Needless to say, Councillor Matheson Peat's mind was otherwise occupied.
He couldn't concentrate, his thoughts constantly returning to the events of the past couple of weeks. He felt his carefully planned, expertly arranged life was spinning wildly out of control. First the farce at the Fred Quimby opening, then the murder investigation after the unearthing of the body dump beneath the foundations of Liz Short, and now irate phone calls from friends about Dredd snooping around Catalyst and making menacing noises.
It was too much. It was threatening to destabilise everything he had spent his political life working towards, and even now he could sense his intricate network of colleagues and acquaintances coming apart at the seams.
It had been bad enough to allow a star of Vanessa Indigo's standing to be put in a position of danger - the attempted assassination was broadcast all over the city to a dumbstruck Tri-D audience - but questions were also being asked about his working methods following the Short case. His Phoenix Campaign had never had so much negative publicity, and where once his buildings were considered the desirable blocks to be seen in, now it was being alleged that they were constructed on unsafe land. Despite going on a charm offensive after the story broke in the press, he could not shake the feeling that those with influence who had once given him their ear were subtly distancing themselves from him, like he was a pariah. When bad news hit, you soon found out who was prepared to stand by you, and in Peat's case he discovered the answer was not that many.
Even the celebrities, once keen to align themselves with his projects, seemed cool towards him, as if they could sense when someone's spot in the limelight was fading. They were like parasites, he thought angrily, feeding on the attention he had engineered for them, sucking the last drop of exposure they could gain from his connections before abandoning him when the reporters and photographers turned their microphones and cameras elsewhere. He didn't consider any of them close.
In truth, he used their fame to promote his policies as much as they used him to get their faces on the front of the papers, and the relationship was never anything more than pure business. But it riled him to think that they couldn't even be bothered to disguise their loathing of being too near to him, as if he were a social leper, and to come into contact with his ill fortune would spread disease-like amongst their cliques.
The damage seemed irreparable, and he felt trapped in a circle of despair that was alienating Peat from everyone around him. His girlfriend tried to reassure him that it was just a run of bad luck, and that he simply had to ride it out.
"People have bounced back from worse disasters," she had reasoned. "Aren't you always saying Mega-City One will stand tall no matter what is thrown at it? And that the city endures because the spirit of the citizens refuses to be broken? Well, if we can survive wars, invasions, despots and madmen, then you can take a few knocks and still come up smiling."
He wished he could believe her. But as sweet as her naivety was, she couldn't comprehend just how much trouble he felt he was in. He hadn't had a decent night's sleep since the problems had begun, and consequently he drifted through his waking hours like a mournful phantom, a shadow of his normal effervescent self, refusing to be comforted by Sondra, shutting her out of his dark despondency, turning her away from him.
He couldn't blame her for feeling hurt by this, and for wanting to spend as little time as possible in his company. Evenings in their apartment were silent, dour episodes. The frustrations and anxieties inside Peat grew more malignant and bitter the more he brooded on them, and he barely noticed if Sondra was there or not. Peat suspected that Sondra was seeking solace with the apprentice taxidermist down the hall, but he could not bring himself to feel jealous or aggrieved by her infidelities. And this lack of emotion made him start to question his own sanity.
Was he that hollow, to watch deadened as his life fell apart and not attempt to save it? Had he been seduced by the fame game, the need to present an image, to the point where that was all he had left? He wondered if he truly felt passionate about anything, or if it was all just spin to keep him in the public eye, empty words and gestures signifying nothing. He was alone at the centre of his world, and nobody could touch him.
Through his haze of self-pity, Peat suddenly realised that his intercom was buzzing. He sighed and flipped the switch. "Yes?"
"Judge Dredd to see you, Mr Peat," his secretary said sullenly. Keisha too had been affected by his moroseness these past few days, struggling to get him to make decisions on council matters or agree to meetings. She was increasingly having to make excuses for his non-attendance at various functions, and was clearly getting tired of mollycoddling him.
