The Pheema smoothed the hair on his arms and also his face and neck. “Please, proceed.”
Dekker gave an abbreviated summary of the encounter at the space station and the rescue of Dr. Abe MacAllistair; he omitted all information about the original prototype. The Dozen didn’t even let that slip to MacAllistair, despite his remorse over his creation. “The DNIET device was not recovered. It was destroyed along with our attackers and the space station. We did, however recover the scientist, Dr. Abe MacAllistair, and his original research.”
The Pheema smoothed his fur again. “Well, that will have to do, apparently. This technology is vital to MEA interests. Please turn him over to us immediately.”
“See, we’re about to have a problem again. I don’t believe that you can demand such a thing. He’s not a convicted criminal nor is he recognized for war crimes—so it’s up to him if he returns. Here, I’ll let him speak for himself.” Dekker beckoned for MacAllistair who stepped into range of the camera.
“Hello, Mister Chief Magnate.”
The Krenzin rolled his eyes at the researcher.
“I really would prefer to remain aboard the Salvation. I feel safer under the protection of Dekker and his crew. Anywhere else I might go, my life could be in jeopardy.”
“Fine,” The Pheema resigned. “But your research is the property of the MEA through which your experiments were funded. All research materials and data are our property. We expect their surrender immediately.”
MacAllistair looked at Dekker and shrugged. “It’s gone.”
“What!”
“I destroyed it,” MacAllistair stated quite truthfully. “While I floated in the escape pod and was waiting for rescue I realized just how deadly a weaponized DNIET could become. It doesn’t take much imagination to see past its transportation capabilities. I incinerated my research—all of it, along with all my written materials.”
The Pheema fumed with rage. It would probably go unnoticed except to those trained in Krenzin physiology, but the Chief Magnate could barely hold himself in check. “That is grand theft, Doctor. It could be judged as high treason!”
“Well, if you’re threatening to put me on trial, good luck getting me to return to Earth.”
This was getting him nowhere. The Pheema wrung his hands. “On to the matter of the derelict you’ve obviously claimed for yourself…You do not hold the proper licenses and permits to scavenge for wreckage. It is your duty to turn the property over to the—”
“No.” Dekker interrupted him with a flat, resolute answer.
He tried to compromise. “Then the MEA demands the dismantlement of all weaponry, should you continue refusing to turn over the ship and property which you have illegally obtained.”
“I don’t think so,” he replied. “And I don’t think you guys want to try taking it from me, even if you could. I’ve had hundreds of volunteers, many of them MEA secessionists, already come aboard and learn basic, capital-ship weapons systems.”
“Are you seceding from Earth? That’s treason!”
“I love my home and my people too much to leave it! But sometimes that means stepping back enough to protect it. And maybe Earth isn’t my home anymore… maybe it’s where humanity came from.”
The Pheema bit his lower lip in frustration. “Then where does this leave you, investigator?”
“At the MEA’s service, as always. Just don’t expect my services to come cheap. Mouths to feed, laser batteries to charge, you know how it is. I remain in the service and defense of Earth. How to do that is something you and I apparently won’t agree on. When I’m needed, though, I’ll be here.” Dekker severed the connection.
The Pheema didn’t call back.
***
Prognon Austicon sat inside his dark den while his Shivan guest reclined beside him. Gr’Kah set the DNIET device on the ornate table between them and took a long pull off the opiate laced hookah pipe the two shared.
The terrorist’s hideout had always been perfectly hidden below the sands. While the ancient, alien ship had been sunk below the dirt for longer than any human knew, very few knew its location, and that’s how Austicon liked it: his own secret fortress. Although the other-worldly decorum left much to be desired by way of aesthetic taste, he’d managed to update it to his own macabre, eccentric tastes.
“That is really an intriguing tale of daring and escape,” Austicon laughed. “If you were not here with me, now, I would hardly believe it.”
Gr’Kah chuckled, but squinted as if he had a headache, though he was too proud to acknowledge it. “I am just that good—my benefactor. All was engineered perfectly by me, faking damage so I could crash land inside the station and steal the device you hired us to retrieve—come on, you can admit I’m a genius.”
