}!{
Breakfast was a word that did little justice for what they served Maxson in the morning.
Maxwell, one of the tower's Mister Handys, hummed the opening notes of 'Rule, Britannia' while it flipped the burger patties on the grill. "Five more minutes, sirs, and your burgers will be done!"
Maxson stared at the large plate filled with all bits and pieces of steaming soft chicken breasts lathered in hot gravy. A large clump of rice sat amidst the pile of goodies like a big edible couch. Peas and diced carrots were sprinkled all over the plate, decorating the dish with lively green and bright orange. There was just so much, perhaps too much. She shot Thorne a questioning look as though asking for permission.
"Aren't you hungry?" The judge asked. "As I understand it, you haven't eaten anything since yesterday. Dig in."
Maxson ate slowly, savoring every mouthful as though she'd had a taste of heaven- or a last meal. As she chewed, her eyes were moving from one corner of the place to the other. Thorne got her to eat at one of the tower's balconies, sharing breakfast with some of the Cerberian guardsmen who all positioned themselves on all sides of hers and Thorne's table. They were looking at her too, with hate in their eyes, which was understandable. As far as most Dominion folks were concerned, she was still the enemy.
Maxson's attention was drawn to the metal bracelet around her right ankle. Thorne had it put on her, called it a 'proximity monitor'. The device would alert the Sentinel drones, and the security teams assigned to the tower, to her location in seconds if she attempted to leave the premises. "Am I the only one locked up in this place?"
Thorne wiped some grease from his lips with a napkin, "Why do you ask? You've got plenty of company- us."
"You seriously think I'd believe you reserved a tower just to hold me?"
"Maybe you're just that important? Maybe we just like building towers so damn much it's how we do things?"
"Fine." Maxson sighed, "Be that way."
Maxwell got their burgers in, then promptly went back to cooking. Somehow, the men there feasted like kings and stayed well in shape nonetheless. Maxson refused to underestimate them. These men were hard, stone-cold killers. They built their society on the bones of raiders, raised up these colossal cities and brought civilization back into the Wasteland. The price of what they were enjoying now was paid in blood, sweat and tears. They earned their luxuries, she cannot judge them for that.
She looked at her plate and noticed that, with all the stuff practically poured into her dish, she had leftovers. Nobody in the Brotherhood had leftovers. If anyone had leftovers that meant one of two things; you're sick or you took more than your fair share. Maxson almost felt guilty for being too full to finish up, "Somewhere out there, people would kill for these scraps."
The judge looked at her thoughtfully and smiled, "That's the kind of world we're trying to end, to make way for this. You don't even need to imagine, because it's right here. A world where people don't need to kill each other for food or water. And you can walk our streets without looking over your shoulder."
"Then... why do you need judges?"
Thorne opened and closed his mouth a couple of times before answering, "O-kay, you got me there. We keep a firm hand on the reins, uphold the law and protect the citizens of the Dominion. People will be people, bad eggs go with the good and all that. It's certainly better than the alternative. Now, not to sound like a vicious cunt or anything, but if there were no judges- who would've stepped in and helped you last night?"
"That is... true." Maxson placed her elbows on the table and looked at the city around them. She pretended to remain unfazed, but she didn't like to be reminded of the incident. The system works, far better than anything the Wasteland had to offer. If it kept people safe, far be it for her to judge what works. "How does that work? The Dominion's justice system, if you don't mind me asking."
Thorne entertained her questions, particularly this one. He was proud of his work, and took every opportunity to showcase the inner workings of his occupation. "Well it's kind of like the system of the Old World, we just made it a little bit more simplified. We have the Peacekeeper Corps. to maintain public order and safety, but the judges have the final say when it comes to trying and sentencing. We hold the power of both judge and jury. And if the crime calls for the death of the accused, we also act as on-the-spot executioners."
"Sounds like you guys hold a lot of power."
"I know what you're thinking." Thorne said and tilted his head towards the Sentinel drone hovering beside him, "Judges are held accountable for every sentencing. That's why we have the Sentinels, to keep us from going too far. They go wherever we go, they see everything we see and do. At the end of every day, we too will be judged. We enforce the law, but we're not above it."
Maxson pursed her lips, "Have there been any instances where a judge went too far?"
"You mean abused their power? Yeah, plenty. They're not around anymore, and nobody's repeated their mistakes. The High Marshal was quick to fix that."
"What happened to them?"
Thorne pointed to the Obsidian Keep, the High Marshal's office and administrative headquarters, which stood on top of Vault 115. "He had them hanged from one of the balconies. Left them there for as long as there were bits left to hang as a reminder that even in the highest positions, everyone is accountable."
