His team switched over to disruptor fire. The crimson bolts knocked down the Mechnar drones, but they got right back up.
Dekker threw back his duster and pulled out two highly illegal weapons: flak-casters. One in each grip, he let fire with the pistol cannons. Shrapnel shots tore through the bodies, shattering the implanted tech and blasting flesh from enemy, dropping them where they stood. This time they didn’t get back up.
A jubilant Dekker hit his comm. “They’re not androids! These things aren’t slowed by EMPs! It’s a new breed of Mechnar—cyborgs!” The human host must somehow shield the computer brain—implanted where the cable ad hooked in? But disruptor fire doesn’t stop them either. Bodies must be dead, computer brain is controlling the body function, he thought.
Dekker tossed an ancient fragmentation grenade into the crowd of bodies and passed his flak-casters to Nathan and Nibbs. Projectile weapons had long ago been outlawed by the MEA because they had only one setting: lethal.
He unslung another of his rare weapons and prepped it to fire. His teammates maintained cover fire, but kept an eye on Dekker. It wasn’t often they were privileged to see him fire the prized device; a weapon given to him by someone he’d called a “priest of some forgotten religious order,” even though Dekker was rumored to belong to it.
The Reliquary, a three-foot long tubular pistol, looked more like a museum artifact than a firearm, but it packed a punch. Its limited ammo, however, rendered it a seldom used item. Only Dekker knew where the long, cylindrical shells came from.
Dekker leveled the Reliquary at the crowd and discharged it. A bass crash echoed like a sonic boom. White lightning crackled at the mouth of the cannon and the green-hued beam, eight feet in diameter, shot forward, annihilating everything in its path, burning down into the bedrock. The trapped investigators suddenly had an escape route.
They fled the park and sprinted down the Beta Station promenade. Cyborgs split into smaller pursuit teams and fanned out to locate them.
Dekker, Nathan, Nibbs, and Jamba turned and backpedaled, firing. They tried to turn back their pursuit with smart shots. Jamba fired a pistol and tagged a cyborg in the head; the entire group erupted in a ball of flames.
Jamba looked at his gun, then at the others in awe, quite proud of himself. Guy and Vesuvius stepped around the corner, Dachan, in tow. It had been one of Guy’s explosives that took out the pursuit. As a scorched Mechnar struggled to right itself, Vesuvius planted a foot and beheaded it with ease. The Krenzin gasped.
They soon regrouped with Shaw’s team. Their teammate carried a stack of data-discs and papers that would verify their report and guarantee their payment.
“We saw the flash,” said Shaw. “Did you fire the Reliquary?”
“Oh, yeah,” said Jamba.
“And you didn’t wait for me?”
“Sorry,” said Dekker as he reloaded the weapon. “Couldn’t wait.”
“Yeah,” said Guy, “and I got dibbs on it whenever our fearless leader kicks the bucket. I’m going to make a pipe bomb out of it,” he joked.
The radio crackled. “Are you guys coming?” It was Matty. “We’re warming up the Crusader.”
***
Minutes later, the crew and their Krenzin refugee crawled up the boarding ramp with the ship’s powerful engine idling. Dekker stood out on the tarmac, facing the access route to Beta Station. The Investigators watched him from the cockpit.
“What is he doing?” asked Dachan.
“That corridor extends more than a klick in a straight line. I think he’s going to give those cyborgs something to remember us by.”
Dekker leveled the Reliquary at the tunnel as a mob of Mechnar pursuit formed in the distance.
“No! He can’t,” shouted Dachan. “Don’t you people value life at all?”
Dekker grinned and pulled down his breather mask, and then clicked the trigger. The weapon blasted the entire corridor with an eruption of crackling energy. The edges of the geodesic dome shattered and the air began venting into the vacuum. Dekker hopped into the ship as Matty hit the thrusters, climbing into the Osix sky.
“Smart move,” said Vesuvius. “The other breach doors must’ve closed, sealing Beta station and trapping the mechnars.”
“Matty, take us over Beta,” Dekker requested.
