RoboCop 1

  ROBOCOP

  Murphy was a good cop. He had the toughest beat in the toughest precinct in a tough city. He had a fine family, good friends, and a new partner. Then a bunch of lowlifes blew him away.

  Only Murphy didn’t completely die. He came back in a body of steel—big, invincible, and deadly . . . back to the streets where the bad guys ruled. But no more. Behind the badge is a cop that can’t be killed. A super cop out to find the punks who shot him. And stop crime. Dead.

  MUGGER:0 ROBO:1

  The mugger held a knife to the girl’s throat. He laughed, watching the shimmering tears cascade down her face. He blinked. Her tears weren’t shimmering anymore. The moonlight illuminating her face had been blotted out by a large shadow.

  An Olympian voice thundered across the alley. “Let the woman go! You’re under arrest!” Walking down the alley was the biggest cop the creep had ever seen, and his hands were as big as . . . his gun. Which was real big.

  Robo saw the time for talk was over. He switched from his Public Address mode to his Targeting sequence. He raised his gun. The mugger holding the girl ducked behind her. “I’ll cut this bitch’s neck from ear to ear,” he shouted.

  Calling up his targeting grids, Robo searched for a shot that would safely miss the woman. Swiveling his body, he fired a single round into the alley wall on the left. He heard the bullet ricochet to the right. Ping. Another ricochet downward. The hostage screamed as Robo’s bullet angled into the back of her assailant’s head, neatly blowing out his brains.

  A Jon Davison PRODUCTION

  OF A Paul Verhoeven FILM

  Peter Weller • Nancy Allen

  ROBOCOP

  Daniel O’Herlihy • Ronny Cox • Miguel Ferrer

  MUSIC BY Basil Poledouris

  DIRECTOR OF PHOTOGRAPHY Jost Vacano

  FILM EDITOR Frank J. Urioste

  ROBOCOP DESIGNER Rob Bottin

  EXCUTIVE PRODUCER Jon Davison

  WRITTEN BY

  Edward Neumeier & Michael Miner

  PRODUCED BY Arne Schmidt

  DIRECTED BY Paul Verhoeven

  ROBOCOP

  A CORGI BOOK

  ISBN: 0-552-13243-8

  First publication in Great Britain

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Corgi edition published 1988

  Copyright © 1986 by Orion Pictures Corporation

  Corgi Books are published by Transworld Publishers Ltd., 61-63 Uxbridge Road, Ealing, London W5 5SA, in Australia by Transworld Publishers (Australia) Pty. Ltd., 15-23 Helles Avenue, Moorebank, NSW 2170, and in New Zealand by Transworld Publishers (N.Z.) Ltd., Cnr. Moselle and Waipareira Avenues, Henderson, Auckland.

  Printed and bound in Great Britain by Cox & Wyman Ltd., Reading, Berks.

  For Kate and Kiah

  PART

  The superior man understands what is right;

  the inferior man understands what will sell.

  —Confucius (c. 551-479 B.C.)

  [ 1 ]

  He was a cop.

  A good cop.

  At least that’s what Murphy told himself as he stared into the darkness outside his small, prefab home. From this distance the deserted streets seemed safe. But Murphy knew better. Beneath the silence, behind the shadows, things were ready to explode. Still, he had accepted the transfer. Like a good cop.

  He suddenly remembered his father. Instinctively, he took a step back from the window. His father had been killed that way. Looking out a window. Hit by a stray bullet. Back when Detroit got its first taste of the Troubles.

  Maybe twenty years ago when the feds had cut off loans and were urging cities to fend for themselves. The problem was that most of the major cities were strapped tighter than a snare drum. Detroit, like several other big cities, snapped.

  Social programs were whittled to nothing. The poor didn’t understand that. They took to the streets to vent their anger. His family had lived in what was known as Old Detroit back then. There still had been families there, people who had clung all their lives to hopes and dreams. Murphy’s father had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Sniper. Bang. Hiss. The tinkling of shattered glass. That was the end of James Patrick Murphy.

