Free Psykogeddon by Dave Stone

lounged in different corners of corridors in groups, smoking roll-ups of some substance still not illegal, due to trickle-down from the resources of the people above, eyeing their opposite numbers with speculative suspicion as though the first makings of a gang-rumble were in the air.
    Young ladies in a variety of chambermaid-style outfits lounged, similarly, on other corners, with an demeanour that left no doubt as to what they might supply by way of extra services.
    A place for everybody and everybody in their place, supposedly.
    There were, however, those in the microcosmic culture of Those Below who fell through the cracks. Those who had found themselves some perceived space in the culture but for whom there was no actual use.
    "Beggin' your pardon, yer worship," a ragged, wizened, crazed-looking individual said insistently, attempting to pluck at Dredd's uniform with a thin, crabbed hand. "I'm an ostler, me! Finest ostler you'll as ever like to meet! Got any 'orses you might want lookin' after?"
    "Get away from me, creep," Dredd growled, though it must be said, not quite as viciously as he might have.
    He recognised the type from the City outside. People so delusionally fixated on having some kind of job, on being of some actual use, that they starved themselves to death as beggars rather than accept the subsistence benefits that were, technically, every citizen's right. Such people were to be pitied rather than hated. If every one of them had turned around and demanded what was technically their right, after all, the Mega-City financial control systems would never have been able to cope.
    "Touch me again and you'll find yourself in the iso-cubes," Dredd said. A few months in the low-sec cubes, with their provision of nutrition, medical attention and anti-psychotics, would probably be a step up in the life of this creep.
    "Don' know anything about no eye-suck-ubes," said the half-crazed wretch. "I'm an ostler, me. Got any 'orses?"
    Dredd brushed him off and pushed on through the crowd. He realised that, without having really thought about it, some part of him was keeping half an eye out for traces of a missing cat.
    He'd left the Shangri La Proconsul, Lady Slocombe, with the impression that he was in fact here to look for the drokking thing, and his Judge-bred dislike for anything even approaching dishonesty was troubling him a little.
    Ah, well, drokk it. The life of a Judge was, in the end, packed with such niggling details. Cases that were never solved to complete satisfaction, leaving any number of loose ends. Fugitives escaping capture despite every effort. Street riots that could have been avoided if one factor in the chain-reaction that had escalated them into disaster had happened differently...
    Given all that, the knowledge of a lost drokking cat was like a drop of extra contamination in the Black Atlantic. It didn't mean anything and had no relation to anything else. It wasn't important.
    At length Dredd reached the area he was heading for. Litigation Row - the level and section of the Shangri La lower levels that housed its lawyers.
    As he prepared to enter, a segmented polycarbonate tentacle sprang from the wall and writhed before him, barring his way.
    "Be aware," an automated voice said, "that you are entering a designated NERF-field zone. Be aware, therefore, that any injury received while on these premises will be deemed a result of your wilful actions and responsibility will not be assumed by the proprietors and/or affiliates of Shangri La Towers.
    "Be aware, additionally, that an agreement of confidentiality does not extend to the withholding of any admitted crime, so far as it is defined in the Laws and Statutes of the Justice Department of Mega-City One.
    "Please state your name and business for the purposes of voice-verification. Statement of name and business constitutes an acceptance of the above terms, together with such additional terms as might subsequently be deemed necessary, up to and