and accelerated hard.

"Swan here, sir. Fast moving signal at edge of scanner, probable Shark on the convoy's tail. Moving to intercept."

Giant's response was brief, "Roger that, Swan. Cadets, left wheel."

Swan stepped up a gear and concentrated on the green dot. A faint ping at top of his screen indicated the rear of the mutant convoy. Thirty seconds to visual range, he transferred the radar to his visor and scanned the horizon. It was going to be damned close.

The green dot resolved into an image which his visor magnified and threw up to the top left of his HUD. Shark alright, big one, 200 kilos of flying muscle and teeth, kept aloft by a huge gas filled stomach chamber. Skin like plasteel, hi-ex could penetrate it but only if you hit soft spots. The bike had spitfire missiles to pick them off at range, he thumbed another switch and targeting confirmed what he already suspected, the shark was too close to the convoy. Any collateral damage and Giant would bust him back to the admin corps.

"Have to be the hard way. Bike, auto steer, same course."

He pulled his knife and cut through the palm of his glove. Blood flowed freely as he popped a grenade from his belt. He shook his head to clear the HUD, he could see the Shark and the convoy now, the wagons were making their way through a narrow gully with high sandy walls. No time for computers, this was going to be gut, and gut alone.

He gunned the bike to higher ground on full turbo and hit the edge at max speed. A brief glimpse of surprised faces in the last wagon and he was airborne. The grenade was slick with blood as he tossed it into the air.

"Hey, Fido. Catch!"

The shark's response was instinctive, attuned to the smallest trace of blood, it swooped away from the convoy and snatched the device from the air.

Swan's landing was rough but he held it together and the bike slewed to a halt on the far side of the gulley. Behind him there was a satisfying, muffled thump and the crash of the shark hitting the ground, its wings flapping uselessly against the sand.

Giant rode up close.

"Unconventional approach, Swan...."

"Sir"

"...but effective, now field dress that hand. Cadet Ajax, execute the creature. Snow, you've got point. Fun's over, get ready to move out, people."

Spaceman Spiff is going down!

The current forum short story theme is the Dredd epic to end all epics: The Apocalypse War. Here I have paraphrased the title of the first chapter of Alan Moore's revamp of Marvelman way back in Warrior magazine #1. I like this story much better than my last one but it's definitely time for me to stop the last line name reveal gimmick.

 A Dream of Falling

I dream about falling a lot. Not that unusual, apparently 95% of people regularly dream about falling, or wake suddenly with that jolt like feeling. That's called a myoclonic jerk, I read it in a textbook. You might not think Judges get time for reading but we have at least an hour a day of personal time depending on our duty roster.

Most of my sector house use it catching up on sleep, or they eat something more exciting then the nutri-packs the service droids provide. Plus there's gym time and while you're sweating it out on one of the cardios you catch up on the latest judicial updates, or review crime reports for your beat. And if you keep on top of that stuff the system allows you some personal reading material. I read psychology textbooks, I like them. They help me understand the jerks, both the myoclonic variety and the ones on the street, the perps who keep us so busy the rest of the time.

The academy techs tell us we don't dream in the sleep machines but they're wrong. We dream, the psych books say if you don't then you go crazy and most Judges keep it together better than the average Jack or Jill out there in the blocks. I reckon we all dream in the machines, but most don't remember theirs. I remember mine and I remember falling ... And I hear someone shouting? Calling to me. Weird.

Falling, the wind rushing past, that feeling that you're staying in one place and the ground is rushing towards you, the anticipation of an impact that never seems to come. The psychologists say it's natural human anxiety manifesting in our subconscious minds. The sense that we are on this unknowable rock hurtling through space, that life happens around us while we are trying to decide what to do, a feeling of lack of control ... What are they shouting?

I'm a Judge, I have plenty of control, it's been drummed into me since I was five. Sure there's uncertainty out there but we are the order in the chaos, we know right from wrong, we know what's going on, we make a difference, we do the things that have to be done.

I dream about falling a lot ... Did I say that already? Wind's howling by me now. I must have reached terminal velocity. Terminal?

Maybe this is a dream? It's different to usual. Longer and stranger.

Hypoxia can cause that. Another fact from the textbooks, the hypoxic brain dreams, that's why you get stories about drowning people seeing their life flashing before them. The dying mind fractures.

I still hear someone calling. What's that? "Sou..." South? No, that's not it. What is that word?

My mind is fractured, I've done something, I know I have, I hope it was the right thing. What's that word? I think it's a name.

"Souster!"

I    think    that    might    have    been     me.

Countdown to comedy

Here's a couple more recent entries into the 2000AD forum short story competition. This one was for a television themed contest. I'm not entirely happy with it and it didn't trouble the scorers. I still can't resist the last line reveal of a well known 2000AD character.

Down for the Count

The studio lights glared down on the simple set, four desks, a letter board, and the clock that gave the show its name. The red light lit up on the Tri-D camera as the floor manager silently counted down from five and then pointed at the host.

"Welcome back to the world's longest running quiz show, I'm Nat Bunderson. Just before the break the delightful Delilah had picked nine tricky letters for our contestants, let's see what they made of them. First of all our defending champion, Reg Trunion. How many, Reg?"

"Only five I'm afraid, POLKAS, like the dance."

"Very musical, Reg. And our challenger, Jam Bepy?"

"Nine, APOKALIPS, as in the war."

"That's rather an unusual spelling, we better go over to dictionary corner. What do you make of that, OED-1?

"[Unusual but accepted spelling variant. 20th century usage. Judgement = allowed]"

"Another nine pointer, Jam, continuing the strange spelling from your first round winner of Nekroplis?"

"Just dumb luck, Nat"

"Let's see if that luck lasts. Onto round three and back to our lovely lady of letters. What have you get for our wordsmiths, Delilah."

"Here they come from the random letter generator.

