Judge Dredd (7 page)

Warden-Judge William Otis Miller followed the two guards down the wet and treacherous stairs. He did not glance to the left or to the right, at the cells descending on either side. This is what they were called, but they were not cells at all. Each was a three-foot circle in stone laced with flat strips of tightly-woven steel bars. They looked for all the world like the overflow gates of city sewers. The small rooms behind these bars were seven feet square. Every other day, a jet of frigid water sluiced the prisoners’ waste away. Every morning at four, waterpaks and food-pods were automatically dropped in each cell. The water contained a drug that would prevent a man from killing himself, or escaping into any degree of madness that would let him forget about his punishment or his crime. The drugs didn’t make a man
feel
any better, they just made him do his forever-after time.

The stairs continued to wind into the bowels of the earth. Warden-Judge Miller was numb to the bone. He sighed with relief when the stairs came to an end at a massive steel door. The door was nine inches thick and incredibly old. The small computer lock inset in its center was relatively new.

Miller nodded to the guards. They took a step to either side of the door. Miller laid his right palm on the center plate of the lock. A winking red light turned green. The door slid open without a sound, and Miller stepped inside.

A dim light glowed from a slot in the ceiling. A pair of Autoguns wheezed from the wall.

“Identi-fy yourself,” a metalic voice said.

“Miller. Warden-Judge.”

“Voice sam-ple recognized. Pro-ceed, Warden-Judge Miller.”

The walls of the small room were steel instead of stone. The blind muzzles of the Autoguns swung toward a circular platform against the far wall of the room. A pale blue light, a cobalt haze, surrounded the platform from the ceiling to the floor. A figure stood and moved about beyond the haze.

“Well, Warden . . . back for another chat, are we?”

The voice behind the barrier of light was cold as glacier ice.

“A very short chat,” Miller said. “I have a good deal to do.”

“Of course you do. You’re a
very
important man, Miller.”

“Warden Miller,” Miller corrected. “Warden-
Judge
Miller. Don’t forget that again.”

“Of course. No disrespect intended, sir.”

The voice behind the blue veil was different now. Considerate. Warm and soft-spoken. Obsequious almost to the point where Miller could call it insolence.

“I know it must be a strain, sir. Yours is a thankless job, feeding and caring for all these parasites who have sucked the living blood from Society.” The man laughed lightly. “I don’t speak of myself, of course. I’m a ghost. I don’t exist.”

The man stepped to the edge of the platform. The air around him sizzled as he approached the blue light. He was tall, well-built. Flesh pale as raw milk, flesh that had long forgotten the warmth of the sun, stretched over classically-handsome features.

The man looked at Miller, and Miller instantly looked away. He felt the heat rise to his face. He could never look directly into the man’s eyes. His eyes were too bright, too intense. The color of mercury floating on polished blue steel.

“We are both prisoners here, Warden-Judge Miller. You behind a desk. Me behind . . . this. The good Judge Fargo’s reward for our . . .
services.”

“You killed innocent people. You went far beyond service!”

“Innocent?” The man spread his hands in a helpless gesture. “The innocent exist only until they are perpetrators themselves. You are as good an example as any, sir. You became a perpetrator when you conspired to keep me alive, when you began to accept the generous bribes to make certain I retained a healthier and more positive outlook on life than those poor devils in their pestholes out there.”

Miller shifted his weight. He did not like to be in the same room with this man. Even with the force field and the Autoguns, he felt vulnerable and alone.

“I can’t stand here listening to your ravings all day,” he said. “I came here because your—because our benefactor has sent a package for you.”

“A package, is it?” The man showed Miller a terrible smile. “How delightful, I’m sure. No one sends me packages any more.”

“Computer. Deactivate shield,” Miller said. “Autoguns only.”

The blue light flickered and faded, melting into a warm amber glow. The Autoguns in the wall whirred toward the man.

Miller waited until the weapons were in place, then stepped up on the platform and handed the package to the man. It was small, square, wrapped in the standard shell designed for AO, Addressee Only.

“I’m awfully excited,” the man said. He cocked his head quizzically to one side. “I wonder if it’s my birthday today? I simply can’t remember all the special days any more.”

