02.Bad Moon Rising Read online

  The citizens caught up in the carnage on Anton Diffring Overzoom were not so fortunate. A handful of those in the first few pods and roadsters that collided had managed to stumble away from their vehicles to the safety of the hard shoulder. Meanwhile more and more travellers slammed into the back of the metal melee, most dying on impact. Within a minute of Tarragon Rey opening the cat cages, fifty-three people were dead or dying. Then things got worse.

  Once all five lanes were blocked by the crash, drivers swerved on to the hard shoulder to avoid a collision. Those who had sought refuge there were run down, adding to the death toll. Vehicles that tried to avoid the pedestrians either thudded into the side of the impact zone or rebounded against the side railing and were flipped over the top, falling the equivalent of fifteen storeys to Soren Linsted Skedway below that started another pile-up.

  By the time Dredd and Miller reached the scene the death toll was over a thousand on Anton Diffring and still rising. Judging by the sounds of metal crushing into metal and the screams drifting up from the skedway below, a similar number of deaths were occurring down below.

  "Grud, what started this?" Miller wondered. She switched off the engine of her Lawmaster and dismounted, stepping into a dark, crimson stream of blood and oil that rolled from the pile-up. The sounds of the wounded punctuated the night air with cries of pain and fitful screams for help mixed. A blur of black fur passed the Judges as a cat ran past them, away from the bloody carnage. A second feline followed it, then a third. "Cats? Why would cats-"

  Dredd left his Lawmaster and joined her. "M-CASS. At roll call Caine said the anti-superstition society had abducted thirteen black cats."

  "But what are they doing here?"

  "We can worry about the cause of this later," Dredd replied. "Let's concentrate on the effects." He activated his helmet radio while still assessing the carnage. "Dredd to Control, am at the Anton Diffring crash site. Estimate hundreds dead, many more injured and/or trapped in the wreckage. Expect similar below us on Soren Linsted Skedway. We need a fleet of med-wagons and an H-Wagon overhead loaded with fire-fighting capability. Better add some riot foam as well, in case things get out of hand."

  Miller waited until Dredd signed off before asking about the riot foam. "I'd have thought that's the last thing we'll need - the survivors are in shock."

  "Maybe. But if my suspicions are correct, things could get ugly and fast."

  One by one, the survivors began to emerge from the wreckage. Most were bloodied, many badly injured, but all were glassy-eyed and shivering despite the humidity. "What happened? What could have caused this?" they asked the Judges.

  Another cat crept out from a gap between two crushed roadsters, its black fur matted with blood. Dredd pointed at the animal. "I suspect someone released thirteen black cats into the path of the oncoming traffic."

  "But why? What possible reason could they have for--"

  "I did it!" a lone voice announced proudly. It came from the edge of the fast lane, where a man's arm protruded from beneath a jumble of twisted metal and glasseen. Miller held the growing crowd of survivors back while Dredd pulled back the ruptured remains of a roadster to reveal the instigator.

  "Tarragon Rey," Dredd muttered. He grabbed the M-CASS leader and pulled him clear, paying little heed to Rey's protests about having a sprained ankle, cuts and bruises. Dredd dragged Rey to his feet and forced him to look at the pile-up. "See this? Hundreds dead, perhaps thousands by morning. Lives ruined, families torn apart, people left in pain and misery - and for what? What were you trying to achieve?"

  The M-CASS leader shrugged. "I was just proving that having a black cat cross your path wasn't proof of good luck. I didn't mean for all of this-"

  Dredd shook Rey as if he was a puppet, trying to rattle some sense into his brain. "Have you any conception of the human cost for this demonstration of yours?"

  But Rey remained undeterred. "Sacrifices must be made if progress is to be achieved. Superstitions belong to centuries past. We must drag ourselves into the twenty-second century!"

  Dredd looked over his shoulder at the crowd gathering behind Miller. "See all those people? They're the lucky ones: they survived. Right now they're looking for somebody to blame. What do you think would happen if I told them you caused all of this, just to prove some deluded belief?"