The ship hovered above the dome that had once housed the mining colony’s living space. Bodies of the cyborg drones were barely visible at this elevation. They moved about, trying to find a way out of the biosphere.
“Guy, how many explosives did you have in that satchel?”
“A whole lot.”
“Enough to scorch that entire compound?”
“And then some,” Guy affirmed.
“Do it,” he nodded.
Dachan glared at them with his feline eyes. “You can’t do that! Those are your people down there. You will kill them!”
“They aren’t people anymore,” said Dekker as he ushered Guy to a computer terminal where he could remotely link and detonate the explosives. “They aren’t even alive. Those people are walking husks, dead bodies animated by some soulless computer program.”
“You take life without compunction! All sentient life is precious, from the intelligent primates your own labs developed centuries ago to the near conscious trees of my home-world! Who are you to decide what life looks like? Have you no moral values?”
“How’s that judgey, moral high-ground working out for the Krenzin home-world? Incapable of ever sustaining life again, isn’t it? Completely void of even mining value?”
“And I’ll remind you that it was a human who destroyed my planet! That terrorist was one of yours.”
“I do have values. I have deep values, Dachan. I must obey my conscience and act in the best interest of protecting and preserving life. That means eliminating the threats below,” Dekker said. “And let me note that my face was the last thing that terrorist Prognon Austicon saw before his cell door closed. I might not have caught him, but I chased him for years—it wasn’t only the Krenzin who he victimized!”
“Your values are outdated,” Dachan pleaded to deaf ears. “Your philosophy should not infringe on the beliefs of others. Your morality breaks the golden rule of the great interstellar philosophy, ‘Do what you may; only harm none.’ You must respect that.”
Jamba had to practically restrain the passionate felinoid.
“I’m going to save the lives of those who might needlessly die if I let those Mechnars survive; I do what needs to be done. Jamba, either shut him up or throw him out the airlock,” Dekker bluffed. “Either way, this argument is over. Guy, Blow it.”
Dachan scowled as a fireball erupted below, but held his tongue. The Rickshaw Crusader blasted into orbit as the framework of the dome melted and collapsed, leaving only a smoking hole where Osix Station Beta used to be.
The Krenzin whimpered as they climbed. Vesuvius watched him with vengeful eyes. “Stow it, Krenzin. Just be glad that we destroyed whatever that boogeyman was you were scared of down there. He saved your life. Me? I would’ve left you to the flames.”
Dachan suddenly recognized her as the daughter of General Briggs and it all made sense. He made sure to avoid eye contact with her for the remainder of the journey.
***
Soon, very soon, the arbolean conquest of this sector could begin. Leaves rustled in agreement: their plan had met with ultimate success. The seed began its germination and the immediate pests had been culled, the unexpected process mattered little.
Pheromones of excitement scented the air like blooming petals. In short time, both the Krenzin and the Humans would fall. Soon, all the other races would be little more than fertilizer.
Dekker’s Dozen #002
Flammable Kittens and Conspiracy Theories
Vesuvius clenched her teeth and groaned. Pressing thumbs against her temples, she hoped the pressure would drown out her headache. The constant, monotonous chanting began the day they’d arrived back at Earth. At first, the
protest rally amused her, and then it irked her. Now, it went beyond tedious, growing torturesome.
Following the Osix mission, the Dozen laid over at their earth-side headquarters while Dekker tracked down the next authentic lead. They often refused jobs that felt dirty and their high standards kept them in good graces with those who booked higher-class, legitimate jobs. Of course, that hadn’t stopped the felinoid Dachan from organizing the protest which had become a daily nuisance.
Because of unscrupulous acts by certain Investigators, the profession walked the edge of MEA laws. Following the Krenzin Revival, the majority of Earth’s populace disapproved of the trade, favoring instead the guiding principles handed down by The Pheema, the Krenzin religious leader.
Vesuvius glanced out her window. The sight of naïve, fur-loving, hippie types snapped her last nerve. Her mind boiled. I’ll show them! Vivian “Vesuvius” Briggs means business.