  Dying, his father seemed almost amazed and amused by it all. He had moved to Detroit to make a fortune working in the auto plants. Then, the auto industry went under and the elder Murphy wound up working for the new company in town. OmniCon. Grunt work. But the insurance had paid for the funeral. Nice, ornate coffin. Prerequisite flowers with the Xeroxed signatures of faceless executives. His father had looked up into his startled son’s eyes and whispered: “Sumbitch.” He had shrugged, smiled, and died.

  Murphy sighed. OmniConsumer Products had turned out to be the city’s savior of sorts. New housing projects. New jobs. When the city found itself bankrupt, unable to pay even the police less than a year ago, the OmniCon team marched in and simply took over the struggling city services. They now paid the police. And the fire department. And the sanitation crews. And the park commission. Hell, at least they paid you on time.

  Murphy heard gunshots behind him. Instinctively, he whirled around. Spotting the source, he relaxed. Ten-year-old Jimmy Murphy was sprawled in front of the TV watching his favorite show, T. J. Lazer. Murphy tried not to smirk as the cop on the tube gunned down a half-dozen Cro-Magnon thugs, twirled his guns, and replaced them in his holster. Lazer, with his slight pot belly and badly designed toupee, would have been dead meat in the Old Detroit sector in five seconds.

  The sector where Murphy was heading tomorrow.

  Homecoming.

  Murphy felt his stomach tighten slightly. He was tense, but he’d be damned if he’d show it in front of his family. It was bad enough he brought the nightmares home with him: the images of the screaming faces, the battered autos, the endless streams of blood and tears. He wasn’t going to show weakness or worry in front of the kid and Jan.

  He glanced at the window and saw his own reflection in the fluctuating light of the TV. He jumped. For a second, the face he saw was that of his father. Yeah. He had the same high cheekbones. The same deep-set blue eyes. The thin lips, eager to smile but not quite knowing how to relax that much. He forced himself to laugh at his own uneasiness. Thirty-five years old and he was turning into a gigantic wiener. He nearly laughed out loud. Welcome to the world of wienerdom, Murphy.

  Jan walked into the room. “Dinner will be ready in a minute.” Their eyes met. She knew how jumpy he felt. They’d been together too long for her not to know. They’d grown up together and had developed a friendship that blossomed into love. He forced himself to smile widely and, for Jimmy’s benefit mostly, he rubbed a callused hand across his tight stomach and announced, “Great, Mom. I could eat a horse.”

  Jan forced a smile in return. “We had that last night. Will pot roast do?”

  Murphy nodded. “I suppose I can force myself.”

  In front of the television, Jimmy laughed. “I can if Dad can.”

  Jan walked out toward the kitchen. “A couple of wiseguys.”

  Murphy watched Jimmy settle back in front of the TV. His gaze, once again, wandered to the street. He wondered what would go down out there tonight. And what he’d find there tomorrow.

  [ 2 ]

  A full moon shone down on Old Detroit, giving it a dead, eerie glow. Four monolithic skyscrapers towered above the twisted shadows of the street level: the future gazing down with disdain upon the last crumbling remnants of the past. Three A.M. Most of the city was long asleep, but in Old Detroit, there was a feral street life at all hours.

  Patrolmen Frederickson and Connors guided their TurboCruiser down a deserted street. Two blocks ahead of them, another patrol car hummed. Frederickson and Connors were watching the back door tonight. They didn’t mind. It was monotonous
work but, in this sector, monotony was welcome.

  They watched the stubby police car ahead of them disappear down an alley. The cars weren’t much to look at but they kicked the hell out of the streets, their twin turbine engines sounding like banshees screaming when they were revved.

  The two cops allowed themselves to be lulled into a sense of security. Above them, roof-mounted spotlights casually reflected off the buildings and the badly maintained storefronts. A garish, tattered billboard caught Frederickson’s eye. B.B. TEX—CREDIT ON 20-YEAR FAMILY CONTRACTS. MoonCorp had promised a lot to get people to colonize the moon back then. Now, even space travel was old hat. There was a waiting list of people ready to leave the ramshackle cities for the promise of something better somewhere, anywhere.

