Justiceers
by Daphne Garrido
There was to be a reckoning.
Murder had befallen Port Loomis.
A groundswell of angst and curiosity had built amongst the Periphery immediately — its scattered settlements sharing a network of near-instantaneous communication.
Crime was almost unheard of in this society’s age of abundance.
The Periphery had cared deeply for its people, investing its energies into the hearts and dreams of every individual, allowing that goodwill to pay itself forward to the whole. Resulting in what had become a civilization with a radiating sense of balance between nature and man, steering great influence over other powers of the galaxy.
People here took pride in where they were from, who they were, and what they were apart of. This thoughtfully constructed system of independent yet supportive communities placed value on one thing above all else — prosperity.
And it showed.
From settlements and outposts, to space-stations and starships — armored power-suits and plasma-wielding rifles, to cryotanks and coffee machines — the craftspeople of the Periphery were unmatched.
Abundance was a product of this excellence. Their ability to create great works together, which would be sought highly by people’s beyond the reach of the Periphery.
Heroes all — within the heart’s of these people — born with an innate pride of all they are apart, every last one.
To murder, in the face this, was a rarest happening.
It meant more than one had lost their way.
A cancer was growing.
The last time there was an intentionally inflicted death, by the hands of a citizen, had been fourteen cycles ago on the lone moon of Alistair. It had been the result of a most terrible chain of events which were spurred in the wake of a child’s accidental death. A feud had erupted between families. Old, bygone tendencies to find blame were unearthed, spite was leveled, hate manifested.
A man had killed another in all the pain it wrought.
It had ended the feud.
The families, including the man with blood on his hands, were so horrified with the reflection of what they’d become. Alistair itself, the entire city of people, rallied around these families willingness to heal with each other.
They’d held them up high.
Where the murder had happened, now rested a monument to all the Periphery was not. All it had overcome. All it’d left behind.
Those sickest remnants of civilization past.
Ever still, there were moments of dispute throughout the breadth of this great civilization. Needed, were arbiters of peace and justice.
In the face of such need, an order had been formed.
Its inner rhythms and methods kept secret to the populace of the Periphery.
The task — to make impossible decisions. To choose how to proceed when someone, or a community, had failed the whole.
To find forgiveness, or condemn — their decision to make.
No truly fair way to do this had ever been found, in eons of life before, amongst the entirety of the universe.'
Until the Periphery. Until the Justiceers.
Any civilization determined to preserve ruthless and exploitive independence as individuals, resisting the call to find harmony with the universe’s magnetic fields, with great timespace itself — refusing to release such dualistic ways of thinking — would forever be burdened by violence and hatred.
Division was born by this way of thinking, always.
In the wake of such horror, while living amongst it all. Who is any one person, or group of people, to stand in judgement of another?
The Periphery was changing things. This galaxy was morphing around them from the inside out, transforming for the better. Their own lands such havens of peace and wisdom.
Yet, still. Darkness prevailed in unseen corners.
The devil inside humanity would not let them go that easily.
Choices would have to be made in these times.
And so, the Justiceers were born.
Miriam was buzzing around the cabin. Busying herself with a project to keep her mind from spinning.
She did this most days, especially when they were traveling.
There wasn’t much that Miriam couldn’t figure out if she wanted. Her capability to learn and grow was beyond that of your average citizen of the Periphery.
She was a Scribe of the Justiceers.
Her gift was also a burden.
To wield the powers so required of her, within this role she had taken in the Periphery’s great order of justice, she’d had to let go of her mind.
The Source — her tap. A brightest place those so chosen to be Scribes must find in their own way. The channel, once open, destroys a person from the inside out. All they once were washed away, reborn something new. Finding it more themselves than they’d ever been before. A purer form.
The mind however, would be quite lost in this process.
It had to be forsaken.
So, Mariam would keep herself absorbed in tasks. Would let the light pour through and do her bidding. She’d willingly release those parts of her still clinging, in such pain from this light which now poured into her consciousness freely.
Thank goodness, for her sake, Justiceers were not to work alone.
There were always two.
Bound by forces beyond — bonded at a soul level — these chosen pairs would undergo great trials to become what they were to be.
Their lives were the hardest of any amongst the Periphery. This pain a teacher — a guide to becoming justice itself, an arm and spear of the universe.
With every Scribe was a Judge.
A judge was to bear great physical weight upon their bodies. Each and everyone, struggling in some way against their form.
Many would go blind. Many would find their bones becoming fragile beyond measure.
Arthur had lost the use of his legs.
