The Justiceers - Part One: Chapter Two
the second chapter from my forthcoming novel
The Justiceers
by Daphne Garrido
Part One - Darkest Nights
1.2
Arthur Katrinus was toying with the shock compressors on The Beast again, a habit picked up after it’d crashed to the floor in the middle of The Conclave’s farewell ceremony. Nearly all the time they’d had onboard before going down for the long sleep, he’d spent right here.
Now awake, Arthur was back. Something in his gut just wouldn’t stop grumbling; he’d missed something.
The gut was sacred to a Judge of The Justiceers; their greatest inner gift, such truths found spoken from its depths. Their curse — some malady of body — a fated, chronic pain or loss of function.
Arthur had lost the use of his legs long ago.
The blessed insights of a Judge weren’t something one could be taught to understand. The challenge of self-discovery was innate to the role, and earning place as a servant of justice within this order. Holding this station was far from a right. To successfully wield these manner of gifts with a body, no guarantee.
A Justiceer was to earn their place, take their own charge, finding means to hold their power, and holding on to meet their other. It was in pairs these arbiters of justice were to move throughout The Periphery.
Miriam Halafax was the Scribe to Arthur’s Judge.
It was a spiritually grounded organization, one of gentle evolution, eras of changing into what it became — home of the most lauded heroes of The Periphery, judgments to be trusted beyond doubt — its development had been led by the intuitions of its entire congregation over eons.
A discovery had been made long ago. Certain souls came to this plane of existence with preordained connection, finding themselves linked in inexplicable ways, and these unique people had the chance to develop abilities when working beside each other, in tandem.
Beliefs ran deep within the order, a presiding myth of two prime beings manifested inside these chosen souls: a pair; God and Goddess. Though this was highly disputed.
The roles of Judge and Scribe were discoveries, not creations. These natural gifts had been meant to work together. While each pair would have different synchronicities and develop their own methods, elements were always the same.
A Scribe was to channel some innate energy source of the universe, one they’d been connected with from birth, which took much of their ego, changing them in fundamental ways. It was a natural biproduct of their channeling. They’d become less of mind and more of soul, colored so by their flowing source.
This process was rarely gentle.
These divine messages could be delivered from a Scribe in many ways; the written word, song, through shared vision and feeling. Regardless, it would need an interpreter, someone with their own gifted connection to source energy, an inverted analog to help them decipher the true wisdom which poured through.
The insight from a Scribe was tainted. Unchanged this was, regardless of process or intent, no matter the light of wisdom stowed within their words. A human being was something innate with imperfection, none to escape the weights of trauma and grief stored within. These holdings manifested into a Scribe’s otherwise divine creations, and it took one who was made to know them best, a soul who’d the ability to see their Scribe with utmost clarity, for pure truth to be uncovered in their channelings.
A Judge’s gut would need to speak. It was always right. That’s why Arthur was so unrelentingly determined to find the problem in The Beast.
He knew it was there.
Miriam loved keeping Arthur fed. It was hard, he was picky; a notoriously sensitive gut on this one. Still, he had come to find abiding her pestering an important part of his process, that by having his gut satisfied by physical means he’d allow it to speak clearly.
Like most Scribes, Miriam was a fair bit mad. Her gift, the ability to channel language ridden with hidden truths, of origin beyond herself; some wicked light.
Miriam was writer.
‘A true Scribe,’ in her own words. Those certainly spoken from insecurity, considering she’d not been born with the voice to sing. Such a beautiful thing she saw it, to be a musical Scribe.
Luckily, she’d found herself with a strange gift to pick just the right songs for her Judge — their lyrics speaking with far more depth than she’d ever expect, especially considering the petty whims and purest flashes of insight she’d think to choose them by — discovering hidden nuances perfectly encapsulating and supporting themes she’d felt while writing. The process was beyond her.
It was a joy to fulfill her purpose any way she might.
She’d been such a damaged girl, only blossoming into a woman as her powers came to fruition. That time had led her into depths of shadow, seeing such distortions emerge from within. Until then, her life had been a lie.
Miriam discovered she’d always had her gift in subtle ways, uncovering hints of what she’d become were long hidden inside. It was the world she was born upon which made her feel wrong, and suppress her divine blessing.