  Frederickson glanced at the computerized dash of the cruiser as he drove. Readouts. More readouts. He twisted his body in the seat in a vain effort to get comfortable. Half of the hardship that came with police work these days arose from the uniform—which was a literal pain in the ass. Padded bodysuits, high-impact plastic armor, sleek but cumbersome helmets. He tried to find a position that would put a little less pressure on his already strung-out bladder. Fat chance. He sank in his seat and accepted the discomfort with a stoic’s sigh.

  Frederickson and Connors took a corner easy. The lead car was once again in view. Far ahead of the first auto, a shadow-shape glided across the street. Frederickson tensed. Gut reaction. He wondered whether Alcott and Duffy, in the point car, caught it.

  His radio squawked to life. Someone at the ComLink dispatch center had spotted the blip on the radar as well. “Got a rabbit running East on Hoover. Check it out.”

  The lead car sputtered a reply: “Roger, chickenshit, sir, over.” A laugh. That would be Alcott. He worked very hard at taking very little seriously. “Relax, pal, we got you on the grid.”

  Frederickson relaxed somewhat. The runner ahead of the lead car was beeping steadily on the computerized map of the area. The lead car increased its speed and pulled around the corner out of sight. A glowing red ball on the dashboard grid in the second car indicated the lead’s position. From the map, Frederickson could see that the point cruiser was getting nearer to its prey.

  Just routine stuff. Wino most likely. Still, the guy was pretty lively for a wino.

  Frederickson leaned into his ComLink mike. “See anything, Alcott?”

  From the point car came Alcott’s voice, very matter-of-fact. “Looks like a woman.”

  Connors, staring ahead, flashed Frederickson a bemused look. They heard laughter from the first car.

  “Jesus, pinch me, Duffy,” Alcott exclaimed. “Am I crazy or is she stark raving naked?”

  Duffy feigned shock. “She’s holding a sign. It says FREE BLOW JOBS.”

  Frederickson and Connors smirked at each other. Alcott’s voice boomed over the radio. “Oh, my God! Frederickson. It’s . . . it’s your wife!!!”

  Frederickson eased off on the gas. Wiseasses, he thought. He could hear Alcott and Duffy laughing hysterically over the ComLink. A stifled noise emerged from his right. Abruptly, the laughter from the first car stopped. Frederickson turned to find Connors holding in his laughter, badly. A hoarse cry blurted forth from the radio. Connors bent forward toward the ComLink. Nothing but static.

  Frederickson glanced at the computerized dash grid. The red dot that had been the lead TurboCruiser burst suddenly, covering the screen with red light. “Shit,” Connors muttered.

  Frederickson stood on the gas. The TurboCruiser lurched forward, screeching around a corner, lights flashing and siren wailing. The car spun around a corner. Frederickson gritted his teeth. He was tired of this war on the streets routine.

  He slammed on the brakes and gaped at the street before him. Connors unsnapped his riot gun without thinking, trying to control the nausea bubbling within him.

  Not ten feet before them was the twisted, burning remains of the point car. The armored bodies of Duffy and Alcott were sprawled on the street, their limbs positioned awkwardly, like discarded rag dolls. An ominous cloud of black, putrid smoke erupted from the shattered engine of the police cruiser.

  Frederickson fought to keep control. He barked into the ComLink, “Officers down. Unit 217 requisition backup and MediVac.”

  The reply, which came in a hail of static, was short and to the point. “Unit 217. All available units presently engaged. Proceed as primary contact unit. MediVac request acknowledged.”

  Connors pounded his fist on the dash. “Great. John Wayne time.”

  He eased the passenger door open. “Come on. I’ll cover you.”

  Frederickson and Connors slowly opened the doors to the TurboCruiser. Whoever blew up the car in front of them was a hardcore nutcase. Whoever it was was probably still out there. Watching them now.

  Connors stood before his car, turning in slow circles. The bayonet-mounted flashlight on his riot gun sent a small circle of light playing across the boarded-up windows and jagged rooftops of the street. While Connors cased the area, Frederickson approached the burning cruiser, his visor down.

  He gazed into the cracked visor of Duffy. Beneath the Plexiglas was a mangled face. Stephanie Duffy, aged twenty-eight, on the force four years. No signs of life.

  Connors, still twirling slowly, glanced at Frederickson. “How’s Duffy?”