  The M-CASS leader's face hardened. "You wouldn't explain it to them properly. The fact that you call the beliefs of the great Osvaldo Carlos 'deluded' proves my point. Let me speak to them."

  Dredd almost smiled. "Perhaps you're right. You speak to them." He stepped behind Rey and pulled the culprit's wrists together before snapping a pair of handcuffs around them. "Are you sure you want to do this, Rey? They may not share your more enlightened viewpoint."

  "I insist! Once I make them see the sense of this, they will thank me."

  "Have it your way, creep," Dredd replied. He pushed the prisoner towards the survivors. "Listen up! This man has something he wants to tell you."

  Rey cleared his throat and began shouting to the gathered crowd of bloodied and bruised motorists.

  Dredd retreated to the side of the overzoom, taking Miller with him. "Dredd, what exactly are you doing?" she asked.

  "He insisted on having the chance to explain his actions to the survivors."

  "But they'll tear him apart once they find out."

  "Don't worry, I've got riot foam standing by."

  Now The crowd was becoming restive and angry, as it realised the implications of what Rey was saying. Fists began to clench and faces hardened into rage and murderous fury. Within thirty seconds Rey was sprinting away from the pile-up towards the nearest off-ramp, pursued by an angry mob. Miller called in the H-Wagon with riot foam before turning back to her partner. "You wanted Rey to feel the same terror as those who died in this crash, didn't you?"

  Dredd nodded. "Chances are he'll spend the rest of his life in either the iso-cubes or the psycho-cubes, depending on how Psi-Division judge his mental state at the time he caused the crash. Either way, it'll never bring back his victims. But at least he'll remember this moment of pure terror that will stay with him. It isn't justice, but it's a start."

  Evan Yablonsky had been a news editor at Channel 27 for nine years, having fought his way up from cadet reporter. His ruthless advance on the ladder of promotion marked him out as a man willing to do almost anything to get ahead, a quality underlined by his determination to run the stories other tri-D news channels would never touch. It was Yablonsky who pioneered the audition process for prospective journalists, along with the "all aspects" waiver those auditioning had to sign. If they unearthed a scoop and survived their first night on the skedways and pedways of the Big Meg, they were offered a job. If they died or were incarcerated for going too far, Channel 27 retained culpable deniability and avoided any financial responsibility for the consequences.

  The anonymous news hotline was another of Yablonsky's innovations. Citizens could call in with information about anything. The Dish-Dirt-Today line (known as DDT in the office) had proved a valuable source of leads. Everything from the neighbour that had let their goldfish licence lapse to the serial killer down the corridor was good news for Channel 27. It was most useful as a conduit for the city's criminal organisations if they wanted to stitch up their opposition. A call tipped off Channel 27, then Yablonsky passed this information to the Judges and claimed the reward for any wanted perps captured as a result. It was a sweet deal all round.

  So when the DDT vidphone began ringing, the news editor did not hesitate to answer, even when it was an audio-only call. The voice was heavily distorted too, undoubtedly by some electronic means. Yablonsky set the auto-trace programme running more from habit than any expectation of it identifying where the call originated. Whoever was going to this much trouble to mask their identity was not going to give themselves away that easily.

  "I have a hot tip for you," the caller said, the words sounding harsh and metallic. The news editor could not even dete
rmine the gender of the voice, so heavy was the distortion.

  "Tell me more," Yablonsky drawled in his Texas City accent. He had grown up in the Lone Star city-state before moving to the Big Meg as a juve.

  "The fire at the Robert Hatch. It was arson."

  The news editor sighed. That was old news and he said so.

  But the caller was not done yet. "The device used to start the fire, it could only have come from one of two sources - a Citi-Def squad or the Judges."

  "Prove it."

  "Tek-Division will find traces of a chemical compound called Lucir-74 near the seat of the fire. That compound is used exclusively for incendiary devices issued by the Justice Department to Citi-Def squads."

  "Jovus drokk," Yablonsky gasped. "How do you know this?"

  But the DDT line was already dead.

