A Chat on the Ramparts

Two friends stood overlooking the wide road connecting the ASH to the Frontiers. Sipping tea at the edge of the parapets of Dagger’s Point, they watched caravans plod east on the dirt highway far below. The fortress was a vast structure of interlocking walls shielding quarters, administration, customs enforcement, even carefully concealed Inquisitorial labs and barracks. Legionnaire Captain Goodwin stood by his friend and associate Inquisitor Ringen, taking in the crisp morning air. The damp of evening still evaporated with the sun having risen only hours before.

Both men were fairly typical of their station. Ringen was tall and lean with a cultivated aura of suspicion while Goodwin maintained a straight back supporting the paunch of a comfortable officer’s post that was beginning to form. The Inquisitor had a badge of some nondescript business front to allow access without suspicion on an equally bland but expensive high class vest over a plain white collared shirt. The Captain wore his crisp red tunic, bars of rank on ironed epaulets. Ringen maintained a close shave on his sunken cheeks and wide jaw. Piercing blue eyes seemed to be somehow shadowed at all times culminating in a head of short sandy brown hair. Goodwin maintained his blond mutton chops and ponytail, showing a wide and friendly face. Violet eyes betrayed an Orinian heritage and the premature lines emanating from lid to temple told of the weight of years at service. He gave the impression that though he had seen and handled plenty of stress, he had enough for a lifetime.

Eager to continue the conversation that had been halted the night before, Captain Goodwin jumped right back to it after a customary morning silence, “I still don’t believe your methods of enforcement can be rationalized justly.”

Ringen didn’t respond for a moment, staring absently in front of him, “How so?”

“Justice requires at least an inquiry to intent and a response to an action.”

“So justice is punishment?”

The Captain thought for a moment and answered, “Or absolution.”

“Guilty people are my only target, Cursed and traitors,” Ringen said, punctuating with a gulp from his mug.

“Even if that is so, harsh measures aren’t the only ones called for.”

Waiting for a sentry to walk out of earshot, the Inquisitor turned to Goodwin, setting his tea on the ledge, “Civilization is the only vehicle for morality, without a society we do not have the luxury to make judgements or rules. You have killed, I know, do you question every enemy that falls under your blade? Investigate every warrior charging to their death or yours?”

“No, but battle is different from domestic policing, quick choices with faster results. You know who is who and have no choice in the matter. Comparing civil society to war is telling of excuses for a heavy hand.”

“Some agree with you within the Inquisition itself,” Ringen paused for a moment to gauge how far the ground was from their spot atop the wall, “Is justice simply vengeance for those wronged?”

“It’s a virtue, but I suppose in a simplistic way it could be compared to revenge.”

“Fair, if I were to push you from this wall, you would die,”

“Maybe, I have a bit of bounce now though,” Goodwin slapped his paunch in illustration.

The Inquisitor chuckled, “This assumes you still did anything besides sign papers and leer at merchant’s daughters,” He grinned.

The Captain barked a laugh, “Fine, so?”

“So justice couldn’t catch you.”

“My men would catch you though.”

“Doesn’t matter, you’re still dead in this scenario. No recourse,” Ringen polished off his tea, “The same concept you accuse me of not respecting wouldn’t guide or bolster you in any way.”

“So none of the thinking on this topic that can fill libraries has any merit because you can act?” The Captain finished his tea, setting the cup next to Ringen’s, “You claim that either your ability to act is above my own to exist, that right and wrong are hindering concepts? Or, you claim that you have a moral authority that is above my own?”

“Neither, I claimed no right to do what my hypothetical entailed, merely that I could and those concepts of justice do nothing to help you,” Ringen lit a pipe, “The morality is not my concern in this instance, only capacity for action.”

“Hmph, I suppose I understand what you mean,” Goodwin trailed off.

“All the good intentions in the world do not matter if you are dead. A civilization is similar to a person, destructive behaviors, defeatism, and attempting to expand mechanisms to defend oneself to others who show no interest in following the same guidelines leads to a quick end. That renders any idealism ultimately fruitless, regardless of its good intentions.”

“Certainly, but that ignores the purpose of fairness or justice,” Goodwin began, raising a finger to cut off Ringen’s retort, “It is supposed to be applied as evenly as possible where applicable. If not, then none of that thinking matters in the first place. Any ideas of justice or even faith become irrelevant if not shown or followed. The concept becomes real through people, much like the liberation through Dural.”

“Justice is a good example of this very point. It is important to apply it to your own to facilitate a well-running society. When those would break the implicit ideal of trust and shared benefit for their own gain, or never knew it as a concept to begin with, are extended the same courtesies you lose everything. Again, the concept becomes irrelevant but is not itself irrelevant when applied within the group who, as you said, makes it real.”

“That begs the question of subsets of actions; small indiscretions need not be dealt with in such an overwhelming manner. Why then, are so many Cursed or low level agitators dealt with in such a fatal manner? Surely there is some grey between the black and white of your world,” Goodwin was honestly curious as to his response. He didn’t know what to think about Ringen’s beliefs, only that he was glad he was not on the wrong side of them.

The Inquisitor thought for a moment, “Between red and yellow there is orange, yes?”

“Right.”

“There are gradients that cover a spectrum between orange and red or yellow, correct?” Ringen grabbed a fluttering crimson banner of the Autocracy which was draped over the battlement to illustrate.

The 8 o’clock bell rang in the courtyard, indicating their time was at an end, Goodwin began hurrying with his friend down to their mutual separation at the drill square, “That’s true.”

As the two made it to the square where duties called them at opposite ends of the fortress, Ringen asked, “Does that mean the red and yellow aren’t real?”

They shook hands then parted ways, running a citadel took precedence over idle talk.