  Frederickson was already moving toward Alcott. “She’s dead,” he said, bending over the second fallen patrolman. Alcott was still alive. Barely. His body was beginning to writhe and shake uncontrollably. Convulsive shock. Massive chest wound. Christ. Through the smashed armor breastplate, he could see Alcott’s heart! Frederickson felt the tears well up in his eyes. This made no sense. Why these two? Why on a routine patrol? He froze over the body, his anger building. Connors still twirled.

  Connors moved the flashlight over the same spots over and over again. There was no one out there, right? Then why was he so nervous? “Come on, man. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  A faint click caused Connors to whirl toward the right side. He leveled his riot gun, ever ready. He made a mental note to yell to Frederickson. It was his last real thought. He felt a brief instant of surprise as a five-shotgun barrage of 00 buckshot blew his chestplate into a dozen pieces. His fading consciousness watched his hands drop the riot gun to the ground. It was covered with blood. His blood.

  The roar of the shotguns was brief and deadly. Frederickson, seeing Connors buy it, made a run for the car, his own riot gun blazing. He couldn’t see anyone out there, damn it. It was just too goddamned dark. He fired over and over again into the surrounding night. With a little luck he’d make it. No luck was forthcoming. A faint burst of light flickered from the shadows. A two-inch section of his left leg blew into space, a large crimson tear bursting from his pants. He hobbled onward toward the awaiting TurboCruiser. It seemed miles away.

  He could see the gunmen advancing now. They didn’t seem human, at first, just dark blobs running forward. Frederickson dove toward the open driver’s side of his TurboCruiser. Bullets hissed in the air above him as he scrambled behind the wheel. “Pleasegodplease,” he muttered, slamming the door and firing up the twin turbines. The car roared to life. The monitors and readouts on the dash lit up suddenly. He pulled his body into sitting position, slammed the car into drive and gaped out at the street as the windshield before him exploded with a roar.

  Frederickson felt his head snap back into the seat, his visor cracked. His face was hot. Sticky. His consciousness was swimming. Everything seemed louder than usual. Everything was clearer. Everything was ultra.

  The figures emerged from the shadows. Frederickson almost laughed. They were men. Ordinary men. Not demons. Not monsters. Just guys. Streetscum. He watched a short, rodentlike man dash by a brick wall, illuminated by the moonlight. The man cackled slightly as he produced a paint can and watched the first TurboCruiser smolder.

  A second, gangly man strolled up to Alcott’s quivering body, pulled out a handgun and sent a bulle
t speeding through the dying cop’s brain. The quivering stopped.

  A tall man with a high forehead and a stately gait nodded approval at the remains of Connors and Alcott. He adjusted his sunglasses slightly and walked toward Frederickson. Frederickson choked back a laugh. He never could understand why people wore sunglasses at night.

  The gangleader opened the door next to Frederickson and smiled. “How ya feeling?”

  Frederickson opened his mouth to reply. Blood, but no sound, emerged from his lips. The gangleader grinned amiably. “Go back and give your cop friends a message: Stay out of Old Detroit.”

  The man leaned in further and pointed the muzzle of his autoload shotgun in Frederickson’s direction. Frederickson tensed. The muzzle of the gun meandered past Frederickson’s body and prodded the stickshift. Click. Click. The car screamed into reverse, slamming the driver’s door as it did so. Frederickson grappled with the steering wheel, struggling to maintain control. He gazed through the shattered windshield, watching the scene before him drift back into the darkness.

  He saw the gangleader shoulder his autoload and the little idiot with the paint can move over the bodies of the three dead cops. The geek sprayed three large numbers on their battered torsos: . . . 29 . . . 30 . . . 31.

  Four other men emerged from the shadows; a black, an Asian, a barrel-chested thug and a tall, clean-cut type. The big man picked up Connors’s riot gun and tossed it to the clean-cut boy. The black man smiled at the flaming wreckage while the Asian lit a cigarette. For them, this was just another run-of-the-mill night.

  Frederickson’s car backed up wildly into the streets where, moments before, the surviving cop had shared a joke with Connors, Alcott, and Duffy. Dribbling blood as he coughed, Frederickson extended a shaking hand toward the gearshift. He slowly inched the car into drive and zigzagged down the road.