“Get on with it,” Miller said irritably.

The man pressed his thumb on the smooth surface. The package opened like a flower. The man held it close to his chest, his very own treasure that no one else could see. Finally, he reached in and drew out a plastic ellipse, no longer than his thumb. Bright bands of yellow, blue, red, and green circled the object in complex geometrical patterns.

Miller frowned. “What the hell is that?”

“I do believe it’s a puzzle,” the man said. He began to turn the bands of color in different directions. Red on red. Blue on blue.

Miller cursed under his breath. “I wasted my time bringing you that? Damn those people.”

“Your time, perhaps,” the man smiled. “Not mine. I simply love puzzles. I remember this one. It’s from India, I believe. A place that isn’t there any more. It’s supposed to contain the meaning of life.”

The warden laughed. He made a show of looking around the small room. “You think that’s what it is, huh?”

“Yes, I do think so, sir.”

“Good. I’m real happy for you. I’ve got maybe a minute. Why don’t you enlighten me some. Tell me what’s the meaning of life.”

The man gave him a weary, almost sorrowful look. “It ends,” he said.

“What?”

The puzzle made a quick, sibilant sound, like the hiss of a snake. Miller felt a jolt of pain in his throat. For an instant, he had the irrational thought that someone had shot him with a miniature sun. The pain was unbearable, intense, the nuclear heat of a star concentrated in one tiny spot. He gasped and fell to his knees, one hand clawing at his throat.

“Computer . . . acti—activaaa—alarm!”

“Voice is not rec-ognized. Repeat: your voice command is not rec-ognized. Please remain still . . .”

“D-damn you!” Miller choked on the words, felt the terror grip his heart. “I—am—Warthejud—Warga-Jushh—M-M-M—”

“Security Break . . . Security Break. Autoguns targeting . . .”

“N-N-Noooo!”

The guns came alive, catching Miller in a precise crossfire, cutting him in half before he could take a single step toward the door.

In the corridor outside, the two guards jacketed Buklead shells into their riot guns. One slammed the override button with his fist. They both stepped back, guns at the ready. The door slid open. The top half of Miller’s body lay sprawled on the floor. The first guard gagged and stumbled back. A shadow came out of greater shadow, twisted the guard’s neck, jerked the weapon from his grasp in a blur and squeezed the trigger once. The second guard slammed against the wall. The top of his head disappeared.

The man slid another shell into his gun. He reached into the open package and retrieved two items Miller hadn’t been close enough to see. One was a small photograph of Mega-City newscaster Vardis Hammond. The other was a pocket-sized badge embossed with a familiar eagle and shield. A name was engraved on the badge. The name read
RICO.

Rico looked at the two dead guards then dismissed them from his mind. He took three steps to Miller’s body and kicked the corpse soundly in the head.

“Keep it to yourself,” he said softly. “I’m back . . .”

NOTE: While every reader will be familiar with the life and legend of Judge Dredd, there are few historically authentic records of his actual words. The following is transcribed from a partial audiotape of a lecture given by Judge Dredd at the Academy of Justice. No date is given, but from the equipment described, it would seem this event took place circa 2139.

JUDGE DREDD

This is the Lawgiver Two. Twenty-five round sidearm with mission-variable voice-programmed ammunition. Pay attention.
Signal Flare!

[A flare explodes in the target area.]

JUDGE DREDD

Yours, Cadets, when you graduate . . . if you graduate. Now, I don’t have to tell any of you what this is. But I will, because you are Cadets and you don’t know from nothing even if you think you do.

[Nervous laughter.]

JUDGE DREDD

This is the Mark IV Lawmaster, improved model. With onboard dual laser cannons, vertical take-off and landing flight capacity and five hundred kilometer range.

[NOTE: An evaluation of the background sound at this point would indicate that maintenance personnel have set the machine in motion at this time. Apparently, the Lawmaster then rises in a hovering mode for five-point-seven seconds. At that time, the drive unit fails and the Lawmaster drops heavily to the floor.]

JUDGE DREDD

Yours . . . if they ever get it to work.