  Yablonsky sat by the hotline for another thirty seconds, his mind still racing through the implications of what he had just heard. If it was accurate - and that was a big if right now - then there was a major scandal brewing. Could someone within the Justice Department have deliberately torched Robert Hatch and roasted most of the alien residents inside? Why would they do that? It was more likely the work of a rogue Citi-Def squad. Sector 87 had more than its fair share of those, several with strong anti-alien elements.

  The news editor hurried back to his own desk, trying to decide who to call first. He needed at least one source to corroborate the story before running it. Channel 27 might be at the edge of what was acceptable for broadcast in Mega-City One but even he balked at accusing the Justice Department of using arson to commit mass murder without any evidence to back it up. It was time to call an old friend inside Tek-Division. But first Yablonsky needed to get his street journalists close into the action. He hit the transmit button on his communications system. "All Channel 27 reporters call in. I need to know your positions. Now!"

  Miller and Dredd stayed beside the Anton Diffring pile-up until clean-up squads were able to cut a path through the carnage. As Med-Judges began the grisly job of removing corpses and severed body parts from the crushed metal, the pair rode through the gap on their Lawmasters. Once clear of the wreckage, Dredd called Control for progress on his previous enquiries.

  "Kendrick says she's found the residue of an unusual chemical compound among the samples taken from the basement of Robert Hatch. Something called Lucir-74."

  "I've heard of that," Miller said.

  Dredd nodded his agreement. "What else, Control?"

  "PSU has cross-checked all current Sector 87 residents with anti-alien convictions against all those who attended the public meeting at Leni Riefenstahl. Only three such residents were not at the meeting out of more than two hundred."

  "That's some turnout," Dredd noted. "Who are the three and what are their locations?"

  "Roberto Conti, currently in traction at St Peter Root Hospital after losing a fight with an alien last week," Control replied. "Also out of the running is Huston Wark, resident at a hospice for those with terminal cases of Jigsaw Disease. The only other candidate is a juve called Benoit Roth. He was arrested six hours ago and is sitting in a holding cell at Sector House 87."

  "I'm the one who arrested the little punk," Miller said. "He's too fond of wall-scrawling anti-alien slogans for his own good."

  "What about the boss at Summerbee Industries?" Dredd asked Control. "Anything further on him?"

  "That's a roj. Werner Summerbee resides at number fifteen, Ridley Estate, but lives most of the year in tax exile on the Moon. Returned to Mega-City One this morning, according to spaceport records, but is only here for another twenty-four hours."

  "Thanks, Control. Dredd out."

  A watch-post platform jutted from the side of the overzoom ahead of them. Dredd began to slow down as they approached it and motioned for Miller to join him. Once they were stationary Dredd switched off his engine and helmet radio, his partner following suit. From this high platform they could look out over the sector, at a million lights glowing in the darkness. The full moon was rising in the distance, appearing unusually large as it cleared the horizon. But both Judges had others things on their minds.

  "Lucir-74. That's a compound in incendiary bullets, isn't it?" Miller asked.

  Dredd nodded. "And in some explosives issued to Citi-Def squads."

  "Backs up our alibi theory, but doesn't get us any closer to knowing who planted it," she commented. "The device used to start the fire could have been planted hours or even days earlier but-"

  "But that would have made it more susceptible to discovery," Dredd said. "Much more likely to have been put in place within an hour or two of the fire starting, cutting down the risk of detection. So it probably wasn't anybody at the public meeting."

  Miller scowled. "There's another possibility. It could have been a Judge."

  "Perhaps, but we're hardly inconspicuous. Even the likes of Stammers isn't stupid enough to be seen planting such a device." Dredd stroked his chin. "No, I suspect someone else was used, a go-between, somebody whose name wouldn't show up as an obvious suspect with PSU."

  "So we're back to square one?"

  "For the moment." Dredd looked out at the city, deep in thought. "There's something else going on here, Miller. Something below the surface."

  "Like what?"

  "I don't know," he admitted. "Just a suspicion, nagging at me."

  Miller smiled. "I thought you were double-zero rated, no discernible psychic abilities."

  "Gut instinct has its uses too. The precogs were expecting trouble-"

  "Haven't we had enough already?"

