The Last Watchmen

by Christopher D Schmitz

  Holding up Austicon’s skin next to the screen, Nibb’s jaw dropped. Each red mark matched perfectly. There on the screen was the Red Tree. It was a constellation after all, just not one that could be viewed from Earth.

  He glanced over at the status monitors. Everything operated according to plan; Dekker could handle anything that came up—Nibbs filled a useless and redundant role, here. He could afford to slip away and verify his suspicion, he told himself.

  Nibbs wanted to be certain before he went out on a limb and wasted resources or vital manpower… he knew that rationalized his decision at a nearly subconscious level, but he didn’t care. Besides, the Alpha Centauri system was close enough that he might even get back before anyone even knew he’d left. Nibbs gave into the impulse, jotted down his coordinates, and stood to depart.

  He’d already committed himself and he pushed any second thoughts from his mind as he entered the hangar bay. The only ship left was the psy-nar scout ship that Doc Johnson had fixed up. It had been too small for the mission on Earth and so it had been left behind.

  Tossing his supply pack into the cockpit, Nibbs strapped in and piloted the craft away from the Salvation. “I just want to verify my hunch, first,” he said aloud, hoping that vocalizing the thought might absolve his conscience. “I’m just going to take a quick peek. What can go wrong?”

  ***

  Dekker’s three ships descended towards an area that scanners indicated as particularly hostile. Inbound scans indicated that most of the continent was heavily overrun by the infected. Survivors created ramshackle walled cities and pooled their defenses. The plagued continued to hammer against the walls, trying to beat their way through. The Dozen’s target proved a perfect landing site—it maintained a surviving population and a heavy amount of camera coverage from the hacked source feeds. An enormous army of the infected had just toppled barriers and moved towards the main population camp.

  Ships under Dekker’s command swooped in and landed upon the crumbling, decrepit market streets of Old New Yarwk. The city long ago relented to the decay of time and abuse subjected upon any metropolis that fell under political disfavor.

  A perimeter of derelict vehicles created walls that barred roads. Inside the cloisters, the survivors—men, women, and children—fled towards the ships. Their faces were shielded by helmets, masks, wetted cloth strips, and anything else that might help prevent infection. As the hacked news channels broadcast their arrival, the dozen exited the Rickshaw Crusader with weapons brandished; Matty stayed in the cockpit with the doors locked. They came to rescue as many as they could, but had to stay smart about it.

  In the distance, a defensive wall crashed over as the zombies broke through. The Investigators ran down into the chaos; the people formed two groups as if they’d been waiting for an evacuation such as this from a government which had abandoned them.

  Dekker pointed towards the noise. Vesuvius nodded and adjusted the fit of her airmask; she led the army of investigators and volunteer militiamen towards the invaders. Seconds later, gunshots erupted; they repeatedly and constantly punctuating the silence.

  Surveying the scene, Dekker found a group wearing red bandanas. Another group had uncovered heads. Both groups began shearing their hair and disrobed. The whole population trembled with fear, but they maintained their general composure as if they’d drilled for this.

  A naturally bald, middle aged man waved to Dekker as he waved. “I’m Jeffries,” he called out, finally catching up to Dekker. He obviously led the camp. “We hoped someone would come.”

  “What’ve you got, here?” Dekker asked, slightly raising his voice over the sounds of the battle.

  “We’d prepared just in case a rescue ship came in. We can’t decontaminate,” Jeffries said, stripping off his clothes, “but we can try to limit carrying any spores on our persons. We know that space will be limited, so we’ve pre-triaged. Those with red scarves have tested as immune to the plague; the infected can somehow sense it and they’ll kill them first and try to infect the rest.”

  “Get as many on board as you can,” Dekker instructed. “I don’t care how you choose. Draw lots, or whatever—it’s not on me. Just make sure there is enough space for all of my men to get back aboard. Cram in close, however you can fit em; we should be able to get over a thousand out between my three ships.”

  Jeffries nodded. Against all hope, they’d prepared for this and all of their prayers had come to fruition.