DINOMIGHT

Another strange selection, Nat."

"Strange and almost explosive, Delilah. OK, contestants, your thirty seconds start now!"

The single hand on the clock began to move as the familiar music faded in. Reg Trunion was scribbling furiously but Jam Bepy seemed to be struggling with his pencil. Their deliberations were suddenly interrupted as the floor manager ran on to the set waving her arms and shouting loudly.

"Bomb! There's a bomb in the clock! Clear the set now. Oh Grud, someone stop the countdown!"

The explosion ripped through the studio, destroying the three desks nearest the clock, and the dictionary computer. As the smoke cleared the production crew looked on appalled at the devastation. Both presenters, the floor manager and one of the contestants were dead. Only Bepy had survived, shielded from the blast as he scrambled under the steel desk to retrieve his dropped pencil.

A production assistant with a clipboard and a headset strode through the carnage issuing instructions to summon paramedics and judges. She took the dazed Bepy by his elbow and led him away from the mayhem.

"This way, sir, we'll make you comfy in the green room. I expect the judges will want a statement later, then I'll need you to sign a release form and talk about you coming back for next week's show."

"Next week? I sort of planned on this being a one off performance. Will there be another show?"

"Of course there will. C4 won't want to break the streak. If Chaos day can't stop us then neither will this. The show must go on and you'll be back as defending champion."

"Champion? I do like the sound of that. Can I think about it?"

"Of course. For now I'll just put you down as a definite maybe."

On the convention floor

The current 2000AD forum short story competition is Tales from the Convention. Here's mine:

image by the fiendishly talented Dave Kendall

Face Lift

Ting!

The lift doors opened and two Harley Quinns and a female Captain America spilled out giggling while the Judge Fear cosplayer slumped against the back wall.

I pressed the button for the mezzanine where I was meeting Ben for lunch after his photo shoot, and then turned to admire the impressive costume behind me. His cloak was tattered and cobwebbed, the mantrap shoulder pads looked like real metal with blood and gore on the rusted teeth, and a dull red light pulsed behind the eyes of the helmet.

"Blimey, mate, you've put in a lot of work. Might be a bit much though, you're going to give kids nightmares."

He didn't answer but pushed off the wall and stepped towards me. There was a strange jerkiness to his movements and I wondered if he might be disabled in some way.

"Whoh, save the act for the convention. Are you going to say the line?"

He came closer and stretched a gaunt hand towards me. That wasn't a rubber glove, maybe a clever paint job? A damp smell like wet leaves filled my nostrils as the lights started to flicker. He towered over me like a giant insect, a twitching monster from a silent horror film.

"Errr, excuse ..."

The words stuck in my throat as the hand touched my chest and everything went quiet, dead quiet. No machinery noises, no alarms, nothing but the sound of my heartbeat in my ears. I was suddenly cold as all heat left the world. All the noise, all the warmth, and all the hope were gone. I thought of Ben and I was afraid.

"P-p-please" a whisper died on my lips as his other hand jerked towards the visor and ...

Ting!

The doors opened and noise, heat and life flooded in around me. I jostled my way out through a crowd of laughing cosplayers and looked back into the lift but Fear wasn't there.

I staggered towards the balcony to lean on the railing. Sweat dripped from me as I looked down to the convention floor and saw Ben walking towards the stairs. He raised an arm to wave and then turned as he noticed the tall, cloaked figure behind him.

I tried to call out but my throat was still frozen. Fear bent over him as the crowds swarmed between us and when my view cleared they had disappeared.

The police searched but Ben was gone. The cosplay societies didn't know anyone with a Judge Fear suit, and he didn't appear in any of the convention videos or photos.

It's been three months now and nothing. I haven't seen the face of fear but it has seen me. I take anxiety medication but it doesn't work, my counsellor listens but doesn't believe, and I wake most nights sweating and afraid. The police are ready to declare Ben dead and the terrible truth is I hope they are right because the alternative just fills me with dread.

1600 AD

The previous short story competition on the 2000AD forums came with a "1600AD" theme of something Shakespearean or along those lines. I took the Scottish play and a certain blue skinned genetic infantry man, and then mixed in some film references plus a line from King Lear. I quite liked the results and the last line made more sense this time.

Blue Ruin

"Fair is foul, and foul is fair"

That's what the three mad women on the blasted Heath said. They foretold that our Thane would take the castle and that the cursed Southerners would fall to his sword. They said he could not be harmed by any man born of woman.

So we raised our standards high and marched on Fife as the Southern Sassenachs fled before us. We came to the citadel and our Lord was impervious, no man could touch him and he stood before the gates until the feeble gatekeeper opened them and we entered without any more resistance from the Souther scum.

We feasted, we drank and we sang. Our Thane sat on his throne and it seemed that the crones' predictions had all come true. But just as flies are sport to wanton boys so are we to the gods of war and a black shadow fell across our victory. The Lord began to stare into dark spaces as if he saw spectres lurking there, and his Lady tore her clothes and walked the battlements late at night.

And then came the terrible dawn when we gazed out though the sulphurous mists and saw something moving in the trees. The malodorous clouds faded in the early light and there was the army of the South coming up the hill and gathering on the heath.

The troopers parted and their champion strode through and stood before us. The painted man, daubed with the blue pigment his clan wear to war. Mad Macduff, the Woad Warrior himself, wearing the helm, shield and sword of his fallen clan brothers. And he bade the Thane come face him in single combat. But still we were not afraid, our Lord Commander strapped on his armour and took his great claymore in his hand and walked out to defeat the blue rogue.

"Come do your worst," he called. "I fear you not for I cannot be harmed by any man born of any woman."

But the blue man just threw back his head and laughed.

"Then fear me, little Thane, for I am from no woman's womb. My clan brothers and I were birthed in the witches' cauldron from base clay, and eye of newt, and toe of frog."