The Shivan took a long, deep pull of the pipe. He coughed as the smoke exited his lungs. Gr’Kah squeezed his head and pushed against his brow as a shrill proximity alert sounded.
“Problems?” Austicon asked, rising to greet his guest.
“No. Just an odd feeling, a bad headache I suppose.”
“I thought Shivan physiology prohibited that—something your dense build and whatnot protecting your nervous system? Sounds like an anthropomorphism to me.” Austicon opened the door and saw his guest in.
A wiry framed man entered. He was skinny, too skinny to be healthy. Skinny sat down on the couch adjacent to the Shivan and took a long pull on the hookah.
Austicon locked his entrance and joined them, standing between the two. He addressed Skinny. “Word from the Right Hand, I assume?”
“Yeah.” Agitated, he turned and scowled at Gr’Kah. “Who’s this?”
Gr’Kah kept a hand pressed against the internal pressure forming on his brow and squinted at the intruder. He extended the other hand in the traditional earth greeting, attempting to introduce himself.
“Oh, he’s nobody,” Austicon stated nonchalantly. He pulled a pistol from inside his vest and fired six rounds into the Shivan at point blank range. He lowered the gun to his side and let the smoke curl from the barrel as it cooled. “So? What word?”
“The next phase in the Seven’s plan is nigh. They want to begin seeding the apothecium on human occupied worlds, outposts, and settlements. But, and they were very specific: leave Earth unspoiled.”
Skinny took another pull from the pipe and slumped back. He blew heavy, blue smoke down his chest. He pointed to the machine on the table. “Hey, isn’t that the thing The Pheema’s been ranting about? Some kinda transporter device that eats suns.” He rattled off a list of expletives as he leaned forward to examine it. “Yeah. This is it, isn’t it? Ya know, they think it was destroyed along with the station!”
“Yes, I know that.” Austicon confirmed. “This is the DNIET weapon.” He raised his gun and emptied seven more rounds, this time into Skinny’s head.
Austicon confessed his plan to the dead. “But the Red Tree cannot have it!” His voice dripped even more sinister, the demon within him boiled to the surface more strongly than usual. No more was the old archaeologist in symbiosis with her, she’d asserted herself as the foul avatar, Baal Dione.
“The Verdant Seven wishes to crush humanity, to enslave and corrupt them—to dominate and harvest the bodies for their own end. I will accept nothing less than the total consumption of their souls and destruction of their species! My will shall reign supreme—far above the Seven!”
***
The Pheema sat in his quarters. For all his power, his impotence in the face of Dekker and the loss of DNIET perturbed him greatly. He stewed in his frustration.
A gentle rap disturbed his door. Soft, feminine hands. The entry creaked open, revealing an old woman. She was an important dignitary and member of the banking community, true. More importantly, she brought news from the Arbolean Council.
She didn’t have to say anything. The Pheema knew the Verdant Seven were upset by his failure; retrieval of the DNIET was vital to their plans.
“I know their ways,
” he stated. “If we cannot have satisfaction, then we shall have vengeance. But the Left Hand is too personally invested in this case.” The Pheema paused, working through his thoughts. “Tell the Seven that I have the perfect units for that job. Revenge will come soon.”
The old woman silently bowed her head. Just as she came, she disappeared.
The Pheema grinned. Perhaps as much as even Austicon, he would enjoy seeing, causing, and ordering the death of the last Watchman. They didn’t make me the Right Hand of the Verdant Seven for my meekness. My vengeance will inherit the Earth.
Dekker’s Dozen #007
Red Tree Blooming
The Salvation hung a comfortable distance between the Earth and its moon. As the cruiser rotated the planet in sync with the moon’s orbit, the crew sent shuttles on runs between their old headquarters below and the industrial complexes on the moon.
Fully refurbishing the Salvation could have drained all their accounts. Luckily, a long string of private supporters, some of whom requested permission to stay aboard, funded the operation—many “Original Earthers” were just happy that someone had poked the corrupt government in the eye. The Salvation had become a symbol for those folks opposing the Krenzin and the corruption within the MEA.