  “In case we can’t get you all out, we can buy you all more time; however you plan to split those people will depend on your faith in the MEA’s ability to handle your situation. Send over a few guys who can operate those loaders to repair that wall section. We can at least cover you while you make those repairs.” Dekker took off in the direction of the skirmish.

  Arriving on the battlefront, he found it exactly as he’d predicted. Bodies of the dead were strewn about, broken and discarded at odd angles. The mindless and diseased took heavy loses against the organized forces from the Salvation. Dekker kicked over a body; the forehead protrusion was sharp and short—a recently infected young man. The mounting horde of the dead seemed to have been newly turned.

  His militia took points atop the wall; they mowed down a sudden onslaught of infected. The sea of blank-eyed zombies stretched out several thousand strong. Dekker took a position next to his red-haired comrade; his ears picked up the low rumble of heavy machinery.

  “We’re going to run out of ammunition before we run out of targets,” Vesuvius commented. Taking aim, she snapped off a round.

  “I’m working on that,” Dekker mentioned. “We’re just buying them time at the moment.”

  “Yeah,” Vesuvius blew the hair from her vision, aimed and fired again, “but we might not have much of that ourselves if they clamp down that containment field. We can’t risk blowing up the sat-network to get ourselves out if it’s the only thing keeping the spores contained.”

  Dekker sighed. “I know, I know.”

  ***

  The jump engines cut out and dumped the class A scout into real-space within the Alpha Centauri system. It had been a short trip; the system, the closest to Earth’s sun, didn’t have much to offer. It was easily overlooked and the Red Tree had been hiding in plain sight all along.

  Nibbs activated the cloaking device and scanned his instruments. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. He spotted the Osix moon and the vacant Krenzin research station; the red dwarf Proxima sputtered and flared, washing the nearby planets and moons in a crimson hue.

  He keyed in on the dim, flaring star. Glancing again at the coordinates, he piloted the craft towards a planet nearest Proxima, very near Osix. With silent scanners active, he orbited the planet Rico.

  This is odd, he thought, comparing scanner data to his navigation screens. The nav was blocked by a number of failsafe messages; they popped up and required overrides to clear. Each gave a different warning against entering Rico’s space: electromagnetic flux, unknown and poisonous atmosphere, private ownership, and several others, each time-stamped over the last two centuries. That’s just too many warnings to be realistic; someone’s been scaring people away from Rico for decades.

  Scanners detected four crafts on the surface below as they analyzed the atmosphere. The air was composed of nitromeones, a stable substance that most humanoids could breathe as if it was air, albeit with mild discomfort. Nibbs vectored through the atmosphere gently enough that he shouldn’t be noticed; the conspiracy centered on Rico, he felt it in his bones, and his curiosity demanded that Nibbs solve this puzzle.

  Just a little more data. Once I get a little hard proof—then I’ll head back.

  ***

  “Shoot them!” Vesuvius screamed, taking careful aim. The militia complemented the large numbers that the Dozen lacked, but they were not great marksmen.

  Amid the multitude of infected that pressed towards the wall, a group of more mature, reasoning assailants had broken from the pack. They grabbed some younger zo
mbies and held their struggling peers overhead, using them as shields to block the blaster fire that rained down upon them. Disruptor bolts and laser beams blasted chunks of flesh from the buffers; their holders took minor wounds, but kept pushing forward.

  “Get underneath them,” Dekker shouted, picking them off with calculated precision. At the rate they were able to find shots, the matured, diseased ones would break their line in a matter of seconds. As they focused on the inbound threat, the wave crushed forward again, en masse.

  Dekker glanced back at the camp they defended. The people hadn’t finished boarding yet. They needed a few more minutes. The magnetic loader would arrive in seconds to repair the wall, but they didn’t have even that. He took a couple more shots and then shifted his shoulders so he could unsling the Reliquary. Mentally, he calculated the number of shells he had remaining versus the necessity of its immediate use.

