Sweet Justice Read Free Page A

kneepad’s far too precious for me to risk it on the fortunes of fishface. Not precious in a financial sense, you understand – it’s just a plain black number with faded diamante GOG lettering, and although it’s 17 years old now it wouldn’t fetch more than a couple of hundred creds on the Classique Pad Market. But it’s worth a lot more to me; me and that pad have seen 17 years worth of life together, hard times and worse times. And like they say on the Brain Tape ads: ‘The tapes cost 100 – but memories are priceless.’ How true (although I’ve seen Brain Tapes discounted to 59.90 on the Block Mall).
    As the Kark Show ended, I pondered my next move. The journey from my apartment door to the lift is without doubt the most dangerous part of my weekly odyssey. That’s not to say that the rest of the trip is without its dangers – the Uptown/Downtown Zoom Underpass Pedway, for instance, was voted Top Mugger’s Haunt in a recent phone-in, and the crumbling chem-pools along the Reclaim Zone are always claiming innocent victims. However, it is a Justice Dept. statistical fact that 50% of all criminal violence is inflicted either within the victim’s home, or between his home and his Block Exit.
    When I tell you that I live in the Gary Coleman Block, you’ll understand my apprehension. Gary Coleman Juves are reputed to be amongst the nastiest, foulest and toughest in the city. I sometimes wonder if they’re waging some kind of vendetta or holy war against me, so numerous have the incidents become. But I suppose it makes statistical sense: there are 58,000 people living in Gary Coleman, and it stands to reason that some of them are going to be pestered more than others. And when you consider that dozens of families never leave their apartments, that must lower the odds even more in favour of any particular individual being chosen as a target.
    I peered out through my door’s Exterior Viewer. The corridor appeared to be empty. A good omen. I unlocked and unbarred the door’s triple-security locks and slid out into an alien world. The walls are hidden under a constantly-changing sea of graffiti, chief amongst which are various Juve boasts: GC JUVES RULE, SLINKY KILLS TOASTIES, POWER TO THE SUB-TEENS! and the like. Of course, there’s a fair smattering of adult slogans, too. It’s a funny thing about graffiti – no matter how fast the Block scrubber squads work, they never seem to be able to keep up with the scrawlers’ prolific output. Even when Citi-Def post round-the-clock sentries, the graffiti still appears, almost as if it grew there of its own accord. Now, I paused long enough only to record the fact that someone had scrawled NITCHY IS A FINK in large day-shine letters all over the door, then sprinted for the lifts at the end of the corridor.
    As if on cue, Juves appeared just as I punched the call button. I’m not afraid of 11-year-olds, of course, not even when there are a dozen or so of them; but all the same, they can be pretty unnerving. They lounged against the Block wall, scuffing their Mock Doc aggro boots noisily. Not one of them said a word. They all just stood there, glaring at me.
    I ignored them. I’m used to this treatment: everybody in Mega-City One is. Citizens glare and glower at other citizens wherever they happen to be – though not if there’s a Judge around, I hasten to add.
    The Juves were obviously unhappy that their glares had failed to bug me. An older boy with a blue-painted face lashed out in my direction with a heavy boot – then stopped his kick just before it struck my leg. None of them laughed, though several sneered provocatively.
    I pursed my lips and began to whistle beneath my breath. Stay nonchalant, that’s the best motto. Don’t give these louts an ounce of satisfaction!
    ‘OW!’ I gasped as something small and solid struck me sharply on the back of the head.
    ‘You young devils!’ I snapped. ‘Which of you threw that?’ None of them moved. They continued