Judge Dredd

“Aspen Shuttle, sir. The one with—”

“—with Judge Dredd aboard,” Griffin finished. His voice was deadly calm, assured. “Is he dead or alive? I want positive ID either way. No guesswork, Captain.”

“Nothing yet, sir. We’re going through the wreckage now. I’m getting a picture on-line for you, Chief Justice.”

“About time, too,” Griffin said. The Officer was doing his job, but it never hurt to shake a man up when you could.

A holo sphere blinked into life at Griffin’s eye level. It rotated slowly, giving him a complete view of the area. The wreck was a black, twisted metal shell. It had scooped out a shallow groove in the parched earth, plowed a hundred meters and stopped.

He’s dead, Griffin told himself. No one could live through that.

The Judge Hunter Squad was going about its work with practiced care. Men moved through the smoking debris, using barcode scanners to check the ID tags of the dead. Griffin wrinkled his nose. He could almost smell the oppressive heat of the Cursed Earth, the unforgetable odor of burning flesh.

“Sir…” Captain Aachen stepped into sight, his visor raised to show a man with scarred features, a broken nose, gray eyes squinting against the harsh light. “The shuttle was struck by an unidentified weapon from ground level. Two-thirds of the craft exploded at once. We’ve spotted some pieces twenty, thirty clicks out. There are sixteen casualties here but no sign of Dredd. Two men alive. One guard and a prisoner. We are presently—”

The officer turned away for a moment, frowned, and looked at Griffin. “Chief Justice, we’ve found tracks leading away from the wreck site. At least… half a dozen men. I am assuming Dredd was one of the survivors, sir.”

“No.”

“Sir?”

“No, Captain, he was not. You are clearly in error.”

Captain Aachen nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“I repeat. Joseph Dredd did not survive the shuttle crash. No one survived the wreck. Is that clear, Captain?”

“Yes, sir. Perfectly clear, sir. Will there be any further—”

“Griffin out.”

The tin bee in his ear pinged once. The bright holo winked like a bubble in the sun and disappeared. Griffin quickened his steps. His throat was dry as the Cursed Earth itself, and he felt the sting of sweat on his chest.

“Damn you, Dredd,” he said to the dark tunnel walls. “You’d better be dead. You’d better be in Hell!”

Captain Aachen made his way back into the wreckage. The odor was strong enough to gag a hooker-droid, but he’d smelled the dead before. The prisoner who’d survived was nearly dead. A minute, maybe two, he’d be gone. A Medik was squatting over the guard. Aachen waved him away. He looked down at the man. The Medik had cleaned his face and set a compress against the ugly cut on his head.

“Thanks,” the guard said. He showed Aachen a weary grin. “I’m grateful for your help. Glad you guys showed up.”

Aachen brought the blunt-nosed pistol from behind his back.

“No problem,” he said.

You have got to be out of your mind, Hershey. Plain stupid—totally out of your mind…

She stood in the shadows of the lockers, held her breath and listened to the sounds of the dead half of the night. How could the silence make so much noise? She could hear the sigh of air in ventilator shafts, the hum of the elevators in the walls. A drip in the shower was a fullblown waterfall.

Hershey looked at her watch. 0210. Two minutes and a life-time since she’d stolen a look before.

A voice at the far end of the room. Another, and a laugh. A locker slammed, shattering the quiet of the room.

“Go home,” Hershey whispered. “Your shift’s over, guys, get out of here.”

Footsteps echoed down the corridor. A door whispered shut. The locker room was silent again. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Dredd’s locker was 30914, two aisles down. She was grateful for the synthetic flooring that dampened her steps. You could stomp on the stuff and never make a sound.

So why didn’t they put it on the ceiling and the walls? Why didn’t someone think of that?

The lock was a simple magnetic, easy enough to open if you knew how, and every Cadet who’d gone through the Academy did. It was something you learned about the second day of Break & Enter, Basic B & E. The locks on the individual lockers were a courtesy, not a security measure. No Judge would even dream of violating the privacy of another Judge’s space.

Yeah, right. No one but you, Hershey…

Towels. A spare helmet with an awesome dent on the side. She knew where Dredd had gotten that. Brass polish. Boot polish. Really, Dredd. She couldn’t resist a smile. Still a Cadet at heart.

Something swung on a gold chain at the rear of the locker. Any Judge would know it on sight. A valor award. For outstanding heroism. And what did that get you, Dredd? What does it mean to anyone now?

Her eyes blurred and she wiped her sleeve across her face. Damn it, no time for that. It isn’t going to help…

She spotted it on the floor of the locker, behind a combat issue boot. A bullet had taken a bite out of the heel. A half-inch higher and Dredd would have a limp.

It was a black slipcase, half an inch thick, with something inside. She drew it out and held it to the light. A cheap viewie, from the quality of the picture, probably a frame from a home video. A young couple. The woman was holding a baby.

“Baby Dredd?” Hershey shook her head. “Didn’t think you were ever a baby, pal.”

She looked at the viewie a moment longer, held it, reluctant to put it down. A little too… what? Not too thick, too heavy by an ounce or two.

Turning the picture over, she slid her thumb along the rim. The frame popped open. Another image inside. Two men, mid-twenties, in Cadet blues. Graduation day at the Academy, couldn’t be anything else. One of the men obviously a younger Dredd. The other… who? Enough like Dredd to be related somehow.

Hershey frowned, studying the picture again. Not a relative, that couldn’t be. Joseph Dredd didn’t have anyone, any life at all outside of the Judges. And even that family had finally rejected him, tossed him aside. Now he didn’t have anyone at all.

TWENTY-TWO

Fergie knew he was alive. Everything hurt too much to be dead. His mother had been a closet Churcher. She told him when you died all you did was go to sleep for a while. When you woke up again, you were somewhere real nice. This wasn’t it. This wasn’t nice at all. This was like really, really bad and bound to get worse. You could tell by the ugly-looking goons who were squatting by the fire. Fergie didn’t think they looked right. People you wouldn’t want to know. That, and the hoods. The other thing his mother had told him was don’t ever talk to a man who wears a hood.

What the hell were they doing over there? Snorting and sniffing, rooting through the junk they’d salvaged from the shuttle. Whatever that might be—whatever had come down in one piece.

His hands and arms were numb. They were up above his shoulders somewhere but he didn’t look to see. If