“Odd to run into something like that,” Rico said. “I thought they slagged all the ABC warriors after the last wars.”
Geiger shrugged. “DeWats. People collect ’em, got nothing else to do. They’re fifty, sixty years old. Nonfunctional, of course.” Geiger showed yellow teeth. “Like my old lady, you know?” He handed Rico a long box. “Here you go. Says ‘Hold for Lazarus’ on top.”
Rico swept a pile of surplus breathers aside, set the box on the table, and thumbed the lock. Geiger pretended not to look, but when the lid slid back he could easily see what was inside.
“Holy… !” Geiger stood back. “Man, is that what I think it is?”
A black, perfectly pressed uniform was laid neatly in the box. On top of the uniform was an item any Citizen of Mega-City would recognize at once; The personal weapon of a Judge, the Lawgiver.
Rico reached for the weapon. Geiger sucked in a breath and grabbed Rico’s wrist.
“Wait a second, don’t touch it! Whoever sent you this is no friend of yours!”
“No? And why is that?”
Geiger shook his head. “Where you been, pal? That’s a Lawgiver. Don’t you know that? They’re programmed, like they only recognize a Judge’s hand, the one the weapon was made for. I can get you somethin’ nice, but you touch that and the sucker’ll take your arm off.”
Rico smiled. “Really?”
“Yeah, really. You think I’d kid about a thing like—”
Rico gripped the Lawgiver in both hands. Geiger stared, waiting for the weapon to explode.
“That—that don’t make any sense!”
“No?”
Rico squeezed the trigger. Everything above Geiger’s shoulders moved six feet back. It looked as if someone had slammed a dozen pizzas against the wall.
Rico frowned at the mess. “I must be a Judge, pal. What do you think?”
Rico retrieved Geiger’s keys from his pocket, took two of his cigars, unlocked the security fence, and stepped inside. He studied the battered robots, one by one. Finally, he stopped before a tall combat warrior, its metal hide dented in a dozen forgotten wars.
“You’ll do just fine,” he said.
Stepping up on a plastic box, he studied the robot a moment, then removed a narrow panel on the side of its head. A nest of thin cables spilled out, dangling like silver dreadlocks. Rico patiently sorted them with practiced fingers, matching one slender tendon here, twisting another into place. Finally, a golden spark hissed, lighting Rico’s face and eyes. A faint sound began to whir in the warrior’s head. The powerful torso jerked. A spasm shot through its right arm. Steam covered the monster in a mist, and its eyes glowed like rubies in its head. The eyes blinked once, and turned on Rico.
“Status… Commander… Mission…”
The computer voice was old and it rustled like a snake.
“Status is Personal Bodyguard,” Rico said. He struck a match on the robot’s chin and lit one of Geiger’s cigars. “Commander is me. Mission is, we’re going to war again. Geronimo, pal…”
Lily Hammond had taken care of herself. Her husband’s status as Mega-City’s top broadcaster enabled her to make regular appointments at Lovely-U. Her breasts were always firm, her skin always clear, and though she hadn’t been born that way, her legs were slender and long. She was forty-seven and looked twenty-two. Vardis Hammond was fifty-five, and looked thirty-eight. No one at the studio dreamed that he spent his annual vacation getting re-studded at Handsome-Him.
“My God, Vardis…”
Lily looked up from the paper in her hand and stared at her husband. “A—a conspiracy in the Justice system? Radical elements on the City Council? Where did you get this stuff?”
Hammond didn’t look up. He sat at his desk in the corner, under his favorite antique light, tapping on his lap computer.
“What do you mean, where did I get it? That’s my job, Lily. I followed up some grumblings I found in some low level Council papers. They confirm what I’ve known all along. The shadow of oppression goes deeper than the Street Judges. Much deeper.”
Lily frowned. “Please, dear. Don’t say things like ‘shadow of oppression.’ You’re home, you are not on the video.” Lily paused, then studied her husband again. “Vardis, are you going to use that? Are you going to say that on the air?”
Vardis gave her a chilly look. “Well, it’s the truth. Why shouldn’t I say it?”
“I think you’re out of your mind, you want to know what I think.”
“I’m a reporter. I am a reputable journalist and I have an obligation to the Citizens of—”
“That doesn’t mean you have to go and get yourself killed.”
Hammond laughed. He set his keyboard aside and stood. “The Judges don’t kill reporters. Not yet, anyway.”
Lily watched him as he crossed the room to the bar. “Vardis, I’m serious. They’ll never let you put this on the air. Something like this could… it could bring down the Council!”
Vardis poured a generous glass of clear liquid from the bottle.
“Maybe it should, Lily. I know a lot more than I did when I started poking into this business. I wasted a lot of time investigating individual Judges. The problem is the entire system, not just… maniacs like Judge Dredd who—what the hell’s that?”
Hammond turned as the door chimes sounded gently in the hall. He walked to the door, the irritation clear in his dark eyes, the tension around his mouth. Lily didn’t have any idea what was really going on out there. She didn’t have to go out on the street where you could smell the burning victims of the block wars, try to get a visor-head to tell you something besides the official line.
“What is it?” Hammond said, jerking open the door. “What do you—”
Hammond had nearly a quarter of a second to look at the black silhouette, the helmet without a face. The Lawgiver coughed once. The Judge stepped over Hammond’s corpse and walked into the room.
TWELVE
She knew it didn’t make any sense, that it wasn’t like her at all. She simply didn’t do things like this. She disciplined herself, kept her emotions totally under control. And if you were going to let yourself get out of hand, why spend your feelings on Dredd!
She stood in the shadows by her locker. There was a textbook on arrest procedures on the shelf, half a box of practice ammo that she should have turned in. A good thing Briscoe didn’t see that. She was supposed to set a good example.
Hershey caught herself, closed her eyes and drew in a breath. Easy, lady, don’t lose it. Remember what they taught you… one day at a time in the streets. Yesterday was bad but you don’t have to go through that one again…
“And neither does Briscoe,” she said aloud. “Briscoe doesn’t have to do anything anymore.”
She heard the hiss of the shower and smelled the scent of steam and soap. Someone slammed a locker, the sound bouncing off the tile walls like a shot.
She glanced at her watch. Time to grab a cup of something hot before her shift. Check out the new Lawmaster, see if the tekkies had found any slips. She turned and started for the door, took four determined steps then stopped, turned on her heels and walked back the other way.
“You aren’t losing it, Hershey,” she muttered under her breath, “you have flat lost it, girl.”
He was changing his shirt, peeling it over his head. His back, his shoulders, and his arms were tight with cords of muscle, the perfect symmetry of his upper body marred only by the harsh, pink ridges of tissue, scars earned in combat on the streets. A Judge emblem was tattooed on his left shoulder. Hershey had one like it herself—only hers wasn’t blurred where a killer’s bullet had plowed an ugly groove.