She grabbed her weapon and kicked the shuttered window open. With a scream of rage, she leveled the barrel at the gathered crowd and squeezed the trigger.
***
Protesters dove for cover. Panicked shouts echoed through the streets of Reef City as people ran off screaming, fearing for their lives, and fleeing the imagined weapon. The steady burst of water shot out like a laser as a wicked grin crept across Vesuvius’ face.
People just don’t understand the way the universe works, especially these beatnik types. Stupid Krenzin converts.
The Pheema’s disciples… so wrapped up in empty-headed philosophy that they’ve forgotten reality—this is not the next step in societal evolution… idiots don’t even know the difference between a rifle and a fire hose! She shook her head in disgust.
Vesuvius had no love for the Krenzin; nothing in the galaxy could make her respect them. Not after… Silently reflecting, she watched the drops of water fall; the abhorrent memory surfaced. Vesuvius shook it away, refused to honor it by reliving that moment. She tossed the hose aside and closed the shutter, looking for something to occupy her mind.
Guy walked past her as she wound up the water hose. “Hey, Vesuvius, you wanna take a drive? Dekker says I gotta go pick up a package; something MEA Customs wouldn’t deliver. They say we gotta come get it in person.”
“Yeah, sure,” she said, glad for any kind of distraction.
She followed Guy to the oversized garage and swiped his keys. “But I’m driving,” she told him and climbed into the speeder transport.
Reef City’s alabaster buildings seemed to glisten in the mid-morning light. The entire city had been terraformed atop the ever-growing Great Barrier Reef: the world’s largest living structure. Graffiti on a nearby building read, “Investigators leave!” reminding her of how unwanted they were in the community.
Vesuvius hit the accelerator and pulled away from the Dozen’s base of operations. Nerves finally calming, she sighed with relief. Her pent-up tension dissipated as she focused on a task, even one as simple as driving.
“So?” asked Guy.
Guy had long been one of her good friends, almost as long as Dekker. He was one of the few people she could ever open up to—but only on her terms. “‘So’ what?” she countered, forcing him to pry.
“Did you and Dekker patch things up? Ya’ know, start fresh?”
Vesuvius frowned and sighed. “We didn’t get to have an actual conversation about it. He’s been too busy. He has to practically prostitute himself to employers,” she mock-glared at him, “and all because of you.”
“Hey,” he threw up his hands. “It wasn’t my fault! Oh, wait a minute, yes it was. But what was I supposed to do?”
Most of the Dozen’s finances fell by eminent domain after the fines levied by the Mother Earth Aggregate. They’d been lucky to retain their licensure.
“You should have let those people die,” said Vesuvius. “We could have killed that thing later; it would have caused at least as much destruction on its own, but then we wouldn’t have been liable for the damages.”
“I guess I just have a soft spot for kids.” Guy continued, “It’s just stupid politics is what it is. I had a choice: destroy a treasured landmark to kill the giant, rampaging plant-monster, or let said monster destroy an orphanage and devour the children,” said Guy. “But hey… we still have our corporate Investigator’s License.”
“Yeah. Barely.”
“I still don’t know why there was never an official inquiry into those Krenzin who ‘accidentally’ brought the seeds for that thing planet-side, anyway. I guess they had some kind of diplomatic clearance, but still. We never got a word about it; normal plants, even normal alien plants, don’t act like that. The MEA’s covering something up.”
“Right,” Vesuvius said sarcastically. “It’s all a big conspiracy.”
Guy rolled his eyes. “Whatever. Don’t believe me, but one day you’ll see… you’ll all see!” he said with an intentionally crazy voice. “And stop busting my chops about that whole getting sued thing. Even Dekker doesn’t give me crap over it anymore… well, not often.”
“That’s ‘cuz he likes kids,” said Vesuvius flatly. Her tone of voice killed the conversation.
That had been the wedge that drove her and Dekker apart a year ago. Dekker wanted children, Vesuvius didn’t.