"Send him in," Peat replied, but the lawman was through the door before he'd finished speaking. He stood before the councillor as rigid and uncompromising as a granite statue. Although Peat's stomach tied itself up in knots in the presence of the Judge, he felt anger towards him too, for all the misery he had brought down on him, for almost single-handedly destroying his life and career. He shouldn't be able to get away with it. Peat wasn't some drug-dealing scumbag who offered nothing to society but a cheap hit. He was a well-respected citizen, who'd fought for his city, and he was damned if this jumped-up fascist bullyboy was going to intimidate him.
"Judge Dredd," he said through gritted teeth. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"
"I'd like to ask you some further questions, councillor. I trust you can find the time?"
"I thought I told you the last time we spoke, Dredd, that you had no right to treat me like a common criminal. I have done nothing wrong and for you to keep hounding me like this is really quite unacceptable-"
"As I told you, councillor," Dredd cut in, "you remain a suspect in an ongoing multiple-murder inquiry. Until the case is satisfactorily closed, then I will decide the course of the investigation. Now, we can either talk here or I'll pull you down to the local Sector House for a thorough interrogation."
Peat's face reddened. "Th-this is atrocious! You have no right-"
Dredd had heard enough. He strode up towards the councillor's desk and wrapped his fist in the man's shirt, yanking him over the desktop towards him. The pompous windbag popped sweat immediately, his skin draining of colour as quickly as it had flushed. "And I am drokking tired of hearing your whining, creep. Now if you don't start being a little more cooperative, I'm gonna arrest you for withholding evidence and recommend you for truth drug administration, deep-brain scan, the works. If the only way to get you to talk is to cut you open and physically extract the information, then believe me we'll do it."
Peat whimpered like a kicked dog and Dredd released him, letting him slump back into his chair. He ran a shaking hand over his face, then whispered "What do you want to know?"
"Your association with Erik Rejin."
The councillor stared. "Erik? H-he's a business colleague, that's all. What's he got to do with-"
"I'll ask the questions," Dredd interrupted. "You have an interest in Catalyst Productions, don't you?"
"I'm one of the shareholders, yes. I've helped the company secure funding, a lot of which comes from Justice Department, I might add."
"I'm aware of our contribution to the propaganda market. I'm more interested in how you came to first meet Citizen Rejin."
Peat looked uneasy. "I don't recall..."
"I'm going to keep this simple, councillor," Dredd said evenly and retrieved a small device from one of his belt pouches, placing it down on the desk between them. "That is a lie-detector; what we Judges call a birdie. As the name suggests, it tells me when a suspect is not being entirely honest. Now, you're going to tell me everything about your first meeting with Erik Rejin and every beep I hear from the birdie is a year you're going to be spending in the cubes. Do I make myself clear?"
Peat opened his mouth, then shut it again. Eventually, he nodded, cleared his throat and began to speak.
"Down! Stay down!" Peat ordered as his squad came under heavy fire. The Sovs had them pin
ned. Their tanks were moving up on Barrymore, crushing any resistance before them, and ground troops were mopping up in their wake. Peat had seen four or five Judges on Lawmasters leading the charge against the invaders vaporised by just one shell, catching them dead centre. Once the smoke cleared, all that was left of Mega-City's finest was a tangle of wreckage at the base of a huge crater. He did not hold out much hope for his Citi-Def unit while they were in the open as they did not have the ammunition to enter into a stand-up fight with Sov artillery. Hit and run, that's all they could do. Guerrilla warfare.
He looked around at his men, crouching low behind the ruins they were using as cover. Not that long ago there'd been twice the number in his squad, which had originally operated out of Charlton Heston Block, and over the course of the past few days, the unit had been gradually whittled down. Run-ins with those drokkers over in neighbouring Mike Moore had caused severe casualties even before the whole city went ballistic, and now, including himself, there were just five left of the Crazy Heston Frontliners.
