Judge Dredd
Authors: Neal Barrett
It is the Third Millennium, and Planet Earth has become a cesspool of violence and mayhem. The new guardians of society are the Judges, who have the power to dispense both justice and punishment. One of them is feared above all others. In Mega-city One, he is the law . . .
Wrongly accused of murder and sent to the dreaded remote Aspen Prison, Judge Dredd is shocked to discover that he is a clone—the result of a genetic experiment designed to create the perfect lawman. Now, as his sinister twin plots to overthrow system, he will team up with a computer-hacker ex-con and an alluring rookie female judge in an all-out battle for the future of the planet.
With the ruthless Judge Hunters tracking him for a crime he didn’t commit, Dredd is in the race of his life—to get back to Mega-city One in time to stop his brother’s cold-blooded conspiracy, before it’s too late . . .
The hottest superhero to grace the screen since
Batman
, Judge Dredd comes alive in the futuristic action thriller of the century!
Published by arrangement with Cinergi Pictures Entertainment Inc. and Cinergi Productions N.V. Inc.
First published in Great Britain in 1995 by Boxtree Ltd.
JUDGE DREDD
Distributed by Buena Vista Pictures Distribution, Inc.
Copyright © 1995 Cinergi Pictures Entertainment Inc. and Cinergi Productions N.V. Inc. All rights reserved.
Cover photograph by Terry O’Neill.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
ISBN: 0-312-95628-2
Printed in the United States of America
St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition / June 1995
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
In the Third Millennium, the world changed. Climate . . . Nations . . . all were in upheaval. Humanity itself turned as violent as the planet. Civilization threatened to collapse.
And then, a solution was found. The crumbling legal system was merged with the overburdened police, creating a powerful and efficient force for the People. These new guardians of Society were given the power to dispense both justice and punishment. They were police, jury and executioner. They were . . .
. . . the Judges.
—History of the Mega-Cities
James Olmeyer, III
Chapter II: “Justice”
2191
YEAR 2139:
“JUDGE DREDD”
H
erman Ferguson ran as fast as he could.
Fergie had been running all his life. Running from his father, from his brothers, from the law. From outraged victims of this scam or that. Now the streets were full of blood, and he was running again. He shut out the howls of the dying and the rattle of gunfire and didn’t look back. Lead stitched the side of the building, pitting the grimy brick wall. Fergie wrapped his hands around his head as razor-sharp shards of stone stung his neck and sliced his cheek.
He ducked into the alcove and slammed his hands flat against the rusty metal door, praying it wasn’t locked. The door issued one protesting squeal and gave way. The stink in the entry was strong enough to gag a goat. The floor was ankle-deep with garbage, broken bricks, old foodpods, and several items Fergie didn’t care to think about.
The elevator shaft was a black and open wound. Fergie headed up the stairs. He glanced once more at the address on his card:
RED QUAD
BLOCK Y
HEAVENLY HAVEN
SUITE 666
The stairway was worse than the hall downstairs. He stepped on something that squealed. Something darted up the sooty wall.
Fergie gasped for breath as he passed the second floor. Aspen Prison offered cons athletics, but he didn’t have the physical bearing or the right attitude to be a jock.
He rested on four. Took it easy up to five, and ran up to six. The hall was empty except for trash. The building was old as Time. The thick walls sucked up every sound. If gunfire still raked the streets, the noise couldn’t reach him up here.
Garbage shifted down the hallway to his right. Fergie went flat against the wall. A battered foodkart rounded the corner and headed his way. Its wheels were out of line, and it wobbled like his father used to do when he tried to find his way back home.
“Delicious and healthful rationpaks, piping hot and ready to eat . . . delicious and healthful rationpaks, piping hot and re—”
Fergie stepped out of its way. He passed number 662 . . . 664 . . .
Number 666 was a door smeared with the usual unintelligible graffiti, but Fergie didn’t care about that. Instead, he felt a great sense of relief. He hadn’t actually been
alone
for six months—no space, no privacy, just a couple of thousand mean, hairy sons of bitches who’d kick you to death for entertainment, or slide a rusty shiv into your heart.
“All
right,”
Fergie said. “The Fergie is
home,
the old Fergo is
by himself!”
He turned the knob and stepped inside. A man with a scar-covered face and purple ears jammed a pistol up Fergie’s nose.
“Hey-hey,
what we gots here? You a Judge
spy,
little man? ’Zat what you bes, you bes a muckin’
spy?”
Fergie blinked and stepped back. There were two other men in the room. They howled with laughter at Purple Ears’ remark. They’d never heard anything funnier in their lives. They stood by an open window. They gripped enormous weapons in their hands. Now Fergie could hear the crowd below. Weapons. Window. Crowd. Fergie felt the hair creep up his neck. All the slaughter down there was coming from here. In 666. In
his
room, which he didn’t really want any more.
“All
right,”
Fergie said, “I’ll tell you what, I can see what’s happening here. What it is, I got the wrong room. Hell, I probably got the wrong
building,
you know? I am
always
doing that.” He grinned at the three maniacs. “So I’ll just run along, I’ll leave you guys to your—”
“You
hold
it, droog.” Purple Ears stepped in his path. “You don’t bes goin’ anywheres, okay? You
hear
’em down there? It’s a
block war,
man!”
Purple Ears’ companions cheered. One had two rows of Shiny hyponeedle teeth. The other wore a metal jacket he’d made from tin cans. A dead mouse hung from the lobe of each ear.
“Yeah,” said Needle Teeth, “if you l-live here, if you’re a R-R-Rezzie, you gotta stand up fer your block.”
“You gotta,” Metal Jacket added. “You don’t and you’re a—”
“—a
neek,”
Purple Ears finished.
“Yeah, you don’t, you’re a n-neek.”
“That sounds bad,” Fergie said.
“It is, man.”
Metal Jacket grinned and pointed a dirty finger at Fergie’s chest. “He don’ look like no Judge spy to me. I don’ guess he bein’ big enough for that.”
