flat. It was only a matter of time before Shangri La pushed the Judges too far.
But today was not that day.
"Okay, Dredd," said the civil-def security. "You can come in. We got nothing to hide."
"Nothing I'm going to see, at any rate," growled Dredd.
"You said it, Lawboy."
Down below, a landing gantry was extending. Dredd touched the cyborg pilot of the flier on her shoulder. "We're going down."
"Gotcha." The cyborg's hands flew across her console, almost too fast for the eye to catch.
Unlike the operator of the floater back in the Iso-block, field-operational pilots were living human beings, artificially enhanced to jack their reflexes off the human scale. They had achieved their cyber-synthesis from the opposite direction.
There was, apparently, quite a self-enclosed community of them in their quarters back in the Hall of Justice. "Apparently", because they tended to keep themselves to themselves so far as was possible, only emerging when they were needed to fly their Mantas or personal fliers such as this.
The flier descended to hover over the gantry. Dredd shot the drop-hatch and swung himself down.
"Wait for me here," he told the pilot, raising his voice a little over the hum of turbines. "Somebody asks you what you're doing in their space, you ask them just how far they want to push it. These drokkers aren't some other country, however much they like to pretend."
"Gotcha," said the pilot.
Dredd strode along the gantry, through open double-doors and into a pushily decorated reception area, where a number of armed and armoured Shangri La civil-def security men levelled their impactor-blasters directly at his head.
An hour earlier, back in the Iso-block, the observation floater orientated itself in the air to face a particular monocarbon cube. Through its crystal-clear face the cell within could be seen in perfect detail.
The feeding tube and ablutionary arrangements hooked to the life-support systems situated behind the edifice of the cube-bank, and at least kept the inmates alive.
The cell could have been seen in perfect detail, had not the vast majority of it been obscured by the body of the inmate.
A monstrously fat and toad-like man, the pendulous weight of his bulk spilt over what, at first sight, appeared to be a large and highly-polished silver bowl where his legs should have been.
This was in fact a null-grav invalid-floater, operating on the same principles as the observation-floater on which Dredd was standing, and indeed the same principles that kept the Iso-cube bank floating fifty metres off the ground.
It was integral to the man, fused to his spinal column, and any attempt to remove it would have killed him, so far as any and every tech-analysis had strongly suggested.
The self-sustaining hydrofusion power cells, however, had been removed. The curve of the bowl rested on the floor of the Cube, and the only thing that prevented the man toppling over, like a Weeble without the wherewithal to get up again, was the fact that the cramped and one-size-fits-all nature of his cell held him effectively wedged.
The man squatted there, immobile, seemingly staring into space. The inner walls of the cell were one-way polarised, giving observers a view in, but the inmates no view out.
Clipped to the one wall was a set of goggles, designed to project moving lights and abstract shapes onto the retinas to stave off isolation-psychosis. They were still in their vacuum pack; the man had, obviously, never so much as used them.
"Take the polarisation down," Dredd told the cyborg floater operator. "Let him see what's happening."
There was no direct sign, from either the cyborg or the walls of the cube, that anything had happened.
Abruptly, though, the man's face animated. He turned to look directly at Dredd and his face split open in what was, to all intents and purposes, an open, friendly and unreservedly charming smile.
"My word!" Efil Drago San exclaimed, with every evidence of delight at meeting
But today was not that day.
"Okay, Dredd," said the civil-def security. "You can come in. We got nothing to hide."
"Nothing I'm going to see, at any rate," growled Dredd.
"You said it, Lawboy."
Down below, a landing gantry was extending. Dredd touched the cyborg pilot of the flier on her shoulder. "We're going down."
"Gotcha." The cyborg's hands flew across her console, almost too fast for the eye to catch.
Unlike the operator of the floater back in the Iso-block, field-operational pilots were living human beings, artificially enhanced to jack their reflexes off the human scale. They had achieved their cyber-synthesis from the opposite direction.
There was, apparently, quite a self-enclosed community of them in their quarters back in the Hall of Justice. "Apparently", because they tended to keep themselves to themselves so far as was possible, only emerging when they were needed to fly their Mantas or personal fliers such as this.
The flier descended to hover over the gantry. Dredd shot the drop-hatch and swung himself down.
"Wait for me here," he told the pilot, raising his voice a little over the hum of turbines. "Somebody asks you what you're doing in their space, you ask them just how far they want to push it. These drokkers aren't some other country, however much they like to pretend."
"Gotcha," said the pilot.
Dredd strode along the gantry, through open double-doors and into a pushily decorated reception area, where a number of armed and armoured Shangri La civil-def security men levelled their impactor-blasters directly at his head.
An hour earlier, back in the Iso-block, the observation floater orientated itself in the air to face a particular monocarbon cube. Through its crystal-clear face the cell within could be seen in perfect detail.
The feeding tube and ablutionary arrangements hooked to the life-support systems situated behind the edifice of the cube-bank, and at least kept the inmates alive.
The cell could have been seen in perfect detail, had not the vast majority of it been obscured by the body of the inmate.
A monstrously fat and toad-like man, the pendulous weight of his bulk spilt over what, at first sight, appeared to be a large and highly-polished silver bowl where his legs should have been.
This was in fact a null-grav invalid-floater, operating on the same principles as the observation-floater on which Dredd was standing, and indeed the same principles that kept the Iso-cube bank floating fifty metres off the ground.
It was integral to the man, fused to his spinal column, and any attempt to remove it would have killed him, so far as any and every tech-analysis had strongly suggested.
The self-sustaining hydrofusion power cells, however, had been removed. The curve of the bowl rested on the floor of the Cube, and the only thing that prevented the man toppling over, like a Weeble without the wherewithal to get up again, was the fact that the cramped and one-size-fits-all nature of his cell held him effectively wedged.
The man squatted there, immobile, seemingly staring into space. The inner walls of the cell were one-way polarised, giving observers a view in, but the inmates no view out.
Clipped to the one wall was a set of goggles, designed to project moving lights and abstract shapes onto the retinas to stave off isolation-psychosis. They were still in their vacuum pack; the man had, obviously, never so much as used them.
"Take the polarisation down," Dredd told the cyborg floater operator. "Let him see what's happening."
There was no direct sign, from either the cyborg or the walls of the cube, that anything had happened.
Abruptly, though, the man's face animated. He turned to look directly at Dredd and his face split open in what was, to all intents and purposes, an open, friendly and unreservedly charming smile.
"My word!" Efil Drago San exclaimed, with every evidence of delight at meeting
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