[Judge Dredd walks to another location in the classroom. A Cadet coughs in the background.]

JUDGE DREDD

All of these things are nothing, Cadets. Nothing but toys. End of the day, you’re alone out there in the dark, all that counts—is this.

[The sound of a book dropping heavily on a table.]

JUDGE DREDD

This is the book. This is the Law, And you
will
be alone when you swear to uphold these ideals . . . For most of us there is only death on the streets . . . or, for those few of us who survive to old age, the prouder loneliness of the Long Walk into the unknown of the Cursed Earth, to spend your last days taking the Law into the Outlands . . .

There are medically-disabled Judges and there are dead Judges. There are retired Judges who have taken the Long Walk. Do not ever forget, Cadets, that there is no such thing as a Judge who has set aside those vows you will take . . . Class dismissed.

[Except for background noise, the tape ends here.]

—History of the Mega-Cities

James Olmeyer, III

Chapter XXI: “Judge Dredd,

the Man and the Myth”

2191

T
he barge wasn’t made for beauty. It was three blocks long, solid and black, and built like a slag-iron whale. The Mega-City wall-lock opened like a dark and empty eye; the barge shuddered down through the night and poked its pitted nose inside.

In the amber light of the lock, the rusty hide of the barge seemed afflicted by ugly metal warts. The drive-rings in its belly pulsed in alarming shades of blue. The docking engineer frowned at the rings, glanced at his watch and cursed beneath his breath. It was 0610 and Clydo, his morning relief, was late. If the barge’s rings went totally out of sync—which they very well might, from the way they looked now—a white ball of fire would appear in the wall. He’d be a vapor, and Clydo would get another roach in his record for being late.

The barge finally whined into silence and the lock took hold. The massive craft creaked and moaned. A portal came open with a hiss of dirty steam. A crewman stepped out, rubbed a sleeve across his face, and nodded at the guard.

“Two loads from the prison factory in Hold Number Nine. One from the mines in Six. Prisoner mail in Two.”

The guard looked up from his computer tablet. “No prisoners comin’ back?”

“Just dead ones.” He nodded back into the dark. “Families probably glad to get rid of ’em, now they gotta bury the bastards.”

The crewman stalked off. The guard stepped past him into the dimly-lit hold. Fifteen body bags were strapped to the deck. Each had a yellow plastic tag stapled to his chest. Each bag was stenciled:
ASP.

The guard leaned down to check the names. When he first got the docking assignment, it bothered him to get near the bodies. Like he told his wife, it was spooky as hell in there, like a Saturday holo show where the zombies and stuff came to life. He had been on the job eight months now, and the bodies didn’t bother him any more. They didn’t look like zombies, they looked like black bags with dead guys inside. Which proved you could get used to anything if y—

He heard the slight crinkle of plastic and jerked around. One of the body bags sat up, and the hair stood up on the back of the guard’s neck. He reached for his weapon, then stopped, and threw back his head and laughed. He knew what had happened and he knew who it was that’d pull a crazy stunt like this.

“Okay, I’m
scared,
all right? Get the hell out of there, Jak!”

A pinhole slit appeared in the black body bag. A laser beam thin as a needle touched the guard between the eyes. The guard looked surprised. There might be a punch line to this, but he was too dead to wait around and see.

Rico stepped out of the body bag and smiled at the guard.

“Home, sweet home,” he said.

The lights were always on. The streets were always wet. Everything in Mega-City was above Redtown, and everything above dripped down.

Rico ignored the hungry eyes, the men and women who offered him a peek at their sorrow and their souls. He walked past the crowded taverns, past the holo-kill parlors where every kiss and cut was good as life, and every crime was real.

On a video screen, he saw Vardis Hammond silently mouthing a replay of the city’s block wars. Rico winked at the image and rolled his eyes.

The sign outside said:
GEIGER
’
S BAZAAR.
The jittery neon offered
SURPLUS PAWN FAXO TOOLS VOUCHERS CASHED.

Everything nobody wanted hung from the ceiling and the walls. Rico made his way through the maze. In the rear of the store a fence guarded better merchandise.