Tuesday, March 19, 2013

A Surgical Solution

freesource from Deviant Art

Protector Rand stood by the armorplast window overlooking the courtyard, watching his troops assemble. Beneath the mien of detached professionalism he wore like metaphorical armor, his emotions seethed. This would be a day Confederation historians would write of with justifiable pride. This would be the day the damnable Artists’ Enclave would be obliterated so entirely as to make any future reference to it moot. 

For far too long had these miscreants and outcasts been allowed to infect the body politic with their seditious and unrestrained activity. They must be excised, cut out and cast away with the same exquisite precision as demonstrated by a masterful surgeon. Rand was just such a surgeon.

It was not a matter of personal animosity on their part, it was simply their duty. The State had a sacred obligation to provide a sustained atmosphere of good order and discipline to its citizenry. Rand was the instrument of execution the State deferred to when matters threatened that atmosphere. He would not shrink from the actions required of him.

The guilt of the transgressors was undeniable. Their aberrations were beyond loathsome and included writing, painting, sculpting and a dozen other such forbidden proclivities. At the advent of the Age of Proscription, the State had clearly and unequivocally established standards for the acceptable and sanctioned forms of expression.

To allow anything…anyone…to fly in the face of those standards was unthinkable. The lives of those responsible were forfeit and would be brought to a final, inescapable end by the dedicated agents of the very society the traitors had violated in such an unrepentant manner.

The last of the Enforcers having boarded the assault carriers, an orderly knocked on the door to Rand’s office signaling full readiness for today’s operation. The soul of efficiency, Rand needed no time to prepare himself for what lay ahead. His strides were strong and purposeful as he made his way to his staff car. With a nod to his driver, he set the wheels of Justice into motion.

This story was written for the weekly Trifecta Writing Challenge flash fiction prompt: infect.