"And the High Marshal? Is he accountable, is he subject to the law?"
"No. The High Marshal is the law."
"You're okay with that, all of you? Don't get me wrong, what you've built here is nothing short of miraculous. But, following a man who could at any time lead you to your doom? How do you get by with that knowledge?"
Thorne was silent for a while. Maxson was aware of the others listening in on their conversation, but she didn't care. She was learning all she could about the Dominion, and so far this judge was the only one willing to answer her questions. She'd take everything he was willing to give, there wasn't much else to do around the tower. "All I know is that Roman Stern, both Roman Sterns, he was made for this. Literally. Remind me to give you a copy of his memoirs. He hasn't failed us..."
"And he never will." One of the Cerberian guardsmen said, glaring hateful red daggers her way. "Roman Stern leads us to victory. The Dominion marches towards the future. Your people would've left us in the dust, and they'd call it prosperity. That's where you belong, tinman. In the past."
"Isn't it time she returned to her room, judge?" Another declared, "I see a whole lot of anti-Dominion thoughts pouring from her lips."
"I think it's time that you all returned to your posts." Thorne said firmly, "Leave us."
The guardsmen got up and walked away. The judge was rapping his robotic fingers on the table, wondering what to make of the awkward scene between them. "I'm sorry about that. We have a lot of patriots here, especially in the Guard. I would advise you to refrain from criticizing the things we have, especially if it concerns the High Marshal."
"You've been nice to me, I'll do it only because you say so."
"Good, good. I'm glad we're getting somewhere."
Maxson watched the metal skeleton arm rise, its ugly hand stroking the faint stubble on Thorne's chin. This was the first cybernetic limb she'd seen, one that actually functioned like an arm of flesh and blood. Prosthetic limbs were common among the Brotherhood, but they were clunky, crude and usually fell short of their original design. Her father wouldn't allow their resources, their technologies, to be wasted on replacing what their men have lost.
"How'd you lose your arm, Jessel?"
"Hm?" The judge turned to her, having been lost in thought. He twisted the hand about the wrist a few times, lips curling into a sad smile as he recalled the moment. "First day on the job. I was assigned to patrol the Gypsy Mile, work the living districts and watch for signs of the smugglers syndicate known as the House of Commerce. I cracked-down on an old lumber mill suspected of hiding weapons and other contraband products. Instead, I found it to be a holding facility for human traffickers. This was during the early days of the Dominion, when we hadn't quite cleared out the scum from the lowest tiers of our society. There was this guy, don't know if he was the one running things, he grabbed a kid- may have been about ten years old or so- and held up a grenade."
"And? What did you do?"
Thorne brushed his fingers across the foreguard of his cybernetic limb, "I closed my hand over his fingers and kept the grenade tight in both our hands. My partner pulled the kid away. Somewhere around that moment, the clamp got loose. Next thing I knew, I was on the ground and my whole right side was on fire. My armor saved me, but the arm was a total loss. Better than the other guy, that's for sure."
"I'm sorry you had to go through that."
"Ah, don't be. My family's Tier One, we've got the best healthcare in the Dominion. They gave me this to replace the one I lost."
"May I... touch it?"
Thorne's brow arched. He hesitated for a bit but relented in the end, seeing no harm in letting her run her fingers over the metal surface. Maxson was getting a little too comfortable around him, and if Thorne was honest with himself, so was he. This was as it should be. It's why he was there in the first place. The pair spent the rest of the morning talking. Maxson enjoyed the interactions she had with Thorne, it was far better than spending her day alone in the room.
Soon, it was time for her to go back inside. This was mostly because the Dominion's triumph was set to be televised at exactly one o'clock in the afternoon, and Thorne was under orders to make sure Maxson wouldn't miss it. He went with her and stood at her side while the giant-screen displayed the High Marshal's address to the nation.
Not long ago, a similar address was interrupted by the untimely death of the previous High Marshal. The act spurred the Dominion towards Landfall, towards victory. This address was a proclamation, a testament to the Dominion's triumph over the Brotherhood. "Citizens. Brothers and sisters. We have won a great victory. The Texan Chapter has been defeated. We have run into the fires of war and rose like the phoenix. Rejoice, for we are stronger! The mountains bend to us, and the path widens! We step closer to total dominion over this vast Wasteland, and when that day finally comes- may those who have bravely given their lives for our future smile on us from on high."
The High Marshal's speech was met with the jubilant cries of the gathered crowds. Their voices, like the crash of a giant wave, shook the city. "Long live the Dominion! Long live the Dominion!"