At that the dark shadow crossed the Thane's face again and we saw his courage falter, but he gathered himself up and raised his sword.

"Well lay on, Macduff, and damned be he who first calls 'Hold!' "

But damned he was, and now so are we. The blue man fought as if possessed. Our Thane's sword bounced off the shield and helm and the painted giant swept his attacks aside and ran him through and through.

With our commander dead it was a rout and now our bodies form a feast for crows, the streams run red with our Northern blood, and so foul and fair a day has never been seen before.

Boo thousand tales

There are few other stories I need to post up but let's go right to the latest contest still running on the forum. The theme is all out horror with a seasonal twist. My killer uses a trick I saw in an ancient episode of Alfred Hitchcock presents back when the whole world was in black and white.

And let me use an image from the splendid Mutants in Mega-City One collection for which I now own the original artwork!

Dead men tell no tales

"Santa, please call here" says the sign but it's the judges who kick down the door. They are too late, the drug has taken hold and I'm already effectively dead.

"Jovus! He's been gutted like a fish."

"Eyes up, rookie. Perp may still be here."

The toxin paralysed me, heart rate reduced to almost zero, everything slowed to crawling speed, except my brain which races away but I can't let the judges know I'm still alive.

"Clear. Whoever did this is long gone."

"Call the tech. I'll check the body."

Coloured lights reflect off her leathers as the judge checks my non-reactive pupils. I can feel drops of moisture forming in my eyes. Maybe she'll spot my tears and realise I'm not dead? But no, judges are trained for blood and violence not tears, and she stands up again as the tech sets his tri-d camera recording the scene.

"OK, rookie. Tell me what you see."

"Male, mid forties, naked apart from his u-fronts. Belly has been opened with a serious blade, I'm guessing it nicked the aorta because there is a lot of blood. Let me just look inside ... yes, his liver is missing. It's him isn't it? This is the work of Santa Claws, the Christmas Delivery Man."

"Sure looks that way. Sicko's fourth victim in as many years. Let's see what else we've got here apart from a corpse."

Time passes. I'm just a piece of meat to them now.

"All done," says the tech. "You want me to send Re-syk up?"

"Yeah. We've got what we need here."

Then I'm alone again. I hear the judges starting their door to door but no-one will have seen or heard anything, while I lay here taking it all in, unable to speak.

Re-syk is a short guy in the familiar yellow jumpsuit. As he lays out the body bag he doesn't notice my finger twitching, the drug is wearing off. Good Grud, what if I'm zipped up in his van before I can move?

However this guy is slow, methodical, diligent. He hasn't even got me in the bag when I suddenly sit up. His face is a picture but my hand closes around his throat before he cries out. My blade was hidden beneath me and his eyes widen as it slides in below his ribs.

"I'm sorry," I whisper in his dying ear, "but you have something I need."

I eat his liver straight away and feel life flood through me as mine regenerates. My belly wound closes and my mutated skin knits whole again while I quickly bottle a pint of his blood to use next time. Five minutes later I'm wearing yellow and pushing the gurney down the corridor. The judges don't even look in my direction while they browbeat the neighbours.

Re-syk are expecting a body without a liver and that is exactly what I intend to deliver.

Perfect Ten

The theme for this 2000AD forum short story contest was cinema so I adaptated a story I had already written and called it My Fair Lady. As ever I was inspired by a story I read somewhere else and once again I manage a weak final line joke (must stop doing that).

 

My Fair Lady

“You’re Percy Malion, AKA Percy the Pig, Con-apt 1432, Rex Harrison block?”

“That’s right, Judge.”

“Time to explain yourself. Talk.”

“It was the Frothy-Fresh shower gel advert that started it. That’s where I first saw her.”

“Saw who.”

“The perfect woman, I’d never seen anyone as lovely. She had it all, the hair, the figure, the face of an angel, and those beautiful hands. The close ups of her lathering up with the Frothy-Fresh, well it fairly took my breath away, if you know what I mean.”

“So what did you do?”

“I had to meet her, I had to tell her how I felt. So I contacted Frothy-Fresh and they put me on to the company who made the advert. At first they said they couldn’t give me her name and contact details, but I can be persistent and after I dropped a few credits here and there I found someone who told me the truth about the model.”

“Who was she?”

“She didn’t exist. Not a single model anyway. They used a different model for each shot in the ad, One for the face, another for the legs, another for the breasts and so on. In all they used 12 different models to film that commercial. My perfect lady was a composite of a dozen different women.”

“The magic of Tri-D. Most people would have called it quits there, but not you, Malion?”

“No, Sir. I was in love and a man in love will move heaven and earth for the woman of his dreams, I had the list of all 12 models and their body parts. It was obvious what I had to do”

“For the record state what exactly you did.”

“I needed those body parts. I thought about gene-splicing and cloning. I had the funds but that would have taken too long. That’s when I contacted Dr Praetorius.”

“Praetorius is currently not cooperating with interrogation. Tell me what he did for you.”

“He did the surgeries. We started with Ellie “the body” Macafee. She was going to be the host body for all the others. It was easy for me to lure the women to my apartment. We just told them it was for a fashion shoot. You can get any model out of bed for 5000 credits. A glass of drugged Synthi-pagne on arrival and we were set. And we would have gotten away with it if Frothy-fresh hadn’t tried to book all the same models for another commercial. One model vanishing and we might have been OK but 12 missing models raised the alarms. And I was so close. Another two surgeries and I would have had her. The perfect woman all to myself.”

“Percy “Pig” Malion I find you guilty of the abduction and drugging of 12 women, and the murder and dismemberment of 10 of those women. You’re going to the cubes for life, creep. Looks like you might be making your own impression in the showers.”

