Judge Dredd

TEN

It was the first winter storm of the season and the worst in twenty-three years. It began as a silent snowfall, a thickening curtain of white that masked the dark peaks, the grim and barren plains. For half a day, this small section of Cursed Earth looked like an ancient Christmas card. Then, the blizzard struck in full force, bringing howling winds and numbing cold.

The guard towers of Aspen Prison rose like skeletal fingers behind the white veil. A chill wind moaned through the razor wire atop the granite walls. And, though there were thousands of men behind these dark battlements, not a single light was visible through the storm. Anyone who has ever been to this tomb of the living knows it is a place of darkness, not a place of light. If the Cursed Earth is Hell, then Aspen Prison is the stairway that leads to the underworld below…

They made their way down the narrow maze of granite stairs, their shadows bent and warped, dark and misshapen on the cold stone walls. The public was familiar with Aspen Prison from the countless videos, grim and deliberate reminders of the fate of those who broke the Law. This was a part of that prison they had never seen, and never would—unless they became one of the two hundred nine incarcerated here, the elite, the monsters, the terrors, the men who had committed such unspeakable crimes they were sentenced to live instead of die. The Judges had decreed that every effort would be made to keep these men alive, that they could never deserve the merciful release of execution.

Warden-Judge William Otis Miller followed the two guards down the wet and treacherous stairs. He did not glance to the left or to the right, at the cells descending on either side. This is what they were called, but they were not cells at all. Each was a three-foot circle in stone laced with flat strips of tightly-woven steel bars. They looked for all the world like the overflow gates of city sewers. The small rooms behind these bars were seven feet square. Every other day, a jet of frigid water sluiced the prisoners’ waste away. Every morning at four, waterpaks and food-pods were automatically dropped in each cell. The water contained a drug that would prevent a man from killing himself, or escaping into any degree of madness that would let him forget about his punishment or his crime. The drugs didn’t make a man feel any better, they just made him do his forever-after time.

The stairs continued to wind into the bowels of the earth. Warden-Judge Miller was numb to the bone. He sighed with relief when the stairs came to an end at a massive steel door. The door was nine inches thick and incredibly old. The small computer lock inset in its center was relatively new.

Miller nodded to the guards. They took a step to either side of the door. Miller laid his right palm on the center plate of the lock. A winking red light turned green. The door slid open without a sound, and Miller stepped inside.

A dim light glowed from a slot in the ceiling. A pair of Autoguns wheezed from the wall.

“Identi-fy yourself,” a metalic voice said.

“Miller. Warden-Judge.”

“Voice sam-ple recognized. Pro-ceed, Warden-Judge Miller.”

The walls of the small room were steel instead of stone. The blind muzzles of the Autoguns swung toward a circular platform against the far wall of the room. A pale blue light, a cobalt haze, surrounded the platform from the ceiling to the floor. A figure stood and moved about beyond the haze.

“Well, Warden… back for another chat, are we?”

The voice behind the barrier of light was cold as glacier ice.

“A very short chat,” Miller said. “I have a good deal to do.”

“Of course you do. You’re a very important man, Miller.”

“Warden Miller,” Miller corrected. “Warden-Judge Miller. Don’t forget that again.”

“Of course. No disrespect intended, sir.”

The voice behind the blue veil was different now. Considerate. Warm and soft-spoken. Obsequious almost to the point where Miller could call it insolence.

“I know it must be a strain, sir. Yours is a thankless job, feeding and caring for all these parasites who have sucked the living blood from Society.” The man laughed lightly. “I don’t speak of myself, of course. I’m a ghost. I don’t exist.”

The man stepped to the edge of the platform. The air around him sizzled as he approached the blue light. He was tall, well-built. Flesh pale as raw milk, flesh that had long forgotten the warmth of the sun, stretched over classically-handsome features.

The man looked at Miller, and Miller instantly looked away. He felt the heat rise to his face. He could never look directly into the man’s eyes. His eyes were too bright, too intense. The color of mercury floating on polished blue steel.

“We are both prisoners here, Warden-Judge Miller. You behind a desk. Me behind… this. The good Judge Fargo’s reward for our… services.”