  Sparing one more glance to the other section of the wall, Dekker spotted Guy and Krav assembling a device atop a recreational vehicle at the wall’s base. They talked excitedly and Guy grinned ear to ear. They quickly wrapped the throttle control with tape and kicked it into gear.

  The machine crashed forward, plowing through the surging ranks of mindless and infected berserkers before it finally exploded in an oily, black blast. The detonation flung shrapnel and flames; it hurled burning bodies skyward. On the ground, Guy and Krav shot down those who managed to evade the blast and then stepped back inside the wall as the heavy loader arrived and restacked old, steel debris and replace the broken wall section.

  Resuming fire, the militia beat the wave back again. Dekker checked his weapon’s charge as the loader set the final pieces back atop the wall. They wouldn’t have survived much longer, otherwise. He checked his timepiece; they’d spent more much more time on the ground than he’d wanted. Dekker signaled a retreat to the ships, praying that they could still escape.

  ***

  Nibbs skulked through the forest on Rico nearest the grove where he’d landed the cloaked scout ship; the flora was unlike anything he’d seen before: tall trees of thick, striated bark and heavy, velvety leaves. The leaves, colored eggplant black, appeared symmetrical, identical from tree to tree. Within minutes he’d come to the enormous clearing he’d spotted on his approach.

  Very near the glade’s edge, several ships had been landed. Three of the ships were only small class-A escorts but the larger, fourth ship mostly resembled a diplomatic craft, the sort used to shuttle dignitaries; the docking ramp remained open, although Nibbs couldn’t see anything within.

  Setting up his surveillance equipment, Nibbs scanned the area. At the center of the glade towered a circle of five vibrantly green trees and one dead tree one, pocked by age and mossy patches. Nearest the withered one was another tree, slightly taller than the others and crowned with bloodshot, ruddy leaves.

  He put an earpiece in and activated the audio. A familiar voice filled the audio transmission. “I personally condemn the action of these interlopers and want to remind all civilized people hearing my words that this company of brigands is transporting medically dangerous cargo. The group, led by the investigator crew known as Dekker’s Dozen, have broken quarantine. Although the containment field has not yet been erected, MEA citizens are urged to disavow their actions and refuse any contact, for their own safety.”

  The speech seemed to shift in tone. It became less formal, more personal, as if the broadcast must have stopped recording. His voice spewed a string of expletives as it vented. “It doesn’t matter anyway. There’s no stopping it now. Maybe those mercenaries will save us all the trouble and inhale the apothecium spores.”

  Footsteps echoed on the ramp. The Pheema descended the incline, continuing to vent his frustration to the elderly women at each side. He spoke as he walked towards the circle, carrying an axe. “Sure, a force-field will stymie the spread of the apothecium, but the cure will never become a reality. We may have lost District Three, but Earth still has enough susceptible persons to free the arbolean race, despite Austicon’s treachery. The arbolean consciousness will expand to new levels; soon the rest of the arboleans, not just the Council, will walk just as free as Austicon—untethered by soil.”

  Nibbs didn’t know the women’s names. He did recognize them, though, from photos in Satyr’s files. The informant had suggested they might be members of the Verdant Seven.

  The Pheema and his accomplices entered the circle. The two women each went to a tree and laid a hand on its trunk. “My apologies for that interruption. An unexpected situation arose on Earth and I had to make an address; it is not necessarily related to the reasons for my visit. I had to come to you directly with my concern because I cannot trust the normal channels. I fear corruption from the Left Hand.”

  One of the women nodded with eyes closed as if she communed with her tree. “Proceed.”

  “Long have I suspected that the Left Hand has worked against you, Council of Seven. All your plans are coming to fruition after these millennia, but I have many reasons to believe that Austicon plots an eventual betrayal. Particularly, his Mechnar forces have mobilized and we don’t know the exact reason. He hasn’t been forthcoming. The timing is suspect as is the release of apothecium spores on Earth: a direct violation of your orders. The damage done to the nervous system of the infected hosts renders them incompatible with Mechnar attachments, thus, I suspect he wants to collect these humans for his own ends.”