In their need for funding, the Dozen let it become a haven for those possessing valid or imagined fears; many of them rented quarters—and no person outside of the Jerusalem cloister was better defended than those living aboard the Salvation. The vessel possessed better armaments, shielding, and ordinance than even the best of the MEA’s post-ISW military ships.
Inside the command room, several of the investigators sorted incoming transmissions. They’d set filters to eliminate most of the irrelevant hatemail; some offered support or contained requests. The support and pledges of finances or labor were the ones they wanted.
“Dekker,” Nibbs forwarded a message to his console. “I think you should read this one. It’s untraceable, heavily encrypted.”
I’m deep inside the MEA. I know about the red tree. I know what it is and what the tattoo means. I will contact you in the future so we can meet. Call me Satyr.
“You’re right. This one is interesting.” His eyes turned to the framed, stretched section of human skin suspended on the nearby wall; it hung as a motivational reminder. The tattooed skin, ripped from Prognon Austicon’s body was more than just a macabre piece of art. “Very interesting, indeed.”
***
“Thanks, Doc!” Guy exclaimed, opening a large, unmarked crate. His voice echoed within the dingy warehouse. “You really shouldn’t have.” Guy’s face glowed gleefully despite the poor lighting of the huge storage pod.
Vesuvius leaned over and peered inside, assessing the large cache of banned explosives. “Yeah. You really shouldn’t have.”
“What’re they going to do to me?” the wizened, old researcher stated. Doc Johnson stood and stretched his broad shoulders as his large belly bounced; Fryberger, his close friend and polar opposite stood next to him, silent and diminutive. “They’ve been trying to shut me down for years: ever since the good old days. Sure, there was war—the Intergalactic Singularity War was kinda like God cracked open the gates of Hell and let a pinch of evil pour further into the universe. But there were better people in those days: men and women who stood for something. Fine men of valor…” Doc Johnson trailed off. He didn’t need to say more; Vesuvius and Guy both knew of the deep history that the madcap Doc Johnson shared with General Briggs, Vesuvius’s father. “There are too few men like that left. Guys like that Dekker of yours. He didn’t come with?” He searched Vesuvius’s face inquisitively.
Guy smirked at her. “He’s still getting stuff straight on the Salvation,” he replied.
“And he’s not exactly my Dekker, either,” she corrected. She found herself constantly in the need of doing so, but didn’t know exactly how she felt about that.
“What? Well, why not?”
She grinned wryly. “I’d rather not talk about it.”
Guy chuffed. “I don’t think it’s for her lack of trying.”
“But I thought with you guys being an item so far back you’d have both finally realized what fate was up to. I really figured you two would be married by now.”
“Well, he’s kind of a slow mover,” she rolled her eyes.
Johnson looked at Guy. He knew Guy couldn’t help but share.
“They had an irreconcilable argument. It’s a secret, Vesuvius says.”
She glared at him.
“She stabbed him when they broke up,” Guy laughed. “It might have something to do with his reluctance to rekindle anything.”
“And I’ll stab you too, if you don’t shut up about it.” She loosened the hilt of her blade, menacingly. Her eyes glowed with fire and feminine fury.
“You wouldn’t stab a guy holding a thermonuclear detonator, would you?” Guy joked.
“Alright, alright,” Johnson held his hands up in surrender. “Didn’t mean to get you all riled up, Vivian.”
Friends of her father always called her Vivian. Dekker did too, back when they were together. She paused, thinking about that time period, and then shook it out of her head.
“Anyway,” Johnson stated, “you guys are causing quite a stir on all the MEA channels. What is it that you think Fryberger and I can help you with?”
Vesuvius handed him a list. “We were hoping that you could help us locate some of this stuff. We figure you’re probably the best guy around with access. We’d hoped that maybe some of this stuff hadn’t been destroyed yet, despite the MEA’s purge of dangerous weaponry.”
