“How long will you be in March sir?” Greyson asks, a questionable attempt at calmness detected by old insight.
“That’s to be determined by the needs of the Federation.” Judge Murphy sighs, adjusting his back upon the hardened seat. “Realistically it will be around three weeks.”
“In that case do you want a tour of the City?” The young judge offers with a smile. “Unless of course you’re not up to it. I can take you directly to the Department of Justice Quarterings.”
“No…” Judge Murphy pauses as he straightens his posture once again, an admittance rarely found from the stiff man. “I’m tired.”
“Good call sir. Take it from me, March is an entirely new beast compared to anything near the capital cities or even the western frontiers. Take your time.”
“Are you from the southlands?” The Judge asks the man.
An armored machine in motion, the answer is given as Greyson carefully calculates maneuvers through a miniscule armored viewing window. “Yes sir, I was born in March according to the documents. Operating here for six years now.”
“Six years?” Judge Murphy blinks at the low median number.
“It’s chump change compared to your service time sir.”
“It’s good to spend it at a place you can call home.” The Judge adds carefully.
Greyson stifles a laugh. “Well if it means anything sir, March is not the best place to call home, especially for us. What’s the news reaching up to Centralis from here?”
Judge Murphy takes a breath, watching as Greyson takes the vehicle through the streets of the now developing city. Consolidated reports analyzed within an experienced mind, the old man speaking out an omitted truth from constructed fact. “Other than the insurgency movements?”
Judge Greyson pauses at the words, an unexpected first topic throwing him ever so slightly off balance. “Well Anti-Federation and Pro-Imperial sentiment has existed since the annexation. Nothing we Judges can do about that.”
“It’s been sixty years.” Murphy comments. “Even the western territories didn’t take this long to come under full administration.”
“Well March was the capital of the Empire. And if the last order your god-king gives to his people is to resist, then you gotta resist. At this point it's politics and religion all the way down, sir.”
A historical reference processed, two hundred years of animosity simmered beneath eons of violent revolutions and genocidal crusades. The old man takes a breath as he adjusts the conversation.
“Fair assessment.” Judge Murphy agrees carefully. “But this is not just a political game.”
“How so?”
Passing storefronts of the new city under federation rule blur together; an amalgamation of stores, cinemas, restaurants and apartment housing unseen by a focused soul. Upon the sidewalks, the gathering of well dressed, working citizens watch the judge vehicle pass by them.
“The official numbers by Judge Chase indicated a two hundred casualty ration riot last month. Live ammunition was fired into the crowd, cross-referenced by the Armed Forces Garassion’s Field General Philips. This alongside a C-11 requisition of heavy arms and munitions that was sent by the Judges here, it raises a few concerns from the upper divisions.”
“It’s March.” Judge Greyson informs coldly as he accelerates the car, a main roadway reached as he prepares a right-handed turn.
“Centralis is concerned, both from the Department of Justice and the Administration.” Murphy calmly retorts.
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“All due respect sir, is that why they sent you? Because some downtrodden invalids decided to organize a mutual disagreement?”
“Downtrodden invalids don’t assassinate senior judges.” Judge Murphy speaks firmly, an authority cemented beyond rank and file. “With the death of Senior Judge White the President is starting to feel the pressure from Congress, especially with the next election coming in four months. If March goes under now, it’ll be chaos in the Southlands.”
“That’s politics.” Greyson notes dismissively. “As Judges we’re not to be involved.”
The old man pauses. “You’re right, as judges we’re beyond politics. Our purpose is to deliver justice to the Federation according to the 300. But understanding how they affect our work is important to our duty. We judges need to predict the ebb and flow of the laws we serve, and my being here is because they believe my presence will help restabilize March along with the arrived shipment. We may be separated from the political games of Centralis, but we’ll always be affected by them. Do you understand?”
A long pause before the subordinate judge nods. “Fair enough sir.”
An intersection reached, a sharp turn made in accordance to the dividing roadways. A singular building atop a piled staircase carved into the landscape, massive in appearance, offering itself to the world. The sigil of five gods standing strong atop the facade, pillars of stone reaching upward towards it. Beneath the world, a handful of forms slowly climb the steps towards the establishment, a sampling of the city of March made by their mostly drab clothing.
“That’s the Central Bank.” Judge Greyson informs. “Probably the oldest building in this district built by the Federation. The Church mostly puts their money there, along with the Governor.”
“Is that so?” Murphy blinks.
“Go down this road and you’ll start reaching the old city districts. Take my advice, avoid that area if you’re not looking for a fight; it’s where most of the imperial aligned movements are located.” Judge Greyson points outward down the long road, surrounding city blocks darkened through armored windows. “If we make a left there it’ll bring us out to where the major administration sections are.”
“I assume the field offices.”
“Well not quite.” Greyson answers too quickly. “Actually most of the Administration is working out of the Palace complex, not including the Governor's Mansion of course.”
The Old Judge stops. “Can I see that?”
“Well actually Governor Newark’s hosting a party for you this afternoon.” Greyson informs suddenly, pausing at the neutral expression of Judge Murphy. “If you received word…”
“Yes, my invitation was confirmed before I left Centralis.” Murphy sighs. “Is this a Southland tradition?”
“Well Governor Newark finds excuses to hold gatherings on a regular basis.” Greyson continues as he turns the street corner, finding a detouring path towards a new destination. “Famous characters are some of his more favored guests. I assume you’ll be attending?”
“I will.” Judge Murphy nods.
“He’ll be happy to hear that sir.”
A transition stark between the strata of the city of March. Humble brick abodes transforming into multi-story houses, an entirely new world reached within a singular mile of urbanization. Land allocated in square footage, estates placed central among plots of earth. Architecture traditional yet modernized, decorative columns of stone and steel machined with immaculate designs mixing with self-owned motor vehicles.
Dwarfed by a single compound.
Almost at the foot of the massive leyline tower node, the group of five temple-like buildings reached the near pinnacle of luxury amongst the squalor of the city.
Brass plating across pure white marble reflects light from five suns above, glass roofing tinted against brutal heat. Immaculately kept grounds hidden behind unscalable fencing, the barely visible plant life within the space opening ancient eyes to utter luxury.
Date palms reaching beyond to a dusty sky with cactus and ferns uncountable; greenery transposed against a thirsting world.
“Used to be the Imperial Palace.” Greyson informs, pointing towards the compound’s largest building through armored windows. “The God-King himself sat on his throne right there, the one at two o’clock relative.” A pause as the man continues with deep knowledge. “The Federation decided to scrap the whole throne after the annexation though; said the thing contained Old-War era magic items inside it. Gods know if that’s the truth or not.”
Judge Murphy remains quiet as the end of the road is reached, a dead end blocked by a huge metal gate leading into the compound. Separation between the chosen of gods and those beneath them, the investigation of March ended at the armed guards standing beneath the authority of law and gods.
Greyson speaks up, pulling the armored car in a lazy u-turn. “Oh and don’t worry, I’ll be joining you this evening at the Governor's party.”
“You are?”
“Well normally I end up in the role of liaison for the administration and our duties, so the Governor’s more comfortable with me around.” The Judge smiles slightly, tight lips in omission. “And the southlands have some… interesting traditions that may need to be diffused.”
Judge John Murphy stops at the words. “I’d welcome your company.”
Greyson takes a deep breath, calming himself in the face of annihilation. “In any case, let’s get you settled in.”