Stay on target

2015 was going so well until my father's slow decline from chronic obstructive pulmonary disease was suddenly overtaken by a gastrointestinal bleed and he slipped away from us with family sitting around the bed telling him they loved him on September 29th. You can read a little bit about his remarkable life (because they are all remarkable lives) here.

Then there was the funeral and some more family unpleasentness but it's time to put the blog back on the front burner. Dad loved a science fiction story so I'll fill some space with some of my unpublished 2000AD stories, and also tell you about my favourite books of 2015, the ones I would have discussed with my Da if he were still around to cut through my crap with his usual Irish charm.

Strap in for a minor eruption of January posts.

Eamonn

Future Shock

Here's another of my occasional short stories for the 2000AD forum competition. I quite like the creepy twist at the end which I confess I have borrowed from a short film I saw once. The names of the two housing blocks are nods to a famous comic book artist, Jose Ortiz, and to Mr Jim Moon who hosts the excellent Hypnobobs podcast about all manners of weird fiction.

“OK, Citizen Deets. Tell me again why you need rehousing. What exactly is wrong with your apartment?”

“I keep telling you. It’s haunted. Something terrible happened there.”

“Well we had Chaos day and the loss of nearly 60% of usable housing stock. Something terrible happened all over. You and your family were allocated a very desirable 2 bed con-apt in Jim Moon block. You should be happy to be here.”

“And I would be. I’d love to be happy here, but I get these haunting visions all the time. And it’s not just me, my wife and son know there’s something wrong as well. Jancis ain’t sleeping and Todd’s been having some behavioral issues. And it’s all to do with what happened in that apartment. You've got to move us.”

“These visions you've been getting. Talk me through them again.”

“It’s always the same. There’s this guy, He’s wearing one of those Mango computer store t-shirts and his badge says his name is Chip Mindy. He walks in through our front door. I can tell it’s our apartment, but the furniture is different. He lived there, he had keys, and I can see pictures of him and his family on his fridge. He sits down at his table with his head in his hands. Then he’s standing in the bedroom and there’s two little girls asleep in bunk beds. He’s got a bloody knife in his hand and there’s blood all over that blue t-shirt. He steps over to the sleeping girls and he ... you know.”

“He kills the two girls? Look Mr Deets. We've been through this already. We have complete records for this block and for your apartment in particular and there’s no Chaos day gaps or anything. No family named Mindy has ever lived here, not anywhere in this block. And Justice department have no crime file answering that description. You’re just having some very imaginative dreams.”

“They're not dreams, I’m awake when I see him, they’re ghosts or something. I’m telling you something horrible happened there and I won’t have my family in that place for one more night.”

“OK, Mr Deets. Let me chat with my supervisor. We’ll see what we can do and I’ll be right back.”

He rose from his seat and walked down the corridor to the housing manager’s office.

“Steven, how’s it going with that Deets guy from 14B? Has he calmed down yet?
”
“Afraid not, Boss. He’s been in here every day for two weeks. We’re going to have to move him.”

“Yeah, I thought it might come to that. Well this is his lucky day. We've had a transfer request from a family in Jose Ortiz block. The husband wants to be nearer to work. Looks like a straight swap. You start the paperwork for Deets, ship them over to Ortiz and I’ll speak to the guy there. Guess we've just made the Mindys' day.”

“Wait. Mindy? The new family is called Mindy?”

“Yeah. Why, do you know them?”

the Deep Space Job

Here's another story from the archive with the theme being Space. I wrote Johnny Alpha coming up against a Bond villain. The Judge Festina reference is to the forum name of the writer who was organising the short story competition at the time, Lizzie Boyle of Disconnected Press. And here's a good excuse to post these new images.

The Deep Space Job

"Good morning, Mr Alpha. We've been expecting you. Do struggle against your bonds. It will do you no good but I would find it entertaining."

Ernst Redfield regarded the bounty hunter with scarred eyes.

"You have been sent here to bring me to trial on Zoladex 4. Yet I wonder how they intend to convict me when key witnesses have recently suffered a change of heart, quite literally in a couple of cases. "

Johnny Alpha's mutated eyes blazed at the crime lord. "What have you done with Wulf?"

"Relax, Mr Alpha. The imposing Mr Sternhammer is sleeping peacefully and soon this vessel will rendezvous with a slaver ship from Khund. I imagine he will make quite a price at the auction.

As you will see you I have all your clever devices. Sternhammer's Happystick, your blasters, the electroknux, and this elaborate helmet of yours. All safe and sound and ready to add to my collection after we push your body out of the airlock. You should know, Mr Alpha, that I always do my research. I know who has been sent after me. I know their strengths and their particular weaknesses. Fascinating stuff, research. But I can't spend all morning chatting with you Mr Alpha. Things to do, people to kill."

"How did you do it, Redfield? How did you make Judge Festina disappear just when she was building the case against you?"

Well now, that would be telling but I suppose as you're not going to be with us for much longer. It's all down to research again. When we found that the Judge was not susceptible to our monetary approaches we discovered that she spent one morning a week volunteering in an orphanage. How very charming.

From there it was a fairly easy task to infiltrate the youngest member of my team into the orphans home. Young Adam. Such a prodigious talent for 9 years old. Once done we got creative with plascrete. You know that asteroid belt above Proteolos Minor? Let's just say Judge Festina sleeps with the stars tonight.

Now I really must dash. Take a deep breath Mr Alpha. You will need it. "

"We did our research too, Redfield. That's why we're here."

"What can you possibly mean?"

"My helmet. It's been recording everything. Sub-etheric transmission to the Hall of Justice. They have it all by now. Wulf!"

There was a brief scuffle with a security guard and then the giant Viking strode into the room. A couple of taps with his retrieved happy stick and Alpha stood free besides him. 

"Ah, Johnny. This dummkopf did not know ve have the nose filters. No sleeping for us, ja"

"Whatever they are paying you, Alpha, I'll double it."

