The Last Watchmen

by Christopher D Schmitz

  “The MEA will cut you off for that,” Dekker replied coldly. “Even with the fleet’s reduced numbers you can’t feed and supply your numbers without those apron strings; luckily for us, the Salvation is supplied by a number of private benefactors; a few patrons in Mesopotamia City at least keep my ship fueled and fed. But I don’t disagree with you—you’re desperately needed here in the system. Things are imploding all around; something big is in the works—bigger than the mechnar and the ISW, this is not a series of coincidence.”

  “Exactly,” Johns agreed. “Something larger is at work here. I know there are risks, but the dangers only increase if we redeploy back to our ordered posts. Can you feel it in your bones, Dekker? There’s a war brewing on the edge of deep space. Those three defectors, yesterday, were compelled. I’m not even saying it was necessarily the wrong choice, given the details, but we found irregularities in their transmission and I didn’t have time to explain on an open comm. I knew each captain personally so it made me look for reasons to justify their actions which were out of character for them—or at least their silence while doing it was.”

  Johns looked Dekker in the eye, “Here are the facts. I am in favor of rearmament—I always have been and that’s one of the reasons that my assigned post has been so remote. It’s also a reason why I’m not a friend of the Krenzin. We are overrun with policy and regulation; we can’t operate like this. I also recognize that you have the most powerful ship known to our books.”

  “And just what is it that you want with the Salvation? A Shakespearean coup? ‘First thing we do is kill all the lawyers?’”

  “Something is happening, something big. All I ask is that you keep her around nearby. I think the human race might just depend on it.”

  Doc and Fryberger whispered intensely. Something had piqued their interest.

  Dekker grimaced for a second. He suppressed the irony of his time-traveling friend’s insistent prophecy that Dekker would be responsible for humanity’s destruction. “We can do that. We’re just starting to sort through yesterday’s debacle and integrate those we rescued from District Three.”

  Doc interrupted. “I don’t know exactly what kind of salvage I’ve got for compatible weaponry systems in my warehouses, but I’ve got a whole graveyard of old warheads, torpedoes, and projectile weaponry buried under all that gray dust. That might help some of your armament issues.”

  Johns’ face softened with but gratitude. He gave the administrator a half bow.

  “I’m a big fan of preserving the human race,” Doc added. Fryberger nodded in agreement. “And we’re taking a huge risk here; this could sever our funding too. Fry says we’ve got no loophole to get us out of this one. I guess we’re casting our lot here: putting all our stock in your claims of intergalactic Armageddon and what not.”

  A short emergency tone emitted from the tiny device clipped to Johns’ hip. He held up a finger to ask forgiveness while he answered the page. “This is Captain Johns. What’s the emergency, Gallant?”

  “Captain,” the voice chirped. “We just received a priority message. The Pheema has been assassinated in New Babylon!”

  A sharp moment of silence punctuated the air—one could almost hear the gears churning out details of a new plan in Johns’ mind. He looked at his accomplices, “Please excuse me. I assume I have the support of you both, but I have to leave immediately. I’m making a play for the seat of Chief Magnate.”

  As Johns departed, he called over his shoulder, “Get those warheads prepped, Doc. I’ll send over some crews—I hope you’ve got room for more funding as soon as my military assumes control over the MEA. And we will assume control—one way or another.”

  ***

  Vesuvius and Guy slouched in their seats. The rest of their team had been assigned to other tasks—for some of those, that task was physical rest. They’d assigned mandatory shifts to ensure they stayed healthy. She looked over at Dekker. “When’s the last time you slept?” she asked. “You look terrible.”

  Dekker turned slowly to face her. “It’s been awhile. We’re up next though; two more hours and we’ll get some sleep, too.”

  “Yeah. Lay off, Vees,” Guy joked. “He has always looked terrible. You’re just finally noticing.”

  Dekker grinned and rubbed his chin, yawning. His hand chaffed against the bristly stubble that had formed. When was the last time he shaved? Time could be an elusive concept in deep space. “I’ll go grab a pot of black caff. I think we’ve got a hot one in the command room.”

  In his sleep deprived stagger, Dekker found his way to the heated carafe. A video feed flickered nearby where Doctor MacAllistair sat. The Doctor had set up a mattress nearby; he appeared to be camping out.

  “Moving in?” Dekker asked.

  “Something like that,” MacAllistair replied. “Ever since we picked up those refugees I’ve felt a little… less comfortable in my quarters.”

  “I understand,” Dekker nodded. MacAllistair’s deeply seated paranoia was certainly justifiable. Especially since they hadn’t had the ability to screen the newest refugees, yet; his uneasiness was only natural.

  “I just feel more secure the closer I am to the command bridge. Only a minority has clearance to get up here.” He paused a moment. “But it is nice to have a fully crewed ship in case everything in the galaxy continues falling apart.”

  “Yeah, well, I feel that might just be the case.” Dekker leaned into the mediaphile’s space to catch the news broadcast.

  Riots raged in the streets of major world cities. A video loop showed a Krenzin religious adherent assaulting an elderly man; even following the destruction of their home-world and assassination of their parliament the Krenzin had remained passive. Suddenly, all over the planet, the “peace loving aliens” had lost control following The Pheema’s demise. A scrolling banner listed related news, broadcasting gory facts about the assassination of the MEA’s Chief Magnate.

  A young, male Krenzin stood at a podium giving a major announcement. The accompanying text information labeled him as The Pheema, a new prophet to replace their fallen leader. In the power vacuum resulting from his predecessor’s death, this Krenzin prodigy had stepped in, just as Captain Johns lobbied for the Chief Magnate position.

  “The holy books demand it!” he screamed. “This crime demands repayment in blood and Jerusalem must pay!”

  Dekker blinked his eyes in surprise, wondering exactly how those two items were connected. He gave up immediately—crazy was too difficult to follow.

  Another video window displayed reports of the previous Chief Magnate’s disputes with Jerusalem throughout his career in politics and before. The screen filled with a graphic photo of The Pheema’s dismembered body lying atop an ancient Jewish symbol drawn in the krenzin leader’s blood.

  “My predecessor wanted to unify the peoples! In the interest of ultimate peace and a spirit of cooperation he lived—and for that he was murdered. For this injustice, our resolve can only be to claim retaliatory justice and our faith demands they pay a thousand fold!”

  The camera panned to a frenzied throng of Krenzin adherents. This was not a religious gathering: it was the mustering of an army.

  “Until we receive a full admission of guilt and the execution of the ranking Jerusalem leadership, we will riot and take our revenge upon any with suspected Semitic heritage.”

  Dekker stepped back and poured a hot cup. “Good luck, Captain Johns. The next Magnate’s gonna have a tough go of it.”

  “You’re not concerned about rioting Krenzin?” MacAllistair asked.

  “Not really. Not concerned for Jerusalem, anyways. That place