Maxson looked on with tears of sadness trickling down her cheeks, and her clenched fist covered her quivering lips as she wept for everything her people lost.
Thorne, on the other hand, was smiling. "Long live the Dominion."
The High Marshal's car pulled up into the front of Kovacs Memorial Hospital, the most advanced healthcare center in all of Elysion. The hospital was named after a certain Dr. Walter Kovacs, Vault 115's most gifted surgeon, and was dedicated to his memory when he died in 2101. Most Tier One citizens were treated at Kovacs Memorial, which provided a wide range of medical services. The whole nation was celebrating their great victory over the Brotherhood, but the High Marshal wasn't quite in the same jovial mood.
He came to the hospital because an old friend was dying.
"Good day, High Marshal." The nurse at the front desk greeted him, "How can we help you?"
"I'm here to see him."
"Of course, right this way."
The nurse got up after sending someone else to take over her spot. She led him up through the elevator, on the third floor to a room reserved for a single patient. Stern ordered his guards to stay outside while he spoke to the man alone, then pulled up a chair so he could sit at his bedside.
Howard Keene lay weakly against the soft pillows propping his head up in a Fowler's position. The man had been in and out of surgery, and was recovering from the most recent one which involved the removal of his right lung. It was a miserable sight. IV tubes and other monitoring devices snaked along his thin and mottled arms. His face was pale and drooping. In spite of their advances in medical technology, it was clear that Keene was suffering from something similar to the High Marshal's previous afflictions and the medical teams responsible for stopping it failed to get ahead of the disease.
"Howard." Stern nudged the old man awake.
His eyes opened half-way, and his lips curled into a lop-sided smile. "Roman. You finally came."
"I'm sorry I didn't come sooner. Running an empire takes a heavy toll, but it paid off in the end."
"Ah yes. They tell me we won. They tell me you've thrown a big party, shame I'm going to miss it."
"We can still save you, Howard." Stern said, "Dr. Holiday's improved our bio-transference procedure. We can fully transfer your consciousness into an aesir body. You don't have to die. You-"
"Oh Roman, I knew you were going to say that." Keene shook his head slowly, "It's an amazing development. I mean that with all my heart, but I can never go through with it."
"You've always struck me as a pragmatic man, so this surprises me. Why?"
"My friend, you share a like-mindedness with Vault-tec. You don't let the boundaries of a situation, of the world, of science contain you. You set a goal, and you push through to get it. It's always been your greatest asset. But have you ever considered that there are just some rules you're never meant to break? This whole business with us, bio-transference and forced-evolution? Did it cross your mind that perhaps our lifespans are this way is because humans were never meant to live forever?"
The argument concerning the ethics of bio-transference was discussed time and time again. Stern didn't wish to hear of it, but he graciously allowed his friend his moment.
"That drive that compels us to make use of our time, I fear that by turning everyone aesir we will lose that drive and lose respect for death. I urge you to tread carefully, or else the Dominion may very well face a gradual decline in the near future."
"There's really nothing I can say to change your mind?" Stern asked, "Nothing at all?"
"No."
The two friends shared a moment of silence, and the High Marshal gently patted Keene on the arm. He stood up and looked him over, briefly considering the fact that he'd have to find a suitable replacement for him. "Have you brought your affairs in order? Should I send for anyone or anything to make your stay here more comfortable?"
"Don't worry, I've put together everything you'll need for a suitable candidate for when I'm gone. As for the comforts, I'll be alright. There's just the matter concerning my body's disposal that I'd like to address."
"Anything, old friend."
Keene looked on thoughtfully, "I'd like to be buried. No need for a fancy tomb or crypt, just buried. Will you do me this favor?"
The Dominion didn't bury their dead, it was a waste of space. For Keene, however, Stern was more than willing to make an exception. The two men said their farewells, and the High Marshal departed from Kovacs Memorial. Vault 115 was expecting a company of ghoulified marines from Hell Valley, whom Stern promised aesir bio-transference as a reward for their aid in securing the matter-converter tech recovered from the lost vault. His day was bound to be busy, but he didn't want to miss out on the process. He wasn't exaggerating about Dr. Holiday's progress with their tech either, as they've made a huge leap with improving the procedure.
Holiday's breakthrough promised a total neural transference from a host donor to an aesir body, without leaving a copy in the donor. The lucky ones, Mercer's Devil-Dogs, would be among the first of the second-generation aesir in the Dominion.
"Where to, sir?" The driver asked.
"Take me to Vault 115." The High Marshal replied as he slammed the car door shut behind him, "Day's still young, and I've got an empire to run."
}!{