Who among you holds good in their souls?
The only way we can judge is through the laws that bind us
Those words written
To bring order to an imperfect world
Through the perfect laws of the Divines
We trust you, for you are the receivers of
THE GOD GUN
- Mar, Book 13
A trail of engine exhaust carves across the afternoon sky, condensation immediately evaporating against the heat from five suns above. The creature of aluminum and steel flies, spread metal wings painting itself against a dust choked universe. A shape shadowing the wasteland beneath it, the miracle of human engineering against the confines of gravity.
Its airframe vibrates as power from four massive engines is reeled back, the sound of howling air dominating the low rumble of a final approach to the earth beneath it. Light reflected from brown metal panels and through a thick polymer window strikes shut eyes, waking the sleeping form.
An old face hidden beneath his wide brimmed hat, the abyssal blue uniform upon the toned form patched with woven plates of ceramic armor, pouches of ammunition, and strings of arcane black grenades. Strapped to his body alongside the points of utility were the armaments of a ceaseless war; one silvered single action revolver locked to his waist holster and a lever action rifle held on his lap.
A streaming beam of dusty sunlight catches the golden badge upon his breast; the seven bars of the Federated Cities layered by a single bullet shining in its place within the universe.
The old man removes his armored hat, consciousness returning as he quickly reorients to an unknown world in motion.
Thin gray hair, wrinkled face representative of a body already failing against age. Eyes take in his surroundings, experience instantly classifying his place in the world.
A cramped cabin neatly decorated, the five crew members of the transport craft assigned to their designated stations without ceremony. From beyond a small curtain into the cockpit the two pilots sit with calm urgency; a handful of switches flicked within a panel of a hundred glowing lights.
Across from him, hunched over a small outcropped table covered in layers of topographical maps, the crew navigator notices the first arches of a waking man. Young eyes meet with those of ancient experience, a faltering of speech apparent as he speaks up. “G-Good morning Judge Murphy.”
“Good morning son.” The voice grits out roughly.
An awkward silence plays forth as four engines whine, a power maintained as the aircraft begins its descent.
“W-We’re on final approach to March… s-so it won’t be much longer.” The Navigator continues. “M-much longer until we land. S-Sir.”
From the small porthole in the airframe the sun baked earth slowly branches to a darker color of bedrock. Salt flats turning to mountain ranges, valleys of dust and sand carving through deserts of ancient creation. Roads of compacted dirt web from the wilderness, lifelines explosively woven into the faces of cliffsides. A handful of vehicles dot the landscape as they slowly climb towards the city above, dust kicked into harmless spools of particulate taken away by a light breeze.
The northern quarter of March is caught first; a single building joined by an army surrounding it. Squat abodes, manufactured from prefabricated designs, intermix with the creativity of humanity. Lines of roads, woven like a spider’s web, spread towards the wasteland beyond. Isles of activity cutting blocks of buildings, civilization filled within the orthogonal partitioning of city districts; cells creating a larger body.
An era of urban planning bringing upon itself immense growth, the Federation’s hand in the development of the southland city evident in a fundamental disconnect between the new age and a dead one.
From a bird’s eye perspective the separation between March’s eras plays out like a massive scar upon the cityscape. A dividing line obvious in its creation and color; the neat organization of the Federation clashing with the confusing, serpentine-like road system of the old Empire. Poorly lit and cluttered, the slums of the old city district were visibly dotted with church spires that reached into the afternoon sun; the fingers of dead men reaching to gods above.
A single leyline tower juts out slightly offset from the center of the city. A thin half-mile tall structure shadows the buildings beneath it, divine black shape hailing from another era entirely. Massive pipes connect to the structure across its sacred form; the lifeblood of the world made from water and power tapped into by human hands.
From behind the Judge the soft voice of the flight engineer speaks up, a single cup of cold coffee placed upon the small plastic shelf near the spare seat as she takes in the view from the porthole. “Gateway to the southern frontier: the old crown jewel of the Southlands, March herself.”
Judge Murphy attempts a scowled smile at the gifted beverage, voice tired as he formulates a reply to the words. “Been a long time since March has been the capital of anything.”
The Flight Engineer continues forward towards the cockpit, the spoken lines of technical information to the pair of pilots acknowledged with a simple thumbs up.
“Alright Judge, please strap in.” The pilot respectfully orders as he pulls the control stick down, the airframe slowly increasing its descent towards the world beneath it. “We’re on for final approach.”
The roar of four engines dies to a light rumble, a lightweight metal airframe shaking as the creature catches the errant air of a thermal updraft.
“Gear down.” The pilot announces as hydraulic limbs extend from beneath the plane, aerodynamics compromised as flaps open alongside them. “Ready?”
“Ready.” The co-pilot answers.
Built into a clearing alongside smooth mountainsides, March’s airstrip was already being consumed by the urban expansion of the city. Squat apartment complexes splinter out alongside general stores and saloons, their shapes blurring from the speed of flight.
For a moment the steel monster falters in a gliding freefall, airspeed annihilating the lift upon metal wings. Stomachs turn in the milliseconds of humanity, interrupted in the suddenness of arrival.
The airframe violently shakes as rubberized tires make contact with compacted dirt, the entire craft shuttering as it returns to the confines of a solid world.
“Contact, applying brakes.” The pilot reports, turning to the navigator behind him. “Please note in log, 'Sentiment of Skies' arrived in March from Centralis with a major stopover at November to take on one point four tons of cargo and fuel. Total payload arrival at March is two point one four metric tons; cargo manifest non-inclusive of one individual. Note of Judge John Murphy’s safe arrival at March.”
From the navigator’s station the young man quickly jots down the words into the thick log book, looking up as he finalizes the sentences. “Done.”
“Thank you for flying with us Judge Murphy.” The pilot turns from his seat, the co-pilot taking over the sequence as he speaks to their sole guest. “Not often we get to ferry people like you around.”
The Judge humbly nods as he stands from his chair, knotted muscles cracking as he stretches. “I hope it wasn’t too much of an inconvenience.”
“When the Department of Justice asks, the Army Air Corps answers.” The Pilot replies, turning back to flick a series of switches on the control panel. Outside, four engines slowly diminish in their whines as propellers begin to calm. “And it’s very rare that we end up transporting someone as famous as you sir.”
Beyond the runway a handful of human forms jog towards the stopped aircraft, cargo trucks behind them empty in preparation for material transfers.
“No rest for the wicked.” The flight engineer at the back of the cabin announces. “Green light, engine shutoff complete.”
She turns to the aircraft’s sole passenger. “Welcome to March, Judge Murphy.”