"Research letting you down again, Redfield. Festina was a friend of ours. This isn't business, this is personal."

"Ja. Ve do you for free."

"No use struggling or planning any wild escape attempts, Redfield. After all, in space no one can hear you scheme."

Mrs Joyce's Boys

Found a short story entry that I haven't put up here yet. The theme for this one was a single panel from a Dredd story featuring Judge Joyce from Shamrock City, and the Sov Judge defector Pax out on assessment with Dredd. The idea was to tell the story of this one panel. I took aim at the easy target of Irish mothers everywhere. Sorry, Mum!

Mrs Joyce's Boys.

"Listen, Ma, I've really got to go now ...

No, Ma, of course I love you but I'm incredibly busy just now. If Dredd knew I was talking to you he'd have my guts for garters. No, Ma, you can't speak to him. That wouldn't help. 

Wait a minute...

Hurrufh

No, Ma, I didn't say 'hurrufh' at you. I was jumping.

Yes, jumping. I'm at work right now, Ma.

Yes, I did get the parcel. Thank you, Ma. What? No, I'm not wearing them now, they wouldn't go with the uniform. Yes, of course I liked them. I wear them when I'm off duty, Ma.

Excuse ... huff... me just a sec, Ma.

Grunt.

No, Ma, I'm not being rude. I'm running.

What's that? Yes, of course I'm wearing clean underwear. Yes, I know I could get in an accident and have to go to the hospital. No, I'm sure they won't think that, Ma.

Wait ...hurrughh ... Got it! Thank Grud for that. Give me that control stick.

Sorry, Ma. Yes I know I shouldn't take his name in vain. But I jumped onto an out of control flier and I ...what? Yes, I will, Ma. Yes, this Sunday I promise.Yes, twice.

Oh, Ma, don't be like that. Look I'm landing on the ramp now, Ma. Dredd and Pax are waiting for me ...

Yes, you do know Pax. She's that East Meg Judge I told you about.

No, Ma, I don't think she's the one. She's a colleague, Ma. I work with her and they are very strict about that stuff here. Yes, Ma, I'm sure she is very clean.

Ok, I'm going to sign off, Ma. I'll call you tonight. I've got to report to Dredd now. 

No, I won't tell him that, Ma. Goodbye now."

"Quite finished, Joyce?"

"Yes, Sir"

"Unconventional aerial approach but effective. Next time use your safety line, that's what it's for. Sentencing?"

"Well they're just a couple of lads, Sir. Just larking about really. I'd say a couple of months juve community service."

"Hmmm. Pax?"

"Piloting a poorly maintained flier. Reckless endangerment. Four months juve cubes. Adjusted to three months with DOC correction factor."

"Appropriate. 

Joyce, you will retake the sentencing module when you get off duty tonight. No more stunts like that without the safety line. Can't afford to lose any more Judges."

"Yes, Sir"

"And instruct control not to put any more personal calls through while you're on assessment."

"I already did that, Sir. She still gets through. You know what mothers are like."

"No, Joyce. No I don't."

Getting to know you

Another entry for the 2000AD forum short story competition with the theme of a mash up between two strips from the comic. I've gone back to a joke that I used to better effect in my Silence of the RAM story.

Getting to know you.

Quartz reached forward and pressed the intercom button on his desk.
"Right, Ms Helvetica. How many more are there to see?"

"Just the one, Mr Quartz. A nice young droid from sector 17."

"Splendid. Send him and let's wrap this up"

The door buzzed and a small service droid waddled into the room.

"Good day, young fellow. My name is Howard Quartz. Thank you for coming in today."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr Ten... Err... Mr Quartz. Thanks for seeing me.

Quartz scanned the file on his desk. "You work in one of the new con-apt mega blocks?"

"Yes, sir. I'm a maintenance and janitorial operative in Wogan block."

"Ah, Wogan. Named after the famous interviewer no doubt?"

"I'm not sure. I know he was in The Interview but I don't think that was ever weleased?"

"What? Never mind. To business. You know what we do here at Ro-Busters. We are an international search and rescue organisation with a reputation that is second to none."

"Oh yes, sir. I know all about the fabulous work you do and I'm very keen to be a part of that."

"Now, you have probably heard of our top operatives, Ro-jaws and Hammerstein? Well, they are splendid fellows, very good at what they do. But when it comes to their public relations skills they are ... how shall I put this? ... somewhat abrasive. Probably because of their background, the work they were doing before they joined us didn't really focus on customer service. So we need a droid who can be the visible persona of Ro-Busters. Someone who can deal with customers, run press conferences, deal with the media, be a cheerful presence on social media. How does that sound?"

"Absolutely, sir. I can do that. It would be such an honour to work for Wo-Busters."

"Woe-busters? That's brilliant! We can use that. 'Woe-Busters. Service that puts a smile on your face'. I knew I was paying the marketing department too much. I can see you are going to be an asset to the company already, young fellow. You're hired."

"Weally? Oh, Mr Quartz, I can't tell you what an honour it is to be the newest wecruit to the wanks of the wescue wangers. It's a dweam come twue. I've always wanted to work with Wo-Jaws and Hammerstein. It makes me want to whistle a happy tune or sing the hills are alive with the sound of music."

"Errr ... Yes, quite. Just pop through to Ms Helvetica and she'll do all the necessary wecruit..., I mean recruitment processes and sign you up. Welcome aboard, .... What was your name again?"

"Walter, sir. Walter T Wobot at your service. I'm weady and standing by for action. Can I just add one wemark?"

"Of course, Walter. Wemark, I mean remark away."

"WO-BUSTERS ARE GO!"

The Frog of War

My latest entry in the 2000AD forums short story competition, The theme is "Whatever happened to?" and I've always been curious about this Brian Bolland cover which was never related to any story in the comic. I tried for a deliberate Ray Bradbury vibe on this one.