He had chosen this path, this way, though he had not known it in his life.
Justiceers would all eventually see or understand in ways which existed beyond the bounds of physical reality. Each finding their sense of it unique to them. A part of this awareness lending a truth they would walk with — these pains so felt throughout their life — were something agreed to on a soul level.
Their finding themselves apart of this order of justice was no accident.
Choices, they were free to make in their lives, no doubt — the call could be denied by any one.
Though at greatest peril to themselves and their bonded-pair.
Yet, there had never been a Justiceer who wasn’t born for the job.
This was known.
Miriam found peace in her broken mind taking care of Arthur. It was this task that kept her together. Kept her from losing herself completely to the Source.
It was how this always worked.
The only place a Scribe was to find peace was with their Judge — and visa-versa — a synchronization in their fitting together, unlike those of normal relationships.
How each pair’s process worked, was for them to define, for them to discover together.
Miriam had built Arthur a command center.
He’d sit in bed upon their ship, wall-of-screens embedded across from him, a workstation ready beside to control it all. She’d keep it all so clean too.
She loved cooking for him the most.
When Miriam went out she’d send him the feed from her LiveEye. Explain to him with Sources words what it felt like to be in the breeze, in the sun, when he wasn’t able to not join her.
They were a special pair, even amongst Justiceers.
After all this time. They had even found themselves with the ability to speak to each other through thought.
Only in smallest phrases, but they could get words through.
The ability these two had, together, to make sense of the most difficult moral enigmas was unmatched. Their combined wisdom, discernment, foresight, courage, and ruthlessness — was legendary.
Periphery-wide, they were lauded. ‘Celebrity’ was a role in society long transcended — yet, that is what these two found themselves to be.
The key to this, was in how they didn’t let it get to their heads. At least, Arthur.
They knew their humility was what had gotten them this far. Their deference to Source.
This murder was the first time they’d been called on in cycles.
Their presence would only be requested in the most dire of circumstances.
With Port Lumis on the scanners, a warm meal before her Judge, Miriam found herself take seat at the writing table.
Source had something to say.
Arthur was fed up with these people already.
Although the Periphery was such a place of peace and abundance, of practical benevolence, he’d found himself sick to death with most people.
Such blindness infected the common rabble, even of this beautiful and sprawling civilization.
He just found himself with no tolerance for ignorance.
It was like this for every Judge; their way.
These people were lying.
“Fucking Liars. Just like they always are” Arthur has said not-so quietly.
Nothing made Arthur’s blood boil more than lies. He’d no tolerance for them.
Since coming to own his fated role, taking his place within the Justiceers, he’d found clarity in a voice which spoke within — one of clearest judgement.
He’d found no lie could be told without his knowing. Coming to recognize through this, that the voice had always been within him, even if he’d not known to trust it.
It was this judgement he had once wielded upon himself so unfairly, his divine gift turned inward, which had been his great challenge to overcome.
These gifts are why Justiceers were born, not made.
The challenges — why they didn’t all make it.
These things they wielded could not be taught, they’d have to learn them on their own, find their other.
Proving oneself was a part of the becoming.
Not every soul so called would find their place. It had to be earned.
Arthur had earned his through fire, tenacity, endurance.
His life had not been kind to him. He’d not been kind to himself.
It birthed a resentment for ignorance which could not be undone — which would be with him always.
This was his dark gift.
The bounty of this blackness was in witnessing the unseen. What others were afraid to see. To knowing what had to be done. What was right, and what was wrong.
Though he could not channel the wisdom of Source into words like his Scribe, a voice of judgement spoke clearly within him. Its origins a place of shadow — the void at the opposite end of light in which Miriam was so connected too.
All was Source.
An equal force of creation this darkness was, different truths it spoke than that of light. Yet, all was true. To find holistic clarity, one had to stand in balance of both.
Two had to stand in balance of both.
It was in the search for divine balance, where this the union of Scribe and Judge was formed.
Just as the light consumes a Scribes mind, this darkness consumes a Judge’s body. Balance, together, is where these most unique soul’s find peace.
To step outside their ship, faced with the ignorance of lies, made Arthur sick.
After an era of working in such close quarters, across so many stars systems, with Miriam — the brightest light of hope and courage he’d ever known; her fearlessness the only reflection of his own he’d ever seen — it made the lies of these citizens all the more clear, all the more unpalatable.
This whole local security force in Port Lumis was a joke.
These men were incompetent, and they were lying to try and cover it up.
Arthur just left.