  Dredd shook his head. "Nothing more than you'd expect with a full moon and Friday the Thirteenth starting in a few minutes. Precogs wouldn't issue a sector-wide warning without serious concerns. Whatever's coming, we've only seen the leading edge of it." His shoulders slumped momentarily, exhaustion evident on his features.

  "When was the last time you got any rest?" Miller asked.

  "More than twenty-seven hours ago."

  "Then we should get back to the sector house. Control can spare you for ten minutes on a sleep machine." Miller reactivated her helmet radio. "What about Summerbee? Do you want me to see him about that rogue droid?"

  "He can wait. Right now we-"

  "Control to all units! There's a hundred members of a doomsday cult on the roof of Maurice Waldron Block. Can anyone respond?"

  "That's just below the next off-ramp," Miller noted.

  "Guess that sleep machine will have to wait for me," Dredd said before signalling Control they would take the call.

  00:00

  FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 13, 2126

  Sharona Moore was disappointed. For five years she had been leading a cult of eschatologists, watching for the signs and portents that indicated the end of the world. Her team of researchers had scoured all the ancient texts for clues: the Book of Revelations from the Bible, the prophecies of French visionary Nostradamus and the collected horoscopes of fabled Brit-Cit astrologer Russell Grant. From these diverse sources had emerged fragments of evidence, all of them pointing to this time and this place.

  Revelations spoke of a full moon rising on the last night, while Nostradamus wrote of the apocalypse enveloping the city of the one Magi (Mega-City One was the accepted modern interpretation of this sixteenth century text). Russell Grant suggested Friday the Thirteenth would bring disaster for all those under the star sign of Libra. Grant also suggested there was a chance for new romance and the day's lucky colour would be blue, but the researchers dismissed these elements of the prophecy as droll fripperies inserted to satisfy the low brow culture prevalent back in the year 2004. Every member of Sharona's cult had been born under the star sign Libra, confirming the truth of the flamboyant soothsayer's vision. In fact, all members were the product of conceptions fuelled by festive season inebriation, but they preferred not to discuss this.

  So it had come to pass that one day, one date and one time stood out from all the years of contemplation an
d interpretation - Friday, September thirteenth, 2126 AD. As this day began, a mighty calamity would decimate Mega-City One and the creator of all things would come down and rescue all those (and only those) who were ready to accept deliverance. At least, that was how Sharona saw it. If pressed, she was willing to admit the exact year was never stipulated and the presence of blue as a lucky colour still worried her. And how could there be a chance for new romance to blossom if the world was going to end?

  But Sharona had put those doubts aside and gathered her followers. The cult was a hundred strong, mostly adults with a smattering of juves. Sharona had gathered them to herself with charismatic speeches, a litany of salvation for a select few and free memberships for anyone born between September twenty-fifth and October first. Setting up her own cult had proved surprisingly easy. The Justice Department favoured a policy of religious tolerance, so long as the religion frowned upon all forms of lawbreaking. Once the Sect of the Last Redemption was registered with the necessary authorities, Sharona was free to hold meetings, predict the end of the world and organise pre-apocalypse fund-raising sales of baked goods.

  The cult members were now gathered atop Maurice Waldron Block, waiting for the end of the world. All were resplendent in their purple and gold robes, specially purchased for Judgement Day from the proceeds of baked goods sales. Everyone had said their goodbyes to the non-believers in their immediate family and friends. It wasn't easy to mentally prepare yourself for salvation, knowing so many were not be spared the full horrors of the apocalypse, but Sharona counselled her followers not to fret. The creator might take pity on associate members and upgrade them to full redemption status.

  So the one hundred waited, their hands linked together. They recited a fervent prayer over and over again as the moment of destiny approached. "Creator of all things, hallowed be thyself. Thy kingdom is nearly come, thy will be done, in the Big Meg as it is wherever you hang out. Give us this day our ticket off this stommhole and forgive us our hoverbus passes. Lead us not into a cul-de-sac but deliver us from bad stuff. For thine is the kingdom and the glory and stuff like that, now and forever and a day. All right?"