She’d faced down scythian worms, dueled with assassins, and faced death countless times. Ironically, parenting scared her more than anything else. It came naturally to ordinary folks and yet it paralyzed her with fear.
They rode the rest of the distance in silence.
Inside the customs center, Vesuvius and Guy presented their identification and passed a security check. They followed an uptight intern with a weasely face into an office run by a clearly relaxed official. Weasel-man flipped through his files and called for a worker to retrieve a package from storage.
“I am sorry, Ms. Briggs. It seems that your organization was supposed to receive this package a week ago, sensors flagged it. As you know, all weapons must be shipped through private courier services; MEA sponsored shipping lines cannot transport armaments. We only kept it because of… your relationship with my boss.”
She nodded and glanced at the laid-back manager who clearly didn’t understand his job. The Dozen had helped him relocate and secure a cover-identity years prior when he’d been in great danger from an Ahzoolien crime syndicate.
The intern handed her a clipboard with a standard release form on it while a young man brought in a rectangular, wooden crate and then promptly exited. “After examining the package, I was able to find you a loophole so that it wouldn’t be returned, which is good since we have no return address. We designated it as a work of art; sign here.”
Vesuvius scribbled on the paper and then opened the crate. Her face fell as she removed the pair of elegant weapons. With a pained look, she showed them to Guy; he didn’t understand.
Verging on tears, she pointed to the engravings on the sheaths of the two swords. “This is a matching set: a katana and wakizashi. These symbols say they were given to Shin Muramasa.” She pointed to a set of freshly engraved markings, “These say that the swords now belong to me.”
Guy still didn’t know what she meant.
“We have to go,” she said. “I need to see Master Muramasa.”
“Your sensei?”
“Yes. These belonged to his son.”
Suddenly, Guy understood. Shin Muramasa, her cousin, was dead.
***
In the communications room, Dekker shouted above the cacophony of digital voices. He hated the bidding process, and yet he knew that he had to endure it to get awarded high profile jobs. Most of the top jobs, the ones that led to more high-end jobs, were farmed out in this manner. Clients often held live auctions to see how low they could drive their fees. In a system that lacked legitimacy for its jobbers, finding honest work could be tedious. Some Investigator groups hired professional negotiators to locate and bid their jobs; that seemed frivolous and lazy to Dekker.
“Come on,�
�� Dekker told the representative from the MEA, “You know that we’re the best, that’s why my price is set where it is.”
He scowled at the professional bidder who’d just undercut him in the real-time data feed. “Why would you want to hire a hack corporation, like my competitors, to transfer a prisoner with this kind of profile?”
“Well,” said the MEA’s man, “their price is significantly lower. I have to seriously consider accepting their bid over yours.”
“We’re not talking about just any prisoner,” Dekker interjected. “This is Prognon Austicon, the most notorious assassin in the galaxy. He’s a modern Guy Fawkes. This guy’s got connections and shady friends in every dark corner of the galaxy. His past employers will want him sprung or murdered because of what he’s got on them, and you know a prisoner transfer is the most convenient time for his allies or enemies to move on him. In this case especially, you need to hire the best.”
Only the military branches of the MEA had any real firepower, but that was all tied up in system-wide politics and was rarely brought to bear. Because of those restrictions and the bureaucracy imposed by government, this particular prisoner transfer had to be outsourced. The fact of the matter was that licensed, private parties were more capable than the MEA’s own constabulary services. And this prisoner, especially, could not be left to chance.
Although the MEA bragged that it had achieved veritable utopia, Dekker knew better. The MEA was as corrupt as any other political body. If he wanted this job, he would need to use his ace-in-the-hole.
“Well,” Dekker addressed the MEA bargainer, “Perhaps you should question your superiors about the quality of service you recently received from us in the Alpha Centauri system.”
The screen flickered and a bureaucrat who monitored the auction overrode the channel. “Mr. Dekker,” he said, “we would be delighted if you could render the same quality of service to us once again. Your services have always proved to be worth every bit of your compensation. And, as usual, your commitment to confidentiality is impeccable.”
The Last Watchmen Page 3