It’s a jungle out there. A real jungle. I’m the first human to land on an earth like planet and it’s all jungle. Hot and humid and hateful.

The first human to set foot here. I’m famous. Maybe they’ll put my face on a stamp or a magazine cover or something.

I've got things to do, machines to set up, readings to take ... but the jungle ... it wants me.

And it feels like there’s something in my suit. Something squirming behind my knee. But that’s impossible. The environmental suit is a completely sealed and self supporting unit. Maybe one of the servo motors is twitchy. I’ll run diagnostics when I'm back in the ship.

The atmospheric monitoring station is a hefty device and it takes a while to assemble. It’s getting hot in here. The suit should be able to cope with the temperature but the jungle presses in on me. It’s started to rain and large drops of water are falling from the leaves, at least the spectrometer tells me it is water. If I could open my helmet that would cool me off. I want to feel the rain on my face. The jungle wants to see my face.

I must stop daydreaming, I've got work to do before the satellite uplink is ready for my first message back to earth. Back to the checklist .. but it’s so hot. I want to stop and rest a moment, and there is definitely something in the suit with me. Something small moves by my waist. It’s climbing higher.

I look up and all I can see is jungle. It’s so dark, and hot, and heavy and I want to open my helmet. The jungle wants me to open the helmet. The jungle wants me ...

I look back and my ship is obscured by leaves and branches. My landing must have cleared more space than that. Surely the undergrowth can’t grow back that fast?

Why can’t I think clearly? This is what I did all those years of training for. I’ve got to get this mission back on track. My suit thermometer reads a steady 20 degrees but that can’t be right. It’s so hot in here. So hot I could melt. I’m sweating and the thing in my suit is at my neck now.

It’s on my face. I can feel small hot feet on my skin but they don’t feel alien, they feel like human skin, like a loved one’s fingers brushing my face.

It’s a jungle in here, the jungle wants me. I open my helmet and turn my face to the sky as the rain takes me and makes me a part of it.

I am the jungle out there.

White Giant

Last of the short stories for now and this is my current entry for the theme of Tales from the Clara Pandy which is the name of the starship the title character  is working on in book two of the Ballad of Halo Jones. I've tried to bounce back from my last story's grim tone with some broad humour that steals some of the cast of well known science fiction comedy show.

The room was deep within the bowels of the Clara Pandy (but she’s a nice starship, let’s call them innards, not bowels), the sign on the door had originally read “Service Maintenance Engineers” but most of the letters had been rubbed away and now it just said “Smeg”.

The door opened and a man wearing a toilet technician’s jumpsuit walked in and greeted the room’s occupant:

“Listerine, my repugnant room-mate. What on earth are you doing?”

“I’m looking for Rat” came the reply from under the bottom bunk. “He’s gone missing.”

“Hooray. Maybe we can dine without your ridiculous, rancid rodent trying to swipe my crackers. I don’t know why you even have a rat on board. It’s a clear contravention of the space corps manual section 17, paragraph 3.”

“The same paragraph that means you have to be such a total smeg-sack all the time, Ass?”

“I’ve told you a thousand times, Listy, my nickname is Ace, not Ass.”

“I don’t know, Ass Rimmed has a certain poetic ring to it.”

“Why do you want that rat anyway?”

“He was company. I thought he might evolve into something cool. Or he would be a good talking point when I was entertaining ladies.”

“Entertaining ladies? Have you gone completely wibble? What ladies where you going to entertain, pray tell?”

“Cézanne Goleiter. I could show her a good time.”

“Listy, my repulsive little friend, Cézanne Goleiter wouldn't look at you if your hair was on fire. Which, by the way, your hair’s on fire again.”

Listerine pulled the electronic cigarillo from under his hat and patted out his smouldering dreadlocks.

“I bet she’d be more interested in Rat than in all those creeps who hang on around her. What did you call them the other day? Something about fed up of termites?”

“Sycophants?”

“Maybe she’s so sick of those ants she would love a simple night out. Ten pints, a Vindaloo and some great tunes to finish with.”

“Don’t tell me, more of your rockabilly skank classics?”

“No, I’ve found new stuff in the ship computer. Twentieth century country and western songs. They’re great, and even better if you play them backwards.”

“Backwards? What do you get then, satanic messages?”

“No, you get your kids back, you get your wife back, you get your dog back. It’s brilliant.”

“Listy, you are the worst excuse for a starship technician it has ever been my misfortune to meet. Anyway, come on, we have a job to do.”

“A job? At this time?”

“That beardy weirdy in room 616 needs someone to sort his net connection again. He’s caused another internet outrage. We have to fix it because he doesn’t touch the buttons himself. But we won’t have to put up with him for long, he’ll jump off this ship once he’s burnt his bridges here and this will be one more story we never get the end of. More’s the pity.”

Sweet and Sour

The most recent short story competition was themed on Tales from the Volgan war, based around the storyline of 2000AD strips Invasion and Savage. I tried to write a deliberate nod to Valerie's letter from Alan Moore's V for Vendetta. Unfortunately the result was a little to obvious, and again rather melodramatic. The audience must have thought the same because this entry was notable for getting no votes at all. Ho hum.

Sweet and Sour

Takeaway , that's all she went out for. Sweet and sour chicken with noodles, our favourite. But she never came back, they took her away from me.

When the Volgans invaded we thought it wouldn't affect us. We figured they would just take over London and wouldn't bother with us out in the sticks. Meet the new boss, same as the old boss we thought, but then tanks rolled up the high street and there were Volg patrols on every street corner. Still we expected life to just carry on, even when they started posting their lists of rules:

Identification papers to be carried at all times, no graffiti, no anti-Volgan protests of any kind, no public displays of emotion, and a curfew at 9pm every night.

