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Authors: Mitchel Scanlon
Tags: Science-Fiction
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glass. "Drokk! What if I'd slipped or..."
"You didn't." Moving towards him, she inspected the child in his arms. Pulling open the baby's pyjama top, she lightly pressed a finger to his chest. The heart was beating a strong, rapid rhythm. She checked the tiny limbs, the neck, the ribs, the head. There didn't seem to be any fractures. "I'll admit, it was a gamble. But we'd run out of options. You saw what the perp was like - there was no talking him down. If I hadn't taken the shot when I did, he would have cut the kid's throat. At least, we were able to save one life here - even if we couldn't save two."
She glanced up at Verne's body on the landing, blood dripping from his head wound and seeping through the gaps between the stairs to fall onto the factory floor. Even now, she regretted the fact she had needed to kill him.
"I'd have taken the stun-shot if I could have," she said. "But I couldn't. Not without running the risk of killing Garret Cooley."
"Control to Anderson!" Abruptly, the radio unit on her belt burst into noisy life. Without consciously realising she was doing it, she had already automatically switched her radio back on the instant the crisis with Verne had passed. It was habit as much as anything: when you were a Judge in Mega-City One, the end of one crisis inevitably merged with the beginning of another.
Turning away from Bryson and the baby, she took the call.
"Anderson receiving, Control. Over."
"We've been trying to get through to you for nearly half an hour," the dispatcher said testily. "You're supposed to notify us if you go off-comm."
"Exigent circumstances, Control. A hostage situation. I'm free now though. What's up?"
"We had a call from Psi Division," the reply came back. "They want you over at Omar House ASAP."
"Acknowledged. Tell them I'm on my way. ETA: thirty minutes. Anderson over and out." She placed the radio back on her belt.
Omar House was the headquarters of Psi Division. A summons there, especially one pulling her away from her normal duties, likely meant that there was trouble brewing.
"I have to go," she told Bryson. "Psi Division business. I assume you can handle things from here on in?"
"Handle things? You mean..." Bryson's face was a picture of spluttering outrage. "Anderson, you can't just leave me here... holding the baby?!"
"Street Division training doesn't include how to change diapers, I take it?" she smiled wickedly at him. With the crisis passed, she could not help having a little bit of fun at the street Judge's expense. "Don't worry, I'll put a call in for Med-Judge backup on my way out. In the meantime though, a word to the wise about babies. I hear the best way to stop them crying is by singing to them."
"Singing..?" Bryson took the bait - hook, line and sinker. "You can't be serious!"
"Hey, I'm no more an expert than you are." Shrugging, Anderson turned away and began to head towards the factory forecourt. "But you're probably going to have to wait at least fifteen minutes until the Med-Judges get here. If you want to spend all that time listening to a baby crying, it's up to you."
She was nearly at the factory door when she heard the first sounds of singing behind her. Bryson didn't have much of a voice - and, even if his voice had been better, she got the impression he would have had a hard time holding a tune. Still, as the faltering strains of the street Judge's chosen melody followed her across the building, Anderson was forced to smile. Given the choice of lullaby, she would have liked to stay longer and hear the whole song, but she was needed elsewhere.
"Well, I'll tell you what I want, what I really-really want!"
"Tell me what you want, what you really-really want!"
"I wann-ah! I wann-ah! I wann-ah! I wann-ah! I wann-ah..."
It was funny really, but she would have never expected a street Judge to be a fan of classical music.
FOUR
RIDING SHOTGUN
"You have requested a floor in the restricted access zone," the elevator told her. "Please
"You didn't." Moving towards him, she inspected the child in his arms. Pulling open the baby's pyjama top, she lightly pressed a finger to his chest. The heart was beating a strong, rapid rhythm. She checked the tiny limbs, the neck, the ribs, the head. There didn't seem to be any fractures. "I'll admit, it was a gamble. But we'd run out of options. You saw what the perp was like - there was no talking him down. If I hadn't taken the shot when I did, he would have cut the kid's throat. At least, we were able to save one life here - even if we couldn't save two."
She glanced up at Verne's body on the landing, blood dripping from his head wound and seeping through the gaps between the stairs to fall onto the factory floor. Even now, she regretted the fact she had needed to kill him.
"I'd have taken the stun-shot if I could have," she said. "But I couldn't. Not without running the risk of killing Garret Cooley."
"Control to Anderson!" Abruptly, the radio unit on her belt burst into noisy life. Without consciously realising she was doing it, she had already automatically switched her radio back on the instant the crisis with Verne had passed. It was habit as much as anything: when you were a Judge in Mega-City One, the end of one crisis inevitably merged with the beginning of another.
Turning away from Bryson and the baby, she took the call.
"Anderson receiving, Control. Over."
"We've been trying to get through to you for nearly half an hour," the dispatcher said testily. "You're supposed to notify us if you go off-comm."
"Exigent circumstances, Control. A hostage situation. I'm free now though. What's up?"
"We had a call from Psi Division," the reply came back. "They want you over at Omar House ASAP."
"Acknowledged. Tell them I'm on my way. ETA: thirty minutes. Anderson over and out." She placed the radio back on her belt.
Omar House was the headquarters of Psi Division. A summons there, especially one pulling her away from her normal duties, likely meant that there was trouble brewing.
"I have to go," she told Bryson. "Psi Division business. I assume you can handle things from here on in?"
"Handle things? You mean..." Bryson's face was a picture of spluttering outrage. "Anderson, you can't just leave me here... holding the baby?!"
"Street Division training doesn't include how to change diapers, I take it?" she smiled wickedly at him. With the crisis passed, she could not help having a little bit of fun at the street Judge's expense. "Don't worry, I'll put a call in for Med-Judge backup on my way out. In the meantime though, a word to the wise about babies. I hear the best way to stop them crying is by singing to them."
"Singing..?" Bryson took the bait - hook, line and sinker. "You can't be serious!"
"Hey, I'm no more an expert than you are." Shrugging, Anderson turned away and began to head towards the factory forecourt. "But you're probably going to have to wait at least fifteen minutes until the Med-Judges get here. If you want to spend all that time listening to a baby crying, it's up to you."
She was nearly at the factory door when she heard the first sounds of singing behind her. Bryson didn't have much of a voice - and, even if his voice had been better, she got the impression he would have had a hard time holding a tune. Still, as the faltering strains of the street Judge's chosen melody followed her across the building, Anderson was forced to smile. Given the choice of lullaby, she would have liked to stay longer and hear the whole song, but she was needed elsewhere.
"Well, I'll tell you what I want, what I really-really want!"
"Tell me what you want, what you really-really want!"
"I wann-ah! I wann-ah! I wann-ah! I wann-ah! I wann-ah..."
It was funny really, but she would have never expected a street Judge to be a fan of classical music.
FOUR
RIDING SHOTGUN
"You have requested a floor in the restricted access zone," the elevator told her. "Please
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