At first they'd directed all their energies in defending their block, but when they saw the mushroom clouds blossoming on the horizon, they realised that a new enemy was taking the conflict to a whole different level. They might have had their differences with Mike Moore, but upon discovering those commie rats from East-Meg One were looking to take over not just their homes but the entire metropolis, suddenly this fresh target seemed much more worthy. His men hadn't needed convincing - they'd been fighting solidly for forty-eight hours, but their aggression was undiminished and they took to this latest adversary with renewed vigour.
Peat had led his unit proudly into battle with a foe befitting the stature of the Frontliners, but it soon dawned on him just how much he had underestimated the Sov armour. The squad's small arms were barely making a dent in the East-Meg onslaught, and all the time his unit was losing soldiers in every skirmish. They could not afford to take any more casualties.
"What do you think, sir?" his lieutenant, Mattocks, asked, squatting down next to Peat. He absent-mindedly scratched at a las-scar on his cheek.
"We can't stay here," Peat replied, watching the tanks advance through his binox. "Won't be able to get through Sov infantry, and certainly can't hold 'em off. Gonna have to retreat." The commander pointed out a route through the collapsed masonry of nearby buildings. "We'll have to hotfoot it across country, find somewhere we can lie low. Tell the men to get ready to go on my word."
Mattocks nodded and shuffled off on his belly to pass on the order. Peat continued to watch the artillery rumble down the street towards them, black smudges against the boiling sky. They needed a diversionary tactic to keep the Sovs occupied while his squad made a break for it. He spied an overhang, part of a half-demolished structure that lined the route the tanks were taking, and beckoned to Rawlinson who was carrying the RPG.
"Just before the nearest tank is under it, aim for that ledge," Peat instructed. "It's gonna be tight. We're gonna have to wait until they're fairly close before we hit 'em, but we need a smokescreen to cover our escape."
Rawlinson understood. He sighted his weapon on the overhang and waited for the mobile armour to move closer. For interminable seconds, they all crouched motionless, listening to the ever-present thunder of the tank tracks draw nearer. Peat looked at the faces of his men as they anticipated the order to move: some had their eyes screwed shut, others unconsciously fingered their rifles, heads bowed. The noise of the tanks seemed to fill the whole world, the screeching of metal getting louder moment by moment. Then, suddenly, there was a burst of flame, a rush of air, and the RPG on Rawlinson's shoulder bucked in his grip as he fired. There was a fraction of a pause before the explosion split the air, throwing chunks of the building in all directions.
"Go!" Peat yelled, and the unit stood as one, dashing for the escape route. The commander glanced at the advancing tanks and saw with some satisfaction that the rubble had put one of the vehicles out of action, rockcrete piled on top of it. Dust billowed before them, concealing their movements for a few vital seconds. The rattle of gunfire emerged from the clouds of debris and smoke, but the Sovs were aiming wild, evidently unable to see their attackers. Peat patted Rawlinson on the back and told him to get moving since they wouldn't have long before the East-Meg army was on their tail.
The Citi-Def squad moved fast, clambering as quickly as they could through the ruins, but the few minutes' grace they had bought did not get them far before they heard the Sovs shouting to each other and shots began closing in. They had been spotted. A shell arced in the air and detonated to their left, throwing out a lethal rain of shrapnel, and Peat watched helplessly as Mattocks took several hits in the face and chest, his uniform reduced to bloody rags. The lieutenant turned and unleashed a furious burst of fire at their pursuers, impotently trying to channel his rage before falling dead to the ground.
They had to find a hiding place. Peat looked around desperately for somewhere to head to, then he realised that they were running parallel to the perimeter boundary of some sort of estate. Chances were it was big enough for his squad to lose themselves in. He shouted to his men to find a gap in the iron fence. Fortunately, the area had been subjected to intense bombardment, and there were big enough rents along the border of the property for them to squeeze through. They stumbled onto crater-riddled land and fixed their sights on the remains of a large house, which lay at the summit of a shallow hill. Peat glanced back and could see no sign of the Sovs so he felt reasonably confident that they'd given the invaders the slip.