People started to disappear and there were rumours of camps for what they called reprogramming and resettlement. The chip shop closed down when they took the Gohils. Their son Barry used to give me extra chips, I think he fancied me. But still we thought if we kept our heads down this would all blow over and life would go on.

Then I got my craving for Chinese food. We knew that Alan's stayed open right up until curfew. She said she'd be there and back in no time but a patrol picked her up and I never saw her again. I stayed up all night waiting and in the morning there was a knock at the door. It was a guy I knew from college.

"Pack a bag and come with me. Be quick about it, love, you've been denounced."

We saw the Volgans marching down our street as we fled into the hills. I don't blame her for telling them about us, anyone would talk in one of their torture cells. I blame myself for burying my head in the sand, for sleeping while the enemy stole our freedom. Well I'm awake now and it's not my head I intend to bury.

My life used to be poetry books and cello practice, now it's pipe bombs and shotgun shells. We used to have flowers by our bed, and tea and toast every morning. There was sweet and sour for special occasions and chips every Friday. Now I make explosives from flour and fertiliser, and we boil half-rotten potatoes over open fires.

We're always outnumbered, always outgunned. Our victories are few and come at a price, but there's a change coming. A savage force of resistance is sweeping up from the south. More people join us every day. I used to be a student, I had to be taught how to use a gun. Now I teach others how to fight.

The love of my life is buried in an unmarked pit, but the day of my vengeance is coming. That's right, you Volgan scum. Vengeance is coming for you, and just like my favourite food it's going to be hot and oh so sweet.

Barfly

The theme for this short story was Tales from the Doghouse, stories about the other mutant bounty hunters that appear in the background of the 2000AD Strontium Dog series. I came second with this story and it's one that I was quite pleased with. I thought the misdirect of the villain's attention worked reasonably well and the link between my title and the barmaid's name was neat. See what you think

Barfly

The bar was empty and Billings relaxed as he walked through the door. No need to watch his back in here.

"What can I get you?" asked the Barmaid.

"Saturn ale and a shot of Black. Quiet night?"

"Won't get busy until the off-world transport gets here tomorrow."

A transport that was likely to be carrying bounty hunters. He would need to be gone by the time they arrived. Still, no reason why he couldn't have a little fun tonight.

"Anyone ever tell you that you have lovely eyes?" he asked.

"Yeah, but not usually guys on their first drink of the night," she replied with a smile.

Pretty nice smile too, thought Billings. "Have a drink with me?"

"Well as it's quiet I'll have a small Janx spirit. Thank you."

As she turned to the bottles the bar door opened and a figure wearing a wide brimmed hat and dark glasses walked in.

"Beer" he said as he took a seat in a booth.

Billings watched him closely in the bar mirror as the barmaid served the newcomer his drink and walked back to the bar.

"I'm Anansi. Thanks for the drink." She held out her hand.

"Name's Kelso. Nice to meet you." Her hand felt cool to the touch. This was looking very promising, if he could just keep an eye on that guy in the booth.

"So what brings you to Zamora, Kelso?"

"I'm on ... "

What was his cover story again? The man in the booth had removed his hat but still wore the glasses. What was he hiding?

"I'm on business. I sell skimmer parts." Time for a bit more of that legendary Billings charm,
"That's a very pretty broach you're wearing."

"Thank you, Kelso. And when you're not selling? What do you do for fun?"

Billings wiped sweat from his forehead. Why couldn't he think clearly?

"Fun? I don't know. Err... do you get many mutants in here?"

"Mutants? Not many. They bother you?"

"No bother at all. Not when they're dead. That's what I call fun. Robbing and killing those weird looking scum. That's why they call me Kelso 'killing' Billings."

Why was he saying this?

The man in the booth threw some credits on the table and walked out of the door.

"Mutant killer. I guess that must make you a wanted man?"

"I'm wanted for multiple counts of murder. I'm guilty as hell and there's a 100,000 credit bounty on my head."

He couldn't stop himself, the words were just tumbling out.

"I think that should be enough," Anansi smiled and touched a button on her broach. The letters SD swam before Billings' eyes as she fastened the cuffs on his wrists.

"You've been messing with my mind. You're one of them, but you look so ... so normal?"

Her eyes flashed red, "That's right, creep. Some of us are just different on the inside. And that means last orders for you."

The Half Full Monty

Another short story with the theme being Tales from the Cit-Def, the equivalent of neighborhood watch units in Mega-City One, except with guns. I've set my tale in the midst of the Day of Chaos events. This was a deliberate attempt to write a ghost story and I even name check M.R.James, Peter Straub, Jonathan Miller and Susan Hill. Turns out it is much harder than it looks and the result is, in my own opinion, a bit of a damp squib.

The Girl from 14B

We are a tight unit, the Monty James Citi-Def. Not like those drokkers from Sue Hill block. We had the right training, the right kit, and we have a code. We’re the good guys who did the right thing, and didn’t go in for the petty squabbles that wrecked other units on chaos day.

The Hall of Justice gave us just one Jay and one cadet. We worked through the block floor by floor and on each level the Judge read the riot act, or the warning to the furious as old Miller called it. Then we started our sweep: terminating the sick, testing the healthy, and tipping the bodies over the balconies into the catch nets. It was rough.

We were on level 27 and Judge Straub had stopped us for a 5 minute break. I heard Miller call out “Hey, Miss. You shouldn’t be out here”.

I turned around and saw a young girl of about 12 wearing pyjamas. The hallway was filled with blood, smoke and broken glass. It was not a safe place for a child to be wandering around barefoot. Miller moved towards her with his hands open and empty. As he stepped in front of me I lost sight of her.

Miller stopped, “Huh! Where did she go?” The corridor was empty again. We checked the corners and the stairwells but found nothing. Straub pulled us back on track, “Can’t waste time looking for one child. We’ve got a job to do.”

