by David Bishop
Judge Dredd
BAD MOON RISING
"Listen to me, Maguire. Stand down your teams or you will all suffer the consequences. A dozen Judges have been murdered by a rocket attack launched from within this building. The penalty for killing a Judge is death.
Surrender now, all of you, and I'll commute that sentence to life in the cubes. Otherwise I shoot to kill. What's your decision?"
"You're just one man, Dredd."
Riff could hear Dredd's words, utterly implacable. The Judge would kill them all if necessary. Riff willed Conchita to listen to reason, but she was already shaking her head.
"This is our block now. The Justice Department refused to help rescue my daughter, so Oswald Mosley no longer recognises your authority!"
"Wrong answer," Dredd replied. "You just signed your death warrant."
The radio cut to static...
JUDGE DREDD
#1: DREDD VS DEATH
Gordon Rennie
#2: BAD MOON RISING
David Bishop
#3: BLACK ATLANTIC
Simon Jowett & Peter J Evans
#4: ECLIPSE
James Swallow
#5: KINGDOM OF THE BLIND
David Bishop
#6: THE FINAL CUT
Matthew Smith
#7: SWINE FEVER
Andrew Cartmel
#8: WHITEOUT
James Swallow
#9: PSYKOGEDDON
Dave Stone
MORE 2000 AD ACTION
JUDGE ANDERSON
#1: FEAR THE DARKNESS - Mitchel Scanlon
#2: RED SHADOWS - Mitchel Scanlon
#3: SINS OF THE FATHER - Mitchel Scanlon
THE ABC WARRIORS
#1: THE MEDUSA WAR - Pat Mills & Alan Mitchell
DURHAM RED
#1: THE UNQUIET GRAVE - Peter J Evans
ROGUE TROOPER
#1: CRUCIBLE - Gordon Rennie
STRONTIUM DOG
#1: BAD TIMING - Rebecca Levene
FIENDS OF THE EASTERN FRONT - David Bishop
#1: OPERATION VAMPYR
#2: THE BLOOD RED ARMY
#3: TWILIGHT OF THE DEAD
For John Wagner and Carlos Ezquerra, the creators of Judge Dredd - where would British comics be without them?
A 2000 AD PUBLICATION
www.abaddonbooks.com
www.2000adonline.com
1098 7 65 4321
Cover illustration by Andy Clarke.
Copyright © 2004 Rebellion A/S. All rights reserved.
All 2000 AD characters and logos © and TM Rebellion A/S."Judge Dredd" is a registered trade mark in the United States and other jurisdictions."2000 AD" is a registered trade mark in certain jurisdictions. All rights reserved. Used under licence.
ISBN(.epub): 978-1-84997-053-2
ISBN(.mobi): 978-1-84997-094-5
A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.
JUDGE DREDD
BAD MOON RISING
DAVID BISHOP
Judge Dredd, Judge Giant and Galen De Marco created by John Wagner & Carlos Ezquerra.
Chief Judge Hershey created by John Wagner& Brian Bolland.
MEGA-CITY ONE, 2126
PROLOGUE
SEPTEMBER 12, 2126
"Pull over!"
Muriel Staines jumped in her seat, startled by the bellowing voice. Her maroon roadster swerved across John Colby Overzoom before resuming its position in the fast lane, crawling along at half the minimum speed limit for any road in Mega-City One. The ninety-nine year-old motorist squinted at her rear-view mirror, trying to work out who had startled her. It was bad enough having to drive across five sectors in twilight to visit her older sister Grizzelda, especially with the way youngsters tore about the place these days. She didn't need some ninny shouting at her as well.
"Pull over - now!"
The voice was shot through with steely resolve, a bass growl of equal parts rockcrete and suppressed rage. Miss Staines felt sure she had recognised the voice from somewhere but couldn't quite place it. While Muriel searched her memory, the roadster wandered across six eastbound lanes. Normally such a manoeuvre would have caused a horrific crash but this stretch of road was curiously free of traffic.
"Pull over or else I will shoot out your tyres!"
The elderly spinster was the kind of motorist who saw thousands of accidents but never had one herself. The reason was simple: Miss Staines caused accidents, her erratic driving a catastrophic catalyst for chaos and carnage. Muriel had puttered on to John Colby three onramps back, leaving a trail of devastation of which she was blissfully unaware.
"This is your final warning, citizen! Cease and desist driving, or suffer the consequences!"
The mist surrounding Miss Staines's memory cleared and the eldster remembered where she had last heard the voice before. A Judge had come to her block and addressed the Neighbourhood Snooper Society: a collection of elderly busybodies and curtain twitchers Muriel had founded in 2112. The Judge had been a stern-faced fellow, short on patience and terse of phrase. Now what was his name again? Dredger? Drood?
No, it was Dredd - Judge Dredd!
Muriel bit her bottom lip nervously. Why should he be shouting at her? "Oh dear. I hope I haven't done something wrong," she muttered.
Sixty-seven seconds later Muriel was in cuffs, the maroon roadster a crumpled write-off on the overzoom's hard shoulder. Standing over her was Mega-City One's most famous law enforcer. Dredd's motorcycle helmet obscured most of his head and face, so only his surly mouth and jutting jaw line were clearly visible. But his dark mood was all too evident.