The Doc paged through it, nodding and smiling at moments. “You’re going to fully restore and upgrade that beautiful ship, eh?”
“That’s the plan,” she said. “Some of the parts need modern upgrades; some of the old stuff is either incompatible, obsolete, or needs some serious safety recall. Any of these items with a modern upgrade equivalent would be appreciated.”
“You’re in luck,” he waved his arms to include the whole of the stocked warehouse. Crates had been stacked everywhere and anywhere under the dim lighting. “All of this stuff you see here has been destroyed, right Fry?”
Fryberger grinned. “I see nothing here,” the lawyer said in his dry, nasal monotone. “HQ did request a purge of warehouse thirteen more than five months ago. It’s a good thing you finally got around to that.”
“Awesome. Thanks, you guys,” Vesuvius said.
“Hey, anything for Harry Briggs’s girl. Plus any chance to stick it to a Krenzin after what they pulled on your dad. And they’ve been trying to shut us down for years. If it wasn’t for Fry, here, I’d of all been court-martialed years ago, or at least turned out.”
“I don’t invent the loopholes,” Fryberg smiled. “I just point out their obvious existence.”
Guy and Vesuvius smiled. Darkside station had skirted the law by staying inside a legally murky zones for more than a decade. They’d constantly found ways to circumvent scheduled shut-downs and defunding efforts. Doc and Fryberg made quite the duo.
“Should we send a shuttle over?” Guy asked.
“Naw,” Doc said. “I’ve got to go see this ship of Dekker’s for myself. I’ll be along a little later. In the meanwhile, I’ll send a cargo ship over, along with some of our mechanized drones to do all the heavy lifting and the zero-g installation work some of it will take—no sense sending a human out to do hull work.”
Doc beamed, proudly. “Tell Dekker I said hello. It’s a good thing what you guys are doing: if the Earth won’t protect herself, then someone’s got to rise to the task. Oh, and also tell him that I intend to see him make good on his promise.”
Vesuvius looked at Guy.
Guy shrugged.
“You just tell him I said that,” Doc chuckled with a mischievous grin.
***
Deep within the Salvation, Dekker wiped gun oil off the firearms he finished cleaning. The empty gymnasium at the heart
of the battleship made a perfect shooting range which he’d used to murder a slew of paper targets with holes. A collection of projectile and hand weapons dangled near an inside wall for the Dozen to train with; staying sharp remained a high priority for them.
Scrubbing the barrel with a bristle brush, something tingled in his periphery senses—alerted him. Dekker whirled into a ready stance with a long knife poised for defense in his right hand; he grasped the empty gun in his left. Vesuvius smirked at him, katana drawn and ready.
“Gun’s in the wrong hand, cowboy,” she laughed.
“It’s just you. I didn’t figure I needed it,” he jested back, and then turned to complete the reassembly. They used to play this game: Sneak up on Dekker. She’d never won.
“You know,” she unstrapped her belt and laid down her blades. Vesuvius tossed him a bokken, then whirled around and crossed wooden blades with him. They parried and danced through a few moves with neither scoring a hit. They’d sparred often, sharing the same sword training Muramasa had given them: Dekker during his twenties while Vesuvius had been an all-too mature teenager.
“Doc said something funny earlier today.” She teased.
Dekker adjusted his grip on the wooden, practice sword. “What’s that?”
She swung her bokken with a ferocity that belied their mutual affection. “‘Hello,’ firstly.”
He calmly blocked the swipe and then countered with his own playful lunge. She knocked it away effortlessly before stepping in with another maneuver that he stepped into while blocking. Dekker deftly stepped again and placed a foot behind hers, making her stumble backwards as she tried to readjust, but failed.
“That wasn’t very funny.”
“Indeed not,” she frowned, disappointed in herself for letting Dekker catch her with a tricky move. Dekker was skilled, very skilled, but by no means better than her—he was unconventional. Finding weaknesses was Dekker’s real talent: making impromptu adjustments. He noticed the weakness in her footwork and exploited it. Vesuvius stood, reset her feet, and blew a loose, red curl from her face.
The Last Watchmen Page 14