Miriam smoothed things over with a dash of lightness, as always. Catching up with him as he paced down the rain drenched boulevard, cutting through the center of town.
“What a bunch of twats.” She’d said.
He didn’t respond. He didn’t have to. She was speaking the same truth he knew in his guts. She always did. That was her whole purpose.
“I suppose we’re heading to the crime-scene then?”
“Yes.” Arthur said with a kindness.
Miriam could tell he had a lot coming though from Source already, she was too.
She’d placed a hand on his neck as she’d walked beside his custom-made levitation chair he’d come to call The Beast.
With its many hidden tools, so ruthless, it was an apt name.
Miriam wielded light in many ways. Here in this street, it poured through her hand into this beautiful man. His heart so strong. She’d never seen a reflection of her own strength in anyone but him.
Miriam found herself know it, walking into this place.
Death had been here. Not a good one.
Arthur could feel the same in his gut.
They’d been waiting for the neighborhood’s property manager to arrive. To show them which home it was they’d been looking for within the apartment block. When it had become clear to them both — unit two.
Inside, the air was thick with the kind of energy so rarely left behind this day and age. Murderous intents acted upon.
‘Smell’ was something analogous to the sensation Miriam had for energies like this. She’d spoken, as she so often does, letting words flow through from somewhere beyond.
“This murder was intended with great forethought.”
This was a message for her Judge.
The difference was clear between Miriam and Source. Herself a fickle woman of petty interests. Source, which poured through her was altogether different, speaking in riddles. Meanings layered and nuanced beyond that capable a silly human girl.
Her Judge was the only one these words were meant for. They would play to his ears like no other. Within them would be revealed truths beyond the words themselves, beyond the woman who’d delivered them.
It was in this process he’d illicit his deepest guidance.
That, and from his gut.
She’d do things with it to her words. Twist his gut in such strange ways.
The untangling of these knots is where truth was found. Somehow, always managing to be more strange than what Miriam had brought through. Her light too bright to see into the darkest corners, it took his will witness this all, and a forge a solution.
These answers, Arthur would find gifted, not chosen of mind.
His gut would decide.
It was three in the morning and Miriam was running through the streets.
Something had happened, she’d woken up and Arthur wasn’t there.
She’d been so lost.
He kept her moored to his strength. It held the light from consuming all she was.
The last part of Miriam’s old self, her human self — was the part that couldn’t let go of Arthur, all he meant to her, how it felt to care for him.
She didn’t want to let it go. It was all she was at this point.
There had been moments like these before.
Arthur, such a independent creature. The surging need to investigate, always present. Never able to let go of a loose end.
If there was a sound, a shout, the presence of some animal — he would have no rest until he understood, allowing his gut to speak.
With such curious pursuits, he was often compelled to step out and carve a path on his own.
But Arthur always told Miriam.
He’d did not just leave. It simply wouldn’t happen. At least, in her mind.
Waking to find him gone, Miriam had skipped straight into the blindest panic she’d ever felt.
She’d gone mad.
The light had felt too much, all at once. Her heart holding such pain. Her tears, streaming so freely.
She couldn’t stop crying as she’d made her way from the Inn, down the lifeless avenue in the middle of the night, screaming.
Screaming for Arthur.
If he was really gone, this was not to go well for Miriam.
Her place here was one of fear without him.
She’d not a bone in her body built to protect herself in the ways she should.
He kept her safe; his righteous judgement.
Without it, she was at the whims of the voices in her head.
And they screamed, “Panic!”
Still, she’d not give up hope, this was not over yet.
She could do this.
She’d headed right back to the crime scene.
Taking a voice recorder and a notepad.
Having not been equipped to make the decisions, she’d never grown the habit of even listening to the words which came through before she’d spoken them.
When things came too fast, she’d lose track of it all.
Step by step, going back over everything she’d done with Arthur, she spoke it all into the recorder this time.
Returning home, she was then able to decode what she’d said.
It took her pouring it all through again, then listening to it back, but she was beginning to understand what they’d uncovered together.
This town was rotten.
She’d been here a week and nothing had budged.
This town was crooked twelve ways to Evermore. Miriam knew that.
She could ‘smell’ it everywhere she went.
Her voice spoke that clearly.
So overwhelmed, she felt by it all. Without her person to share with, to focus upon, Arthur’s judgments to make sense of it all.
The day had been spent in the city. She was trying to find anyone who felt apart from the rest. Looking for one who might have been left out somehow. Someone who questioned the way things were.
Though all she found were drunks and mad people.
