own crimes.
Even now, more than ten years later, the memories of those nights still haunted him. In the aftermath, like most of the Judges involved in the disaster, Weller had been cleared of having to pay the price for what he had done. "You were acting under psychic compulsion," the senior Judge in charge of the review board had told him. "Your mind was not your own. You cannot be held accountable for your actions." Other than ordering him to attend a few sessions of mandatory psychiatric counselling, as far as the Justice Department was concerned that had been the end of the affair.
For Weller though, it could never end.
He dreamed of Necropolis constantly, the sensations of that time granted a clarity and vividness in his dreams that, mercifully, his waking mind could never muster. He dreamed of a woman choking, desperate, her eyes looking at him in uncomprehending horror as his hands closed around her throat. He dreamed of lines of terrified men, women and children being led screaming to destruction. He dreamed of standing in streets littered thick with corpses, his nostrils heavy with the cloying stink of decay, the sky above his head rendered black by the entities' powers as they delivered the entire city into eternal night.
He dreamed of all these things and more, waking in a cold sweat every time he slept. Then, day after day, when he awoke, he put on his uniform and went out into the streets to do his duty, trying all the while to pretend he could one day forgive himself for the things he had done. In his heart he knew it would never happen. He had innocent blood on his hands. He could not forgive himself for that; his memories of the victims of Necropolis would not let him. While, thanks to the labyrinthine internal politics of the Justice Department, the memories that were his secret shame were now in danger of being discovered.
A man's mind should be his own, he thought, feeling a rising tide of bitterness as the elevator doors opened before him and he stepped between them. He shouldn't have to guard his thoughts every minute, worrying that some telepath might learn all his secrets. As it is though, I'm going to have to be careful. I can't let Anderson see what's in my head. I can't let her see my memories. I can't let her see anything they could use to pronounce me unfit for duty. I can't let them do it. If they did, I'd go crazy. Some days, I swear being a Judge is the only thing that keeps me sane.
The frustrating thing was, he had not wanted to call in a Psi-Judge in the first place. He had simply had no choice. Sector 34 had one of the worst rates for unsolved homicides in the city. Accordingly, Sector Chief Collins had recently issued standing orders that the Street Judges of his sector were to use "every available resource" when preliminary investigation of a murder failed to identify any suspects. It was all about clearance rates and Justice Department targets. Sector Chief Collins was an ambitious man, and he was not about to let the problems of Sector 34 reflect poorly on his record. In this case, that meant that Weller had been all but compelled to call in a Psi-Judge to perform a psychometric scan on the Maddens woman's body. Now, he was stuck with her. Worse, he was stuck with the very real possibility that at any moment his own guilty conscience might betray him.
It did not matter that the review board had cleared him, or that there were hundreds - perhaps even thousands - of other Judges in Mega City One who were in the same position as him. All that mattered was that he had never been able to put Necropolis behind him. If something like that came to the attention of the powers that be, they would act swiftly. Being a Judge in Mega-City One was stressful enough, never mind when you were damaged goods already. They would not take the risk that, his resolve ground down by his nightmares, one day he might crack under the pressure. They would take action. They would invalid him out of the Justice
Even now, more than ten years later, the memories of those nights still haunted him. In the aftermath, like most of the Judges involved in the disaster, Weller had been cleared of having to pay the price for what he had done. "You were acting under psychic compulsion," the senior Judge in charge of the review board had told him. "Your mind was not your own. You cannot be held accountable for your actions." Other than ordering him to attend a few sessions of mandatory psychiatric counselling, as far as the Justice Department was concerned that had been the end of the affair.
For Weller though, it could never end.
He dreamed of Necropolis constantly, the sensations of that time granted a clarity and vividness in his dreams that, mercifully, his waking mind could never muster. He dreamed of a woman choking, desperate, her eyes looking at him in uncomprehending horror as his hands closed around her throat. He dreamed of lines of terrified men, women and children being led screaming to destruction. He dreamed of standing in streets littered thick with corpses, his nostrils heavy with the cloying stink of decay, the sky above his head rendered black by the entities' powers as they delivered the entire city into eternal night.
He dreamed of all these things and more, waking in a cold sweat every time he slept. Then, day after day, when he awoke, he put on his uniform and went out into the streets to do his duty, trying all the while to pretend he could one day forgive himself for the things he had done. In his heart he knew it would never happen. He had innocent blood on his hands. He could not forgive himself for that; his memories of the victims of Necropolis would not let him. While, thanks to the labyrinthine internal politics of the Justice Department, the memories that were his secret shame were now in danger of being discovered.
A man's mind should be his own, he thought, feeling a rising tide of bitterness as the elevator doors opened before him and he stepped between them. He shouldn't have to guard his thoughts every minute, worrying that some telepath might learn all his secrets. As it is though, I'm going to have to be careful. I can't let Anderson see what's in my head. I can't let her see my memories. I can't let her see anything they could use to pronounce me unfit for duty. I can't let them do it. If they did, I'd go crazy. Some days, I swear being a Judge is the only thing that keeps me sane.
The frustrating thing was, he had not wanted to call in a Psi-Judge in the first place. He had simply had no choice. Sector 34 had one of the worst rates for unsolved homicides in the city. Accordingly, Sector Chief Collins had recently issued standing orders that the Street Judges of his sector were to use "every available resource" when preliminary investigation of a murder failed to identify any suspects. It was all about clearance rates and Justice Department targets. Sector Chief Collins was an ambitious man, and he was not about to let the problems of Sector 34 reflect poorly on his record. In this case, that meant that Weller had been all but compelled to call in a Psi-Judge to perform a psychometric scan on the Maddens woman's body. Now, he was stuck with her. Worse, he was stuck with the very real possibility that at any moment his own guilty conscience might betray him.
It did not matter that the review board had cleared him, or that there were hundreds - perhaps even thousands - of other Judges in Mega City One who were in the same position as him. All that mattered was that he had never been able to put Necropolis behind him. If something like that came to the attention of the powers that be, they would act swiftly. Being a Judge in Mega-City One was stressful enough, never mind when you were damaged goods already. They would not take the risk that, his resolve ground down by his nightmares, one day he might crack under the pressure. They would take action. They would invalid him out of the Justice
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