Final Justice

Based on “God’s Gonna cut you Down” by Johnny Cash: The song basically tells a story on its own, I just fill in the blanks.

Fifteen years. I had pursued him for the past decade and a half, and at last the end was in sight. As a Purifier, my calling leads me to many distant and dark places, places where not even the light I bear can sway the wicked. This suits me just fine; I’d rather slay them than sway them, especially knowing that the sooner they die, the sooner they can achieve redemption.

That said, never before had I set foot in such a den of evil. Not when I was hunting the Blood Cult on distant Keltar, nor even my time spent infiltrating the gangs on the prison planet of Dushkan. I gazed about my surroundings, my hands itching to set about doing the work they had been sanctified to do. I considered it fitting that my quest should end on the planet where humans began.

Earth. The Mother Planet, home of some of the greatest holy sites in the world. Until, that is, it was overrun with the hedonists and sybarites, the impure and the unwholesome. Nowhere else could evil’s stench be so strong. I suppressed the urge to kill every being here for their sins, recognizing the influence of the neural implants inserted in my brain.

A tall thin man sat at the bar, smoking a long cigarillo. His weather-beaten face displayed the effects of a life spent weathering Earth’s unpredictable weather patterns, although this area seemed mostly to be dry, low moisture lifeforms. He turned to me as I came in. “You lookin’ for somethin’?” He inquired, his lazy drawl belying the dangerous way his hand rested on the butt of an archaic six-gun.

“Yes. I am. A man. He’s tall, like myself, but larger around the middle. Has a scar on his face, shaped like a crescent moon. Gray hair.” I rattled off the details of the warrant issued for my target. Several patrons of the bar, grizzled old men in faded work clothes, nodded, gesturing towards the back of the bar.
I followed the lines drawn by their fingers, and saw my target.
* * *
With perfect and horrifying clarity, I remembered that day in the Walgis colony. A supposedly peaceful cult, the Walgians had been declared Heretics by the church. It struck me at the time how easy it was to kill them, as if they had never prepared for any sort of combat. However, we had it on good authority that they were preparing to take up arms, and I was sent to pacify them. I’m frequently sent to pacify things, and I do a good job. Corpses don’t talk.

* * *
A flash of movement out of the corner of my eye broke me out of my reverie. I dashed forward, grabbing the old man by the collar of his shirt and hauling him out of the rough-hewn chair in which he sat. “Why did I kill them?” I asked. “What was their sin?” My words forced their way out through clenched teeth as I dragged him close to my face, gazing directly into his watery brown eyes. Again, I heard the echoing screams.
* * *
The women had barricaded themselves in a prefab steel building, originally meant as a shed for airspeeder repair. Our espionage reports indicated that it was being used to store weapons, including a number of heavy repeating rifles. I drew Truth, my .45 semi-auto, and advanced on one of the side doors. Thumbing a grenade, I kicked down the door and hurled in the explosive, followed by another just seconds after. Nothing could have survived in there.
* * *
“Why?” I growled again, shaking the quivering fat man. “What did you have to gain from it?”

“They were a th-th-threat to us,” he gibbered. “A threat!? You feel threatened by a few pacifists with garden tools and cutting torches as their most powerful weaponry?”

“To the church…usurping our authority…undermining..our..efforts.” He gasped out his words, and I reflected that if I wanted answers, I should stop squeezing his neck. But I’d waited fifteen years to squeeze this bastard’s neck, and nothing was going to stop me now.
* * *
I should have realized from the start. Truth be told, I think I did know, I just didn’t want to face the truth. There were no weapons. I had slaughtered an entire colony of pacifists, based on the whims of a single madman. I checked the classified records back at the Operations Center, and discovered that many of the “heretics” I had executed on previous assignments had been nothing more than outspoken dissidents. I was killing not to serve God, but to keep the Church’s name clean.
* * *
“So you had them killed because they were better pacifists than you? You couldn’t win, so you knocked them out of the game?! God, you sicken me…I should kill you right now. In fact, I think I will.”

“No, please! I’m a man of God! Besides, the neural inhibitors prevent it.”

“Actually, the prime directive of the neural conditioning you so thoughtfully provided me with was this: ‘Slay the wicked. Where you find unforgivable sin, or irreconcilable sinners, destroy them’. So you see, that obligation outweighs all others. And now that I consider it, you have ordered the deaths of hundreds for dubious purposes. You have borne false witness. You have misappropriated resources of the Mother Church, and you still show no signs of repentance. Such a catalog of transgressions firmly places you in the “irretrievable category.” My conditioning leaves me no alternative. I must kill you.” I silently reflected, however, that just because I had no choice didn’t mean I wouldn’t enjoy this.

The muzzle of my gun just brushed the man’s forehead. I squeezed the trigger, and the pistol roared. Target #1352 slumped to the floor, lifeless. When Truth speaks, the wicked always fall silent. For the last time, I had purified a soul.