by Gaiman, Neil
Lionel Blair’s dying words. Anderson paled, as realisation of what they were facing dawned with a spectral chill. A creature famed for its eccentric anecdotes and murderously unfunny songs. The scourge of the Royal Variety Show. Another brief psychic flash; a premonition of scraggly white hair and gnashing false teeth. With terrifying certainty, Anderson knew they would have to face Sir Harry Lauder himself.
It was the eve of the big match. Ricky McFulton, the Scot-Block team manager, reclined in his comfy chair as he poured a glass of illegal whisky. He scrutinised the contract he was holding, signed in his own blood. A pact with The Beast. Yet, mused Ricky, what cost his own soul, when weighed against the importance of the game; against Charades? The Brit-Cit team, with their marshalled ranks of twentieth century TV personality clones, had won the annual event seven years running. Something had to be done before they reached the Grand Slam. With the help of Celtic druids on the fourth floor of Billy Connelly Block, McFulton had evoked the twisted spirit of Sir Harry Lauder; one by one, he had destroyed the best of the opposing team, as Harry tore the living hearts from their bodies.
Ricky sipped his whisky and smiled.
Elsewhere, in Jon Pertwee Con-Apts, Una Stubbs (the only surviving member of the English team) did some Charades exercises. She had been placed under 24-hour security, for fear of an attempt on her life. Anderson watched as Una groaned with concentrated effort, stretching her finger muscles one by one, rapidly skipping between one, two, three syllables. Choosing numbers at random. ‘Concentration and a clear mind,’ she trilled. ‘That’s all it takes!’ At eleven twenty-four, all the glasses in the room began to chime.
The chiming grew intolerably louder as Una, Anderson and the Judges covered their ears, mouthing silent instructions at one another. The chiming grew in volume and pitch, reaching a frequency beyond the range of human hearing. Then everything exploded. Windows, glasses, cups, saucers; clocks, watches, strip-lights, vid-screen. Everything shattered, then froze in mid-air. Like a photograph. Then the apartment went dark...
Anderson held Una’s hand in the pitch-blackness. Both squinted as a bright light appeared, widening, and a man with a small, crooked stick stepped out of it. He was wearing a kilt.
‘Hey, Nonny Naw, like a BIRD by the STREAM,’ the newcomer intoned, as though his singing voice had not been used in hundreds of years, and hadn’t been particularly good to begin with. Anderson gritted her teeth against the pain. ‘Stop it!’ she entreated. ‘For drokk’s sake, STOP IT!’
Anderson and Una screamed, pressing their hands to their ears in a futile attempt to block the terrible noise. Sir Harry Lauder merely winked as he leaned back on his walking cane with a smirk, continuing to sing. The outsize kilt was set off by a musty-looking tweed jacket. An awful beret perched balefully on his head, made all the more ludicrous by the single grouse-feather protruding from it. He hobbled forward, withered lips smacking as he reached for Una’s chest. Harry was under contract from the Devil Himself, and only the agreed bounty would satisfy the Lord of Chaos. He had to bring back the heart. Far away in Billy Connolly Block, Ricky McFulton sat bolt upright in his comfy chair as he exploded into gales of laughter. He drained the whisky glass in a single jolt.
‘Noooo!’ Anderson wrestled in living shadows that shifted and changed with her struggles, screaming threats at the shrunken, smirking form of Harry Lauder as he dropped the still-beating heart into his sporran. ‘Aye,’ he said, grinning a toothless grin. ‘That’ll do the Big Man nicely.’
With a superhuman effort, Anderson struggled free of the enveloping shadows, leaping onto the departing entertainer. With a strangled cry, Lauder was knocked spiralling through the base of the spirit-realm directly into Purgatory, arms pinwheeling wildly. Lost souls huddled in corners, wailing piteously as a freezing mist roiled around them. Anderson plunged her hand deep into Lauder’s sporran, bringing forth the purple-red heart. It pulsated in her hands as she began to squeeze. ‘Hey Nonny nooooooo...’ wailed Lauder, clawing at her as she slowly crushed the heart. It squelched as thick, black blood jetted out, running through her fingers.