"Driving below the legal speed limit - six months," he snarled. "Driving too slowly in the fast lane - six months. Reckless endangerment of other motorists - five years. Careless use of a roadster causing death - twenty counts, each carrying a tariff of twelve years. Failing to observe the commands of a Judge - five years. Total sentence of two hundred and fifty-one years, to be served cumulatively."
A hover-wagon descended from the darkening sky as the overzoom's streetlights flickered into life. It would soon be night. Dredd peered down at his prisoner. "How old are you, citizen?"
Miss Staines was affronted at such impertinence. "A lady never-"
"How old?!"
The eldster sniffed haughtily. "Ninety-nine, if you must know."
The Judge nodded. "I'm disqualifying you from driving for life - just in case. I doubt medical science will keep you alive until your three hundred and fiftieth birthday, but I'm not taking any chances." He nodded to two Judge-Warders who had just emerged from the hover-wagon. "Get her out of here!"
Dredd activated the radio microphone in his helmet as Miss Staines was led away. "Dredd to Control. I've dealt with the perp responsible for the John Colby pile-up. If you haven't got anything else for me, I'm signing off-"
A brief crackle of static in Dredd's ear signified his transmission had been heard by one of the operators in Justice Department's despatch division. Control was populated by hundreds of Judges who sat behind terminals watching the city all day and night. They directed street patrols to crime scenes and potential trouble spots. The Big Meg was home to four hundred million people, crowded into several hundred sectors. Unemployment was endemic and the vast majority of citizens survived on welfare, bored beyond belief. Every one of them a po
tential criminal.
"Control to Dredd. Sorry but you're needed elsewhere."
The Judge scowled, his pugnacious frown souring further still. "Control, I've been on patrol for twenty-three hours non stop. I need twenty minutes in a sleep machine and a chance to eat. What's so urgent?"
"Sector 87 is severely short-handed and Psi-Division precogs are expecting trouble there tonight. You've been assigned to augment the street patrols in 87. Chief Judge Hershey personally selected you for this job. Report to Sector Chief Emily Caine - she's expecting you."
"Terrif," Dredd growled under his breath. "Anything else I should know?"
"Yes. You're due at roll call in nine minutes."
"It takes half an hour to reach Sector 87 from here."
"Deal with it. Control out." Another crackle of static indicated the conversation was at an end.
Dredd strode to his Lawmaster motorcycle and gunned the engine into life. The fat black tyres squealed in protest as he peeled away from the remains of Muriel Staines's roadster, the bike rapidly accelerating past one hundred and forty kilometres per hour. Dredd had never missed the start of a roll call in his long career as a Judge and he wasn't going to start now.
Misch wasn't like most children in Mega-City One. For a start, her skin was blue and she had mottled yellow spots around her eyes and across the back of her arms. Misch was humanoid, but her alien physiognomy displayed distinct differences from other children. Instead of hair, fat tendrils of excess flesh sprouted from her scalp and hung down from the back of her head. Her eyes were perfectly circular, and they had a nictitating membrane that protected them from the harsh sunlight on this strange world. Her hands had three digits and her mouth was filled with row upon row of sharp incisors. But the alien child had a friendly smile on her face most of the time.
This was not one of those times. Her broodfather, Nyon, was arguing with the creature that lived in the con-apt next door. Misch could hear them shouting at each other outside the front door; the paper-thin walls of the building ensured everyone else could hear the argument too. There were no secrets in Robert Hatch Block. Little more than a hovel, the structure housed three hundred alien families in tiny con-apts originally designed as single person dwellings.
Robert Hatch had been erected to cope with an overflow of newcomers from Alien Town; it was the Big Meg's sector designated for housing extra-terrestrials. The block was made of the cheapest materials available, its components prefabricated elsewhere and then slotted together on site. Robert Hatch has only been designed as a temporary solution to a short-term problem, with a maximum lifespan of eighteen months before it should have been demolished. Eighteen years later, the alien ghetto was still standing, an eyesore in the middle of Sector 87's most prosperous area.
Damp climbed the walls inside and out. The turbolifts had long since ceased working and no repair crew would ever set foot inside the building. Unless the residents were able to fix things themselves, they stayed broken. Paint peeled off the walls, light fittings flickered fitfully and the air conditioning system had years before surrendered. Down some corridors the air had a greasy, noxious taint, while ceilings were stained a sickly green.
Misch listened as her broodfather's guttural voice became harsher and more insistent. He was using Allspeak, the universal language adopted by most aliens when they were talking to each other.
"We have just as much right as you to live here!" Nyon protested.
"Maybe. But can't you do something about the stench from your con-apt? How am I supposed to eat with the smell of rotting flesh infesting my home?"
Misch could not help smiling to herself. Their neighbour was Kehclow, a gaseous lifeform from the Bilal Cluster who best resembled a translucent blue cloud. Misch did not doubt he could smell, but the thought of him having a nose amused her. It would look very out of place on Kehclow, who was seen floating along the corridors tutting to himself most evenings. The alien girl opened the front door a fraction so she could peer out at her broodfather. He did not look happy.