Superstition was not extinct in The Periphery. While this sprawling society’s fundamental structures enabled people everywhere to find fitting homes, fighting tirelessly for the right of one’s uninfringed pursuit of purpose, it was a very large cut of galaxy. Many worlds littered its reach, and some souls chose to start via greatest challenge; amongst people with whom they did not fit.
Miriam had been such a soul, and with more extreme circumstances than most. Ever still, she’d escaped her homeworld and found a place where The Justiceers were not only heard of, but revered for their courage. To see these examples before her had answered the question she’d been asking her whole life.
‘What am I?’
She was preparing a stew Arthur could never pass up. The first meal after a long sleep was most important, and they’d been traveling a long time.
Murder had befallen Grammaton, which would come with serious upheaval. It was the second murder within five central-cycles in The Periphery — frequency unheard of throughout its last centuries — a most grave of concern to The Justiceer Conclave.
They’d chosen to delay investigation for Arthur and Miriam to respond to the incident personally. As a pair, they were lauded for their tenacity, known for facing difficulty with ferocity. Something which might be doubted by a casual observer at the present moment, Miriam humming a tune while she stirred her stew.
This was her home, their ship; The Nebberath — inherited from the greatest Justiceer to ever live, Laurentine Daemenos, a legend — their soul bound to the ship itself in unknowable ways, told to empower those who flew it in becoming more than their sacred bond as Judge and Scribe would offer alone.
Just being here with Arthur, in these moments they had to spend together before and after their long sleeps, was what Miriam lived for.
That and seeing him in action, witnessing his lion’s heart at work, feeling blessed to thrive beside him, being able to bolster his demeanor and supply that spark of insight needed to steer his verdict.
It was intoxicating. She never wanted this to end.
The Nebberath had touched down at the southern tip of Oliath’s spaceport, thrusters burning of calico flame, pluming smoke to meet swirling dust in billows about the hull.
This person they’d sent to meet them was a shill. At least, that’s what Miriam’s inner voice was telling. She’d suspected Arthur’s gut would confirm it.
He was often disappointed in people, a trait earned through excellence, one of the many things Miriam found most appealing about him.
This man leading towards their ride was a simple fellow, squat, dripping with insecurity. He clearly had no idea what was going on, yet for some reason, felt compelled to blather on about it anyway.
It was apparent from his energy that the people of Oliath had been handling the wait for their arrival quite poorly. Every bit of this was to be expected. Citizens of The Periphery were quite steeped in ineptitude when met with situations beyond their usual scope, especially those requiring a Justiceer.
With the length of travel time, Miriam could only imagine what political nightmares had been brewing. Arthur never expected less. His gut spoke truer tones than her channel, which was colored in the light of her hope.
His gut felt how things truly were.
They’d been whisked around the public terminals, directly to a service gate beyond the landing field. The Beast was humming beneath Arthur. He was still unsatisfied of her street worthiness, and was letting his mind run circles about it, helping distract him from this dithering doofus.
It was here Arthur’s gut had felt a peculiar sensation.
Miriam was getting too frustrated with this ‘fuck-twat’ to sense anything; her inner voice often speaking quite harshly in the face of ignorance.
The mystery to Arthur’s rumbling gut would be solved as they came around the corner to the loading bay, finding more than just their speedship waiting. There was an entire fleet of vehicles surrounding it. They were marked cruisers for Oliath’s General Authority, to the very last.
“Fucking great.” Arthur announced so loudly Miriam cringed.
A woman wearing a scarlet one-piece suit, darkened hair tied back into a high bun, was peacocking before the small army of plain-clothes authority agents deployed about the vehicles. She grimaced through her smile as she’d heard Arthur’s proclamation.
Miriam studied her as she’d morphed the veneer of respectful professionalism back into her face. It wasn’t bad actually, you’d almost believe it.
Finally, in this moment, as the woman approached them, Miriam’s scattered mind realized something was off.
Arthur’s gut was burning.
Concern emerged on the woman’s narrow-sculpted face. In a huff, coming to stand before them at last, she’d told it plainly, no wasted breath on pretense or decorum.
“There’s been another murder.”
Miriam liked this one.