Finally, his supernatural power spent, Harry Lauder disintegrated before her with a hollow scream. Out of breath, Anderson lurched back into the room, where time continued to stand still. Carefully avoiding the shards of shattered glass which still hung in the air, she headed for street-level, meeting the squad of Judges now surrounding the building. Crowds from both Scot-Block and Albion-Block had gathered, anxious to know how the evening’s developments would affect the championship. The news was not good. Judge Gordon Rennie’s expression was grave as he held a megaphone to his lips and gave the order that would outlaw Charades forever. It was a momentous day, in which a new crime was added to the seemingly endless charter of offences in Mega-City’s criminal calendar. Henceforth, any citizen caught miming in a built up area was lookingat a twenty-year stretch in the Cubes. The new annual sporting event between rival blocks was to be ‘I-Spy’, and then only for those citizens lucky enough to be issued with a permit.
It was not a popular decision; even less so when Rennie outlined the conditions under which citizens would qualify for a permit. The news that no-one of either Scottish or English descent was eligible under any circumstances was not well received. The crowd jeered their contempt for the ruling, screaming threats and abuse until Judge Rennie took the megaphone again, explaining that any citizen caught insulting a Judge would receive similar punishment. An immediate, if rather sullen silence fell on the street. A mother hastily covered the mouth of her squealing child as Rennie turned to Anderson with a wicked smile. Anderson held out the mangled remains of Una Stubbs’ broken heart.
‘Oh, have a heart, Judge Rennie.’
ROLL ON JUSTICE
By Ian Rimmer, Judge Dredd Annual 1990
‘Who are you, kid?’ growled Agostini at the wide-eyed kid who’d entered his workshop. Couldn’t have been more than a teenager, Agostini thought. Small. Frail. Only spare flesh on him seemed to be his round face. Hardly a threat, but a serious lapse of security for him to have got this far.
The nervy kid had started at the sudden question. His chubby cheeks reddened slightly. ‘I’m Bond,’ he answered tentatively. ‘James Bond. Licensed holiday-cover mechanic.’
‘You putting me on?’ Agostini growled again. ‘You don’t look old enough, son. Anyway, where’s Hailwood, the usual cover?’
‘Got took sick,’ James replied, still wary of the crabby, grease-smeared mechanic. ‘And the others ahead of me at the agency – Surtees and Roberts – are on more important jobs.’
‘Listen son – ain’t no more important jobs than servicing Justice Department vehicles and hardware,’ huffed Agostini. ‘Still, isn’t your fault the agency don’t see it that way. ’Sides, I got me a backlog of work stretching from here to the Cursed Earth Desert. I need help. Guess you’ll have to do, James Bond. This way.’
‘You, ah, recognise my name?’ asked James, trailing the old, wizened engineer past several severely damaged Zipper Bikes. ‘Mom was a video nut. She watched stacks of these cruddy taped movies from the Twentieth. Named me after her favourite character.’
Agostini stopped to ponder for a moment. ‘James Bond, huh? Never heard of him. Okay – let’s see what we got here.’ The mechanic crossed to a large vehicle, its shape lost beneath a heavy cover. ‘Start on this,’ said Agostini, unceremoniously dragging off the cover. James’s eyes popped open wider than ever. He was staring at the road machine of the century. He was staring at a gleaming, pristine symbol of order. He was staring at a Lawmaster.
A Lawmaster... 4,000 cc of law enforcement; 500 brake-horse-power of crime-buster; 480 kilos of perp control. It was two-wheeled justice, dispensed at up to 570 kilometers per hour. It was fear, with a six-speed gearbox.
Calling the Lawmaster a motorbike was like calling its rider a policeman. It radiated authority and power, from the Justice Shield on the front wheelguard, to the tip of the twin exhausts at its rear. In bet
ween, the Notron V8 KT23 engine, silent now, waited to roar the rule of law through Mega-City One’s streets once more.