She’d been back in her rental all afternoon — drank a bit, cried a bit, smoked a lot.
It wasn’t helping her mind at all.
In the darkness of her room there was a ping on her phone. Something she’d been accustomed to ignoring for so long now.
Not her job to answer. Nobody talked to her anyway.
When she checked, it was unlisted number.
“This is Arthur.” It said.
“I’m sorry I had to leave like that. This whole thing is a lot. I will explain when I can. I’m okay. I hope you are too hon.”
Miriam wanted to know more, immediately.
It was her way.
But still, only responded, “Thank you, be safe.” With a little heart
To get that message saved her.
She’d found some clarity in that moment. Something to hold onto. Some peace coming back to her. Just knowing he wasn’t gone forever, that she would talk to her Arthur again.
It allowed her to calm down, finally. She had felt like she’d been going round and round so long.
In that moment, she knew exactly what to do.
Another couple days had gone by.
Miriam was chilling. She hadn’t done a thing.
She’d just been ordering room service and watching movies.
Miriam had decided to stop going about and fucking things up worse.
Just knowing he was out there, working on it, it helped her relax. It helped her regulate.
She hadn’t cried those days for the first time since she’d been with him last.
Arthur was handling his shit. She knew he could do it.
So she’d just let him.
Arthur had come back.
And he knew exactly what they had to do.
It was porn. A whole company. In fact, the whole industry had become corrupted here.
There were roots so deep in the community that needed to be uprooted. This corruption came from the very top.
In the time Miriam had been panicking and causing a mess, then watching movies, Arthur had figured it all out. Their victim was an actor who’d decided she’d not take part.
They’d filmed anyway, just a made it a part of the scene.
The Periphery was a place, by and large, built for all tastes. At any one corner, you might find the strangest proclivities. Sexuality, a fluid thing. Explorations of darkest fantasy were not unheard of.
In real, however. This had not been done.
To murder the girl in the aftermath — a heresy on top of another.
This would be a first recorded incident in the Periphery.
A rape and homicide.
These men whom Arthur had decided bore responsibility stood before them.
All fourteen. All men.
This crime was unheard of. Unseen. Unimagined.
For these men to have had intimate knowledge of this, and not spoken it to a soul, holding this inner-circle of fourteen.
The judge inside Arthur’s belly had spoken clearly.
He’d condemned them all to die.
Forgiveness was the course of action for most jobs a Justiceer was sent on. Some course of insightful correction. Some offending party sent off world to start anew.
This punishment was stern, but fair.
People died for far less in the Periphery.
It was common, in even the most simple and petty of crimes, for citizens of this sprawling civilization to plead for death. To take it themselves. The shame of having let down a society that poured every effort into their flourishment, too much to bear.
There would be others as well; the lost Justiceers.
Those who’d never made it, who hadn’t found their other. Who were consumed by body, mind, dark, or light.
Often, people like this would need to be put down, as with other rare forms of madness.
No crueler way to live than a completely mad existence.
Less civilized societies got this one wrong sometimes. Unable to make that hardest choice. Unable to let go of those who were gone, and suffering needlessly, endlessly.
It took a brave soul to make that choice.
It took a Judge.
But they’d not find clarity without a reflection of their bravery, without their Scribe — who’s words, while often mad, would show them something real no one else could see.
The truth.
Miriam had doted over him like no other upon his return. She’d taken care of him better than he’d ever imagined she could.
She was so relieved to just be near him again. Even that little time, had been a lot to her.
So, she stood near, at this execution.
There was no audience.
It was the fourteen men alone.
They stood before only the Judge and Scribe.
A generator in The Beast, would create an affector field wherever so desired. You could move matter, transport things short distances, burn shit.
It was really quite useful.
The mind inside Arthur’s beastly chair had been working to pinpoint the markers for each one of these men’s skulls.
This would be painless.
A small, but important, portion of the brain would be removed.
It would kill them all instantly.
There was little button, hidden under the left arm of The Beast. This would do it.
Everything was set. Their sentence had been spoken by Miriam.
She’d gone off script a bit, as always, but it came from some higher place. Arthur had no doubt they were words those men had needed to hear to send them in peace.
It was time.
After she’d spoken the words, she’d stood beside her Judge.
These moments together, with him, made her whole. Her life make sense.
It was the same for Arthur with her.
He was grateful for Miriam, a feeling he was not accustomed to.
She’d had her hand on his shoulder for a moment while he’d checked in with his gut one last time.
He nodded to her.
Miriam would always be the one to press the button.
Because she didn’t give a fuck.
