They all exchange awkward glances between one another, with only Judge Murphy standing with responsibility. “I’m trained in Federal Combat Driving Protocols.”
She rolls her eyes. “Cool, but I meant normal driving for traveling. Not how to shoot people while barreling through traffic like a madman. Alto, you’ve gotta know how to drive right?”
The Gunslinger, on the spot, answers with absolute honesty. “I-I don’t.”
“You’re telling me that you managed to go from the northlands, to the collective, all the way down here without learning how to work the pedals and wheels?” She dismissively sighs. “Gods damn it. Alright, well I’ll take the first driving shift I guess. Anything else we gotta do before leaving this forsaken place?”
“I’ll need to send a report to Centralis.” Judge Murphy immediately answers as he turns away from the rest.
There’s a long pause as they all stare at him, watching the old form stroll out to the edge of the clearing.
Samuel asks the question first. “Where is Judge Murphy…”
“He’s a Judge.” Madeline cuts in with her own knowledge. “That’s a centralian radio on his shoulder, the real special ones that they only give to Judges. Say they’ve got enough power to reach all the way across the Federation and only they know how to use it.”
Against a hostile city and the incoming storm of dust he finds a solitary street corner within visual range of the rest. A deep breath centering a faltering biology, working through the pain of age as he composes the words inside his mind.
One report, limited by bandwidth and broadcast power, to be delivered through the artifact upon his shoulder. Condensed down to its most important components, one more deep breath as he touches the surface of the mechanism.
Abyssal black alloy built in the final war for humankind, the circle of blue flaring orange as he depresses the primary button with a small clack.
Ar notes its usage, its untouchable form. Passive sensors unable to even detect any semblance of transmission power at this district spanning setting, a null space void centered upon its censored chassis preventing even him from reading the wavelengths.
Quantum particles find their matches across an infinite universe, counterpart masses concentrated deep within that great city in the vast distance far away connecting with those here amongst the desert and dust.
It's an artifact of mankind’s treasured past, a silo of abyssal black alloy connected by protruding wires to archaic vacuum tubes in a desperate attempt at maintenance by the fumbling hands of mankind. Held within the Bunker, in the cleared dungeon layers deep within Centralis, within a chamber that dwarfs the incomprehensibly tiny forms of living humanity.
If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
There’s something alive within it, a breathing power that constantly drones in an ever ceaseless heart beat. Machinery pumping forth torrents of blood-like coolant, echoing weak groans and screams from every second of operation; barely understood by the inheritors of its grand legacy.
Only one short of half a dozen humans within the massive chamber of abyssal black, left reading and transcribing the echoes from ancient auto-scribes before one more message begins.
Written upon shattered screens, temporarily displayed by the system before new incoming reports force the scrolling text to supposed erasure. A dull green script translated and retranslated within an increasingly complex series of archeo-machines, a termination point creating runes so complicated they demand a final translation by minds greater than those here.
Yulia Wen, the most junior member of the team of five, is given the opportunity by random chance. A young enthusiasm on track to join the echelons beyond even the highest ranks of the transcriptions, a practiced mind already translating the runes that flow forth from the broken display screen.
“Centralis, blue priority, Judge John Murphy verify Sierra-Julie-74 voice casting in the dark.”
Its confirmation of the recipient and transmitter, the young woman jumping in surprise as she nearly drops the pen from her hands. A legend of the Federation, reporting in from the highest of channels to her station.
“City of March is code black, repeat code black. Judiciary is compromised with multiple casualties. Addition: military code black, full scale rebellion in effect. 10-6, repeat 10-6.”
She nearly drops her pen again as she attempts to emotionally disconnect her transcription, a breath held as she awaits the next words coming from the screen.
“Sierra-Julie-74 shift judiciary status: travel. Return point: Centralis. End casting.”
She finishes the final rune, an inked pen rising above thick archival paper. Her soul tries to process the implications of his words, tries to understand one of the most insane reports ever placed to the Federation. The words echo, taught by the great political colleges of Centralis:
Revolution.
War.
The Fall.
Salvation.
A new message arrives on her designated channel, absolute gibberish punctuated with an actual report from the midland city of Digona erasing the previous words from the Judge himself.
She shakes her head, rising up with a sudden burst of confidence as she barks to the four other stations. “Alert! Blue priority message received!”
They all stare at her, pausing their own run copies in surprise at her guile.
Protocols to be followed, the young woman standing from her stool with a single movement. Paper trail almost falling from her hands, only a single message important enough to interrupt the holy duties of her place in the gears of the Federation.
A bureaucracy grinding to a halt with just a single report…
Assuming they even believe her.
Judge John Murphy’s radio falters, the glowing rune atop its interface fading back into abyssal black alloy. Ancient capacitors emptied of charge, an internal power source resetting itself in preparation for a new round of charge taken from the surrounding universe.
A shallow breath followed by a sickly cough, every single muscle within his body burning atop aching bones. Conviction from indoctrination, the desire for order in this world unable to overpower the failings of ailing flesh.
One more breath as he manages the pain, a facade placed atop the sickly corpse as he turns back to the comrades awaiting him.