James let his eyes rove along the 2.5-meter body. He’d hoped, dreamed, yet never really believed he’d one day be this close to his dissertation subject at Mechani-College. He’d passed the personality test that ensured that there was no potential criminal intent to his studies, but James had never had the chance to touch his personal metal and leather grail before. Would he still pass that personality test...?
‘Here’s the report,’ Agostini said, reaching for the large volume on the Lawmaster seat. He flicked through a ream of computer print-outs, punctuating his progress with an ‘Uh-huh’ or a ‘Yeah’ every so often. ‘Well,’ he concluded, ‘this baby’s normally in the hands of Judge Dredd, but for now, it’s all yours.’
The elderly mechanic then spotted the look of awed wonder that still adorned James’s face. ‘Hope you’re payin’ attention, boy,’ rasped Agostini, thrusting the print-out into the hands of his star-struck junior. ‘And don’t go getting any crazy ideas...’
Agostini left the kid to the report and the Lawmaster. James sat on the former and stared at the latter. He could see little wrong with its smooth, machine-tolled lines, save for a hefty dent on the front wheelguard, to the left of the Justice Shield. That must be what it’s in for, James reasoned. For as long as it took to repair, the bike was in his charge – Agostini had said so – but straightening that guard would take him no time at all. James sighed heavily. And then he began to get a crazy idea...
As he rocketed around Barry Sheene Block on the Lawmaster, James felt freedom for the first time in his life. The air sucked at his face, rippling his fleshy cheeks. The wind tugged and yanked his hair, whipping it untidily about his head. But that was all part of the thrill for James – all part of knowing that, at last, he was truly alive.
That knowledge had first dawned when he’d realised he was going to take the bike. Once this intention was clear in his mind, the mechanics of the act were incredibly simple.
Starting the Lawmaster for someone with his knowledge of the machine presented no problem; but before that he’d had to disable the bike’s Synitron Auto-Pilot computer. He didn’t want some Judge riding a desktop terminal transmitting a programme which would steer him straight to the Iso-Cubes. Keeping the main onboard computer turned off ensured there’d be no outside interference channelled through there. As he’d expected, bending the front wheelguard back into something approaching shape so that the wheel could turn unhindered took mere seconds. After that, it was just a matter of climbing into the seat, starting the engine, selecting first gear, and rolling out past the dumb-struck Agostini to wave goodbye.
Ever since, James Bond had been making the streets of Mega-City One his own. The bike handled like a dream, allowing him to stay in top gear, and at near top speed. Any vehicle in his way took immediate evasive action when he gave them a blast from the siren. And who needed to obey traffic signals when sitting astride a Lawmaster? As he left the residents of Barry Sheene Block inhaling his exhaust fumes, James reflected that he’d not even touched the bike’s brakes yet.
He also reflected that he was living out a fantasy of modern man. He knew this to be true from some of the old videos he’d seen with his mother. Like the landscape flying past as he hurtled onwards, details were hazy, but his imagination had still been fired. Yes – he was Marion somebody, in The Wild something. He was Peter Fondue – was that his name? – from Pale Rider... or was it Easy Rider? He was – no! On the Lawmaster, he was his own man. He was James Bond, razzling the living daylights out of the City.
He’s in one heap of trouble,’ mused Judge Dredd when the communication came through. ‘He’s looking at 20 for stealing the bike – and double that with his traffic offences.’
Dredd was on foot patrol, marshalling a demonstration by the Simplified Spelling Committee, or the C.C.K. as they referred to themselves. The march was halted with little protest once the danger of a rogue Lawmaster was explained. It was heading their way, and everybody understood the words ‘motorbike victim’ however they were spelt.
Dredd walked purposefully into the centre of the roadway, closed to traffic because of the march. He adjusted the transmit frequency on his portable communicator. He drew his Lawgiver, flicking its indicator needle position to three. Then he waited, while the demonstrators held their ‘breff’.
James thought about braking and turning back when he saw the signs saying ‘Diversion: Roadway Temporarily Closed’. Instead he opened the throttle even wider. This was a Lawmaster he was on, he reminded himself – a bike that diverted for nobody.