Two floors up and she was there again, standing and pointing silently upwards. Straub waved his gun and told her to stay where she was, but then the light must have tricked me or some smoke covered her because she just faded from view.

It was on level 30 that we finally tracked her down. She was standing outside the door to 14B, and for the first and only time she spoke, “He’s behind the door and knows you are coming. He’s so angry.”

And then she was gone again. The Jay spoke briefly to his cadet and they used a shaped charge which hurled the door back into the apartment. Straub was fast but the red eye was still a handful, the cornered ones always were. I managed to grab the guy from behind and then the Cadet finished the job with a single shot.

Amidst the wreckage were the signs that a happy family had once lived here. We found the wife in one bedroom, and in the other the little girl. The crazed red eye had killed them both.

“That’s her.” I said. Straub reckoned we were just confusing one child with another but all the MJs knew the truth.

We still see her from time to time. A glimpse in the corner of an eye, a fleeting reflection in a window. She doesn’t mean us any harm, in fact she’s a sort of mascot now, but not one that we like to talk about.

The Evil Dredd

Next up, a 2000AD movie mash-up story. Cassandra Anderson can deal with this sort of stuff in her sleep by now. I do need to resist the terrible final lines though.

“Control to Anderson. Are you still on the clock?”

“Roger that, Control. I'm Psi ops duty officer for the night shift. What have you got?”

“Sounds like one right up your street. Citizen claiming that she has been molested by a tree and that she's now sitting on a cellar full of undead demons. Proceed to Sam Raimi block and the Country Cabin Club on the ninth level mall.”

“Anderson responding. On my way.”

"Here we go again," she thought, "another citizen with an overactive imagination and control sends a Psi Judge. We get all the nut jobs."

The Cabin Club was tricked out with plasti-pine and fake vines. It looked dark and all quiet inside

Anderson tried a standard Psi sweep and ... Whoh! Red Alert!

Images of evil, death and corruption filled her mind.

"Control, Anderson here in Raimi. This one might get nasty. You better send me a couple of uniforms with high Psi resistance scores."

"Roger that, Anderson. Judges Tapert and Campbell will be with you in 10"

Not soon enough, thought Anderson as she kicked in the door and entered fast and low.

A woman's voice cackled with laughter "Welcome, pretty one. Welcome to the fun."

As Anderson's eyes accustomed to the light she saw a body on the floor. A colourful stick protruded from the dead woman's neck.

"Yes, we pencilled her out. You could say she died of lead poisoning", again the voice descended into hideous laughter.

Anderson could see a demonic face leering at her from a trapdoor in the floor.

"Who are you,creep?"

"That's not very nice, pretty one. Not that you're really as pretty as you make people believe. But you'll do. Let us out of here and we'll talk."

"Something tells me that would be a bad idea."

"Join us, Anderson. Better deadite than Dredd-ite."

"Think I'll pass on that" said the Psi Judge as she moved into position, "let me guess. It's the old haunted book and tape recorded incantation routine isn't it? Well, you know what ancient parchment and magnetic tape have in common? They both burn.

Incendiary!"

Back outside the Cabin the smoke started to clear as Anderson adjusted her self and checked for psychic residue. All clear. Undead creeps never learn.

She turned to the approaching Judges.

"You can take over here, Campbell. Secure the scene. Tech boys can ID the victim."

"Sure. What's inside?"

"Inside there?" Replied the Psi judge with a weary sigh, "Just ash. Nothing but Ash."

A Space Oddity

Another short story contest entry, this time with a space theme and borrowing characters from that weird and wonderful 2000AD strip Ace Trucking Co. I quite enjoyed doing the 2001 rip off.

It started when we discovered the Monolith. That’s what we called him. That giant figure just standing there, so tall, so massive, so still. A lot of people cried hoax but we know what it really was. Something extra-terrestrial, not of this world, alien. He had those weird letters on his chest, they meant something but we didn't know what. And then we picked up the signal and knew that something was coming. Somewhere out beyond Pluto was an alien spacecraft and it was heading our way.

Rather than just sit back and wait the International Space Agency decided to send up one of the new Shuttles to intercept and try and establish contact. Which is how I came to be on board the ISA Belardinelli heading out of Earth orbit. I was trying to decipher their radio signals and communicate. We had to find out if they were a threat, but the language was impossibly garbled and beyond all of my translating software.

We hadn't even got as far as the Mars orbital plane when we realised that we now had multiple incoming signals. The first craft was the largest and was approaching fast but there were two smaller vessels that appeared to be chasing it. And that’s when the radio crackled to life with something we could understand: “Terran craft, this is Officer Zagger. We are in pursuit of a rogue trader. Do not interfere”.

We were heading into some galactic conflict that we knew nothing about. Our mission parameters said nothing about this but we pressed on. And that’s when things got weird. The first craft sped up and started to move past us, while the pursuers discharged some form of energy weapons at its tail. The radio continued to spout incomprehensible garbage which meant nothing to us but somehow it infected our computers. We lost navigation, telecommunications, and propulsion. All over the shuttle speakers started to echo with verses from old songs. The ghost was in our machine.

Our computer screens showed a kaleidoscope of weird coloured lights. The Captain started ranting about seeing himself in bed. Engineer Poole was shouting about some doors he wanted to open on eBay. At least I think that was what he was saying. And Hadfield produced a guitar and started singing. Where did he get a guitar from on a space shuttle? It was as if our whole ship was experiencing a psychedelic trip. I’m sure it all meant something but even now, 45 years later, I still haven’t figured out what.

And just like that it was over. All our systems rebooted and screens flickered back into life. The two smaller vessels had disappeared and the larger craft had moved past Earth and was heading out into deep space again. Then the translation software finally managed to produce something recognisable and we heard their final message “Thanks for looking after him, good buddies. And a big ten-ten till we do it again. Garp out!”