The criminal begged for mercy, demanding a trial rather than what was facing them. The Pax Humanis member stood there, blade in hand, blood staining the clothing, giving the criminal the choice between the knife, or take their chances and jump from the cliff to the sea. -- Fighting Fit
Out in the Edge territories, things are a lot less formal than what one might expect. A small settling colony may take objection to a traveling shyster, but their decisions about meting out justice can be... interesting.
Coulter Pinion stood between the devil and the deep blue sea. Well. It was sort of purple, and the 'devil' was actually a hellishly frightening Human, but the predicament remained. Having been found guilty by mob rule, his choices were a quick death or a slim chance. With a huge serving of slow death on the side.
The townspeople fenced him in, watching. The executioner - surely a candidate for Pax Humanis - was sharpening a scimitar that was already gleaming. The sea, on the other hand, was at the opposite end of a cliff far too high for anyone to survive the dive. And even if they did, nobody had done a complete survey of the ocean's biodiversity. Besides, it was winter and the water was a kind of icy slurry. He'd freeze to death before anything tried to bite.
A quick death or a slow one?
It was tempting, so tempting, to believe he had a chance in the water. One last thrill before an entirely different judgement.
"I... suppose a fair trial is out of the question?" he risked.
"This is your trial," said the leader. "Sea or sword."
The contender smiled as the whetstone slid over her blade. "Reckon I can get your head off real smooth by now."
Coulter made his choice, and stepped from his little platform. Not towards the cliff, but towards the chopping block. "Quick and clean," he said. "I commend my soul to any gods who can find it."
Swoosh.
THOCK!
Coulter was very much surprised to still feel the block under his neck and not see the world spinning into the view from inside the basket. He risked a peek to find the scimitar right beside his left ear. There was blood. His blood. And the stinging realisation that this maniac had taken part of his ear off.
"What?" he risked.
"Your ship is ours," said the leader. "Blood has been paid for your sins, but Coulter Pinion is dead. The things that used to be Coulter Pinion's are going out to those who need it most. The metal of his vessel shall be made into ploughshares and cooking pots. The fuel that made him run to the stars will heat homes in the winter. Rise, new son of Purgatory, and find your new name and your new place in our world."
The maniac helped him up, and hugged him fiercely. "There now, Bubba. There now. You're allowed to cry. It's not every day you're reborn."
"What?" said not-Coulter.
Several Purgatorians hugged him, and clapped him on the shoulder. They called him 'Bubba' and spoke warmly, as if he were a child. Some, now that he was close enough to notice, had part of their left ears missing.
It wasn't often that someone chose redemption on Purgatory, so they had good reason to celebrate.
He would learn their ways in time. And find himself surprised at earning a better life.
[Image (c) Can Stock Photo / Photosampler]
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