Moments later, James was bearing down on some makeshift mesh fencing stretching across the expressway ahead. Without hesitation, he hauled back on the handlebars and applied extra throttle. The wheelie bounced the front tire into the fencing, which buckled, then crumpled under the bike’s immense power. The machine’s Firerock bullet-proof tires ground metres of fencing to dust before they once more bit the rockcrete roadway, allowing James to speed onwards.
The sound of Dredd’s voice booming at him from the bike’s Likron communications unit was as startling to James as the words themselves. ‘Hit the brakes, creep – or take a hit from a Lawgiver!’ James suddenly felt uneasy for the first time since he’d mounted the bike. He’d stolen a Judge’s bike, and there was a Judge directly ahead of him, clearly ready to administer the ultimate sentence. In a split-second, James had weighed up his options.
Stopping meant the end of the ride of a lifetime, and the beginning of a long, long stretch in the Cubes. To carry on, he’d have to open fire first. Triggering the bike’s firepower wasn’t a problem, but blowing away a Judge – with Justice Department hardware – would have drastic consequences for his own life expectancy.
What the hell, thought James, the ride’s got to end sometime – even Lawmasters run out of fuel.
As he eased back on the throttle, James began to smile. So they’d take the bike back, slam him in an Iso-Cube for maybe half his life. So what? He’d always have his memories. He slipped in the clutch, dropped down a gear. What good was any thrill that you couldn’t reflect on? Sure, he’d have plenty of time to reflect, but wasn’t the point of any experience to remember the last time, and look forward to the next time? ‘Roll on justice!’ thought James. ‘Me and my memories are ready to do time!’ He floored the brake.
Dredd watched impassively as the Lawmaster suddenly dipped. The perp hurtled over the handlebars and through the air, to smack bone-breakingly onto the rockcrete. He bounced, scraped and twisted along the expressway, while, behind him, the lock-wheeled Lawmaster did the same. Metal and leather stood up to the punishment better than flesh and bone, however.
James finally rolled to a halt a few meters from Dredd’s feet. ‘Same thing happened to me, last time I rode that Lawmaster,’ the Judge informed the groaning, bloody, unnaturally contorted perp. ‘Locking brakes was the main reason it was in with Agostini...’
The medics did a fine job of putting James Bond back together again, so he could serve his sentence. Unfortunately, pondered James as he sat in his Iso-Cube, they hadn’t done much for the incessant buzzing in his head. ‘Wear a crash hat next time,’ was the advice they’d given him. ‘That way you’d still have those thirty-six hours or so you’ve lost, because there’d be no severe concussion – and no incessant buzzing.’
James stared at the seamless, souless walls of his cell. The mystery of his imprisonment in the Iso-Cubes was equalled only by that last, perplexing remark from the medics. What could he have done, he asked himself, that should have necessitated wearing a crash hat...?
BEHIND THE LEGENDS
Exclusive interviews and career overviews of key comics creators taken from the pages of the Judge Dredd Megazine.
In this first collection Pat Mills, Carlos Ezquerra, Ron Smith and Mick McMahon discuss their work in comics, 2000 AD and many other titles in great detail.
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sp; www.2000adonline.com
THE CRIME IS LIFE...
Mega-City One, 2123 - and a plague is spreading like wildfire amongst its millions of citizens, apparently turning them into blood-crazed vampires. With the Justice Department struggling to contain the outbreak, Judge Dredd teams up with the psychic Judge Anderson and ex-Judge DeMarco to investigate the trail of carnage and death left by the enigmatic Death Cult. When the cultists fight back by summoning the four Dark Judges - Death, Fire, Fear and Mortis - it becomes a fight to save both the Mega- City and Dredd’s very soul! Based on the explosive computer game by Rebellion Studios, this all-action novel pits the legendary future lawman against his deadliest and most infamous enemies.
... THE SENTENCE IS DEATH!
All-new stories from the future-shocked worlds of the Galaxy's Greatest Comic - 2000 AD! Check out the other books in this series.
www.2000adonline.com