As they drew closer to the mansion, they saw that it must've taken the full brunt of an airburst. The roof had collapsed in places, the walls were blackened, the windows mostly shattered. It looked derelict.
Topley whistled appreciatively. "Must've been some pad, once."
"I think I recognise this place," Peat replied, frowning. "I'm sure I've seen it on the news..."
"Looks like a celebrity shitheap," Marriott said.
"Well, whatever it was, it's our hideout for the time being," Peat murmured, heading towards the front door, dangling off its hinges. "But we'll scope it out, make sure there's no nasty surprises waiting inside." He signalled his unit to follow. "Keep 'em peeled."
They entered slowly, flipping on the torches attached to their rifles to penetrate the gloom. All the power seemed to be out, and the destruction wrought on the inside seemed as extensive as that on the exterior. A grand sweeping staircase led up to the first floor, but it was blocked by a huge shard of the roof that had fallen in. They moved cautiously through the hallway, checking as best they could each room they came across, dust dancing in their beams, the silence enveloping them like a shroud. Whoever had lived here had had plenty of money and taste, the expensive works of art now lying shattered beneath their feet.
"You reckon the residents have fled?" Rawlinson asked.
"Seems likely, if they're not buried under a ton of rubble," Peat answered.
"This place safe, d'you think?" Marriott added, swinging his torch up at the exposed rafters. "One strong breeze and the place could come down like a house of cards."
Peat was wondering the same thing himself. "Can't say for sure. We'll only stay for as long as we have to. Any sign-"
A moan echoed through the structure as if the mansion itself was shifting on its foundations. At first, Peat thought it was the wind, but then it came again, louder, and there was no mistaking the sound's origin as human. His men eyed each other nervously, shouldering their guns, and turned to their commander who put a finger to his lips and motioned for them to spread out. Peat cocked an ear and tried to follow the source of the noise, which seemed to be getting more insistent. He led his team into what had once been the kitchen and stopped, waiting for the groan to come again. When it did, he peered down at his feet.
"Trapdoor," he whispered, gesturing to the opening set in the floor that was partially covered with heavy blocks of rockcrete. "Must lead to a basement. Marriott, Rawlinson, help me
clear this debris, then on three, open it. Topley, keep me covered, but don't shoot unless you have to."
The men lifted the rubble clear then stationed themselves around the trapdoor, looking at their superior expectantly. Peat counted down silently, then nodded. Marriott and Rawlinson tore open the door and a crimson blur exploded from the opening, throwing itself at Peat.
They toppled backwards, grappling at Topley's feet, who tried to sight his gun on the attacker but couldn't get a clear fix. It seemed to be a man, but he was coated almost entirely in blood and he was making a keening whine like a wounded animal. Topley reached down and got his arm around the maniac's throat, lifting him off Peat. Close up, he could smell the man's foetid stench and realised that what he thought was a mewl was actually a breathless litany.
"Kill them all... kill them all... kill them all..."
"Drokker's raving," Marriott said, helping Topley as the man struggled in his grasp. "Grud, he stinks too." He glanced at his CO. "You all right, skip?"
Peat got to his feet, rubbing his head where it had cracked against the kitchen floor. "I'll live." He got his hand under the lunatic's jaw, lifting his face into the light so he could get a better look. "Must've been trapped under there for days, poor spugger." He looked closer into the man's eyes, wild with fear and madness, then Peat spat into his hand and wiped away some of the dirt and blood caked to the guy's skin. A gasp escaped his lips. "Jovus drokk!"
Marriott looked at Peat. "Chief? What is it?"
The commander rubbed away more of the grime. "I've seen him before. This place... I thought I recognised it. It-it's the Rejin estate. You know, the billionaires?"
"The kneepad people?" Topley asked.
"Exactly. My grud, this guy must be one of the sons. Erik, is it?" The man moaned louder in response. "They've been all over the press in the past. The Rejins are one of the richest families in the city."
"So where's the rest of them?" Marriott wanted to know.
The Final Cut Page 16