“You killed innocent people. You went far beyond service!”

“Innocent?” The man spread his hands in a helpless gesture. “The innocent exist only until they are perpetrators themselves. You are as good an example as any, sir. You became a perpetrator when you conspired to keep me alive, when you began to accept the generous bribes to make certain I retained a healthier and more positive outlook on life than those poor devils in their pestholes out there.”

Miller shifted his weight. He did not like to be in the same room with this man. Even with the force field and the Autoguns, he felt vulnerable and alone.

“I can’t stand here listening to your ravings all day,” he said. “I came here because your—because our benefactor has sent a package for you.”

“A package, is it?” The man showed Miller a terrible smile. “How delightful, I’m sure. No one sends me packages any more.”

“Computer. Deactivate shield,” Miller said. “Autoguns only.”

The blue light flickered and faded, melting into a warm amber glow. The Autoguns in the wall whirred toward the man.

Miller waited until the weapons were in place, then stepped up on the platform and handed the package to the man. It was small, square, wrapped in the standard shell designed for AO, Addressee Only.

“I’m awfully excited,” the man said. He cocked his head quizzically to one side. “I wonder if it’s my birthday today? I simply can’t remember all the special days any more.”

“Get on with it,” Miller said irritably.

The man pressed his thumb on the smooth surface. The package opened like a flower. The man held it close to his chest, his very own treasure that no one else could see. Finally, he reached in and drew out a plastic ellipse, no longer than his thumb. Bright bands of yellow, blue, red, and green circled the object in complex geometrical patterns.

Miller frowned. “What the hell is that?”

“I do believe it’s a puzzle,” the man said. He began to turn the bands of color in different directions. Red on red. Blue on blue.

Miller cursed under his breath. “I wasted my time bringing you that? Damn those people.”

“Your time, perhaps,” the man smiled. “Not mine. I simply love puzzles. I remember this one. It’s from India, I believe. A place that isn’t there any more. It’s supposed to contain the meaning of life.”

The warden laughed. He made a show of looking around the small room. “You think that’s what it is, huh?”

“Yes, I do think so, sir.”

“Good. I’m real happy for you. I’ve got maybe a minute. Why don’t you enlighten me some. Tell me what’s the meaning of life.”

The man gave him a weary, almost sorrowful look. “It ends,” he said.

“What?”

The puzzle made a quick, sibilant sound, like the hiss of a snake. Miller felt a jolt of pain in his throat. For an instant, he had the irrational thought that someone had shot him with a miniature sun. The pain was unbearable, intense, the nuclear heat of a star concentrated in one tiny spot. He gasped and fell to his knees, one hand clawing at his throat.

“Computer… acti—activaaa—alarm!”

“Voice is not rec-ognized. Repeat: your voice command is not rec-ognized. Please remain still…”

“D-damn you!” Miller choked on the words, felt the terror grip his heart. “I—am—Warthejud—Warga-Jushh—M-M-M—”

“Security Break… Security Break. Autoguns targeting…”

“N-N-Noooo!”

The guns came alive, catching Miller in a precise crossfire, cutting him in half before he could take a single step toward the door.

In the corridor outside, the two guards jacketed Buklead shells into their riot guns. One slammed the override button with his fist. They both stepped back, guns at the ready. The door slid open. The top half of Miller’s body lay sprawled on the floor. The first guard gagged and stumbled back. A shadow came out of greater shadow, twisted the guard’s neck, jerked the weapon from his grasp in a blur and squeezed the trigger once. The second guard slammed against the wall. The top of his head disappeared.

The man slid another shell into his gun. He reached into the open package and retrieved two items Miller hadn’t been close enough to see. One was a small photograph of Mega-City newscaster Vardis Hammond. The other was a pocket-sized badge embossed with a familiar eagle and shield. A name was engraved on the badge. The name read RICO.

Rico looked at the two dead guards then dismissed them from his mind. He took three steps to Miller’s body and kicked the corpse soundly in the head.

“Keep it to yourself,” he said softly. “I’m back…”