Judge Dredd

“Yeah, you noticed, huh?” Purple Ears grinned and snapped off a dozen rounds with his automatic pistol. “Block war! Block war! Pour it on ’em, droogs!”

Metal Jacket joined in. The noise of his big black-and-copper weapon ripped through Fergie’s head. It was loud—but not loud enough to drown out the screams from far below.

“Damn it, you got to stop this,” Fergie cried out. “I’m on parole. They catch me with you morons my ass is back in Aspen again!”

No one could hear him. Fergie knew he had to do something. People were getting slaughtered down there, and though he didn’t really know his new neighbors that well, blowing them all to hell was the wrong thing to do— especially if the Judges blamed him for having a bunch of crazies in his room, and with his luck, that’s exactly what they’d do.

Fergie threw himself at Purple Ears and grabbed for his gun. A small voice told him it was a stupid thing to do. And, as it always seemed to happen, the small voice warned him half a second late. Purple Ears turned and looked at Fergie swinging on his arm, looked at him like he couldn’t believe this stupid neek was there. Then he whipped the butt of his pistol around and whacked Fergie firmly on the jaw…

TWO

It was close to sunset outside, but it was always high noon in the harshly-lit corridors of Mega-City’s Hall of Justice. The building was a towering fortress made of rough black granite that seemed to eat the light. The familiar shield and eagle of the Judges was carved in massive relief above the outside entryway.

Few ordinary citizens ever passed through these doors. Fewer still got beyond the high-security area of the first floor. And none of them ever reached the heights of the Hall of Justice, or penetrated its depths, which plunged thirty stories below the street. At least, that was the number the Judges allowed to leak to the curious public. There were secrets in this building only a handful of people ever knew.

It was exactly 1847 hours when Judge Hershey left Locker Room G and walked down the narrow rampway to Level Seventeen, her black helmet tucked beneath her arm. Rookies stopped and saluted as she passed. Tekkies and office personnel nodded in respect and stepped out of her way. A few seasoned Street Judges looked her up and down, but only after she’d safely passed by.

Judge Hershey’s eyes were dark and wide-set, her skin slick as satin and perfectly clear. Her black hair was cut nearly as short as a man’s. A curl formed a perfect halfmoon on either cheek, her only concession to fashion and her sex.

Not that anyone had ever mistaken her for a man. Though Hershey was dressed in the standard, beetle-black armor, gauntlets, and boots of a Judge, no one with normal vision would make a mistake like that. She was trained, disciplined, and quick as death, or she would never have earned the eagle-and-shield badge molded in copper and chrome across her breast. Still, it was clear there was more to Hershey than impact plastic and steel. Every male Judge could see that, though no one among them could truthfully say they knew she was a woman for sure. A hopeful rumor was whispered now and then, but none of them were true.

Armorglass doors slid aside with a sigh, and Hershey walked into the vast, curved tunnel that was the heart of the Street Judge’s life. The thunder of engines echoed off the concrete walls. The deep, throaty roar was more than just a sound, it was a living force that rose up through Hershey’s boots, rippled through her belly, and spread like a tremor of the earth into her arms and legs.

She had never discussed this effect with the other Judges—it would have been a sign of emotional weakness to do so—but she was certain hers was a feeling shared by any man or woman who had ever walked into Level Seventeen among a hundred gleaming Lawmasters growling like metal beasts, crouched and waiting to come alive at the hands of their keepers.

If there was a more powerful, awesome machine in the world, Hershey couldn’t imagine what it might be. A lawman from the twentieth century would recognize the basic motorcycle shape, but the resemblance ended there. These squat, black monsters were incredibly durable, lightning-fast killing machines a hundred generations removed from their ancestors of the world of Way Back When—and nearly as deadly as the peace officers who rode them through the streets of Mega-City now.

Hershey spotted Rookie Briscoe on the far end of the line of machines. It was 1852 hours, eight minutes until the shift change at 1900, and the tunnel was filled with armor-clad Judges and red-sleeved maintenance personnel. Hershey checked her helmet, saw all the points of light on her visor wink emerald-green, started for Briscoe, then stepped back to let a Lawmaster pass.

“Judge! Judge Hershey!”

Hershey recognized the voice, hurried her step, and pretended not to hear.

“Judge—ma’am…”

Hershey stopped abruptly and wheeled around.

“Olmeyer! If you have read Manners and Conventions, Article Seven, you will be aware of the fact that there is no such thing as a ma’am. Ma’am is a gender title, Cadet. All Judges are addressed as Judge. They are not, I repeat, not addressed as sir, ma’am, miss, it, or any other discriminatory word or phrase. Do you read me, Cadet?”

“Yes, ma—yes, Judge!”

“Fine. Now what do you want? I’m on duty in forty-two seconds.”

Olmeyer backed off. His throat went suddenly dry. It always happened when he spoke to Judge Hershey. He couldn’t look her straight in the eye. If he did, she took his breath away and scared him to death at the same time. So he did what he usually did, which was gaze at the tunnel ceiling, as if he were searching for flies.

“I was, uh, wondering if you’d had a chance to think about what I—”

“No. Forget it, Olmeyer.” Hershey’s eyes were black as winter ice. “I am not interested. You will not speak of this again.”

“It’s—it’s for the yearbook, Judge. It’s classic poses is all. It’s not some Way Back When p-porno centerfold or anyth—”

“Olmeyer…”

Hershey leaned down, cocked one gloved finger and aimed it directly between his eyes. “Olmeyer, I know what it is. Don’t tell me what it is. And if you mention this again I will fry your fat head and eat it. Am I getting through to you, Cadet?”

“Yes, Judge.”

“I can’t hear you.”

“YES, JUDGE!”

Hershey glared at him hard enough to kill a house-plant, then turned and marched away. She felt the heat rise to her face and jammed the helmet on her head. The helmet offered more than protection from criminals on the street; no one could read you if they couldn’t see your face.

Briscoe was standing by his Lawmaster. He’d seen the exchange between Judge Hershey and Olmeyer, but hadn’t been close enough to guess what it had all been about. He didn’t really care. Anything Judge Hershey did, thought, or said was fine with him. He had dreams about Hershey he wouldn’t even tell his best friend Miguel. It frightened him to even think about things like that. If he ever had to do a Truth Session, he’d take the killpill before he let them know what was churning through his head.

“Nice evening, Judge,” he said. “I hope that little droog didn’t bother you any. Cadets are sure a pain in th —”

“Shut up, Briscoe.” Hershey gave him a chilly look. “A Cadet is lower than a slug’s belly, and a Rookie is a quarter inch higher than that. You read me clear?”

“Yes, Judge!”

“Good. Excellent, Briscoe. Now pay attention and get your act together. The citizens aren’t paying you to look nice in your new black suit. Straddle that mother and find me some crime!”