  “We, too, share these concerns,” an elderly, female avatar stated. “He’s taken excessive liberties recently, and the continued rebellion of our brother makes us wary.” She narrowed her eyes at the barren tree.

  Nodding at the skeletal member of the circle, The Pheema asked, “Will she communicate with Austicon and force him to fall in line?”

  Both women sent chastising glares to the desiccated tree. “The obstinate rebel has remained silent these thousands of years.” They gave a nod to the krenzin diplomat.

  The Pheema hefted his axe and swung it. The sharpened head lodged into the base of the barren tree; its branches shuddered with the impact. “You had better communicate with your avatar,” the krenzin spat. “If he doesn’t fall in line, so help me, I’ll chop you down myself!”

  Spitting upon the tree he continued, “Luckily, the Left Hand is not aware that the spores growing within the Child of Destruction can supplant the standard apothecium drones. My scientists have proven the mutation as a viable process. Austicon only helps the cause—though his actions prove him too much of a threat to remain loose! With the acquisition of DNIET, Ragnarock cannot be stopped—not even if Austicon overtly rebels.”

  Nibbs heard enough. He readied himself to leave when a heavy hand clamped upon his shoulders like a vice and startled him. Nibbs whirled around, but could not break free as a trio of emaciated humanoids seized him. Their eyes were blank and lifeless, but their muscles were corded like steel cables. Split, dual prongs like wooden ram horns curled upwards from their owners’ foreheads; they appeared several hundreds of years old, perhaps kept alive by same Arbolean forces that controlled them.

  Silently, Nibbs struggled vainly against the trio until it proved no use. They dragged him down to the Verdant Seven’s circle where The Pheema tapped his foot impatiently.

  “It seems we have a spy,” The Pheema stated. “I don’t think I want you taking this information back to your friends. Tell me, investigator, how would you feel about becoming a living incubator for the new race that shall arise from of the destruction of humanity?”

  Nibbs spat in his tufted face.

  “As I thought.” He wiped the spittle from his cheek. “But your insolence cannot stop Ragnarok’s Earth-fall; the germination is almost complete.” He brandished a sharp, talon-like seed in front of Nibbs. The Pheema grinned and turned the half-meter wooden hook over in his hands and then plunged it into his victim’s midsection. Nibbs screamed until his lungs emptied, and then fell limp and silent.

  ***

  Dekker burs
t into the empty command center. “SHIP, where is Nibbs?”

  “Unknown.”

  “Is Nibbs on this vessel?” he rephrased.

  “Negative.”

  SHIP had been stalling the hails and requests from the ships which had arrived in Earth’s orbit over the last hour. They’d been hailing the Salvation while the Dozen had still been returning from the planet-side evacuation. SHIP put them in a holding pattern, but with no direct orders, he’d placed them in queue until Dekker returned.

  “This is Dekker Knight,” he broadcast on open frequencies and to all parties. Vesuvius and the rest of the Dozen began trickling into the command deck. As essential crew, they were the first be screened and let through the quarantine zone. Dekker waved them over to different command stations.

  Ship captains from MEA constabulary forces argued openly on the open channel. They debated the next course of action and none had consulted their political superiors: circumstances had transcended any situation where diplomats’ opinions made any difference—the navy verged on revolt and the chain of command had been put into question. The other ships demanded answers of the Salvation. “Where do you stand, Captain Dekker? Do you support these murders?”

  Dekker could barely unravel the conversation he’d walked into. “In what course of action? Support who to do what?” he asked for clarification.

  “If we had any weapons systems aboard our vessel we’d have already done it!” the captain of the converted war-galleon, Pugilist, interrupted. Dekker checked the transponder logs, Pugilist had recently arrived from one of the destroyed settlements at the Outer Rim. “You haven’t seen what this disease does! Our entire planet was decimated!”

  “And this is exactly why there are so few ships with heavy weapons capacity,” the captain of the Gallant stated. “They are demanding the destruction of District Three,” he told Dekker.