"Kehclow, you know perfectly well that my species are carrion eaters. We can only ingest nutrients from the corpses of animals that have been dead for several weeks. If you can suggest another way we could feed ourselves, I'd be happy to hear it. Otherwise, stop bothering me and my family about things we cannot change!"
Nyon's face was turning purple, a sure sign his temper was fast running out. Misch wished her broodmother was here; she would calm him down with a quiet whisper or two. But she had gone out to the alien shoppera in search of ingredients for their evening meal.
"If the air conditioning system was repaired-" Kehclow began.
"This wouldn't be a problem," Nyon agreed. "If each species was housed separately instead of being intermingled, you wouldn't have to tolerate our ways and we wouldn't have to tolerate yours. If, if, if - you can say 'if' all you want, but it won't change anything! Good evening to you!"
Misch retreated back into the con-apt, not wanting her broodfather to know she had been watching him. But she had heard Kehclow's final comment as Nyon began opening the door. "Vucking vultures..."
Nyon stopped and looked back at his gaseous neighbour. "What did you say?" Misch's broodfather hissed, cold fury in his voice.
"Nothing, nothing," Kehclow replied, hastily retreating down the corridor. "Good morrow to you!"
Nyon stepped into the con-apt and slammed the door behind him. He let slip a string of obscenities in the native tongue of R'qeen before noticing his daughter in the corner playing with her toys. "Misch! I didn't see you there." Nyon shuffled awkwardly. "Don't tell your broodmother what I said, will you?"
She smiled at him, one hand spinning a multi-coloured hover-globe in the air. "Don't worry. I only speak R'qeen here. She says I have to use Allspeak or the human's language when I go outside."
Nyon crouched beside his daughter, stroking the side of her face with one hand. "That's right. If we are going to stay here, we have to make an effort to assimilate some of the culture from this world. That doesn't mean we forget who we are or where we came from - we will always be R'qeen."
Misch smiled and nodded but Something was troubling her: the word that had so angered her broodfather. She had heard it before while playing with offspring from other alien species in the block. "What is a vulture?"
Nyon frowned. "You heard what Kehclow said?"
"I've heard it before. What does it mean?"
He stood up. "It is a bad word. Centuries ago there was a species of animal on this world that fed on carrion, like us. It was called a vulture. The creature was reviled and hunted to extinction. The humans describe anyone who preys on others, especially the helpless, as being vultures. When someone calls you that, they are saying you are no better than an animal. But we are not animals, are we?"
Misch shook her head. Nyon sighed. "I know it is not easy for you, Misch, growing up in this place, apart from most of your family and friends. But things will get better - I promise you." He bent down and held out his arms. "Come."
Misch jumped into her broodfather's arms, burying herself in his warm embrace. It felt like home, even if this strange world did not.
"Who's been assigned to bolster tonight's graveyard shift?"
Sector Chief Emily Caine was sitting behind the desk in her uncluttered office, enjoying the spectacle of her assistant squirming. Behind Caine was a window offering a breathtaking panoramic view of Sector 87. The last glints of sunlight were still colouring the sky but already the buildings, skedways and overzooms were being lit up in a spectacular display of colour and illumination. But Caine had no wish to admire the view. She was having far more fun with her deputy.
Patrick Temple was a weak-willed man who had risen to the rank of deputy Sector Chief by being little use at anything else. Nearly fifty, he had lost most of his hair and years of worry were etched into his nervous face. A failure as a Street Judge, Temple had been shifted sideways to administration where he could do less damage. Successive promoti
ons had nudged him up the chain of command, more by virtue of seniority than expertise.
Caine liked to think of Temple as resembling the scum that floated on the surface of her morning cup of synthi-caff. When the drink was consumed, the scum remained, clinging to the side of the cup. So it was with Temple. Successive Sector Chiefs had come and gone but the deputy remained, never considered good enough for the big chair. At first Caine had considered dispensing with Temple altogether, but he proved an amusing distraction and a useful buffer between herself and the division heads within the sector house. Right now her deputy was reporting on efforts to draft in assistance from outside 87 to fill the gaps in their complement of Street Judges.
"Well, I put in a request to Justice Central for two dozen helmets, ma'am," Temple explained. "But I was told they couldn't spare that many, even bearing in mind the precog prophecy for tonight..." He trailed off ineffectually.
Grud, what a waste of skin, Caine thought to herself. She smiled broadly at the deputy. "So, how many are we getting?"
"Err, one."
"One?"
"Yes, ma'am." Temple shifted uncomfortably under his superior's gaze. "But he's very good. I've never met the man myself, but I understand he's something of a hero within the department." The deputy consulted the screen of his palm unit for further details. "Numerous citations for bravery and dedication above and beyond the call of duty. Seems to have saved the city single-handedly from several significant threats-"
"And who is this over-achiever coming to join our humble ranks?"
"Dredd. Judge Joe Dredd."
That got Caine's attention. Why him? Of all the helmets they could send, why Dredd? "Really? Well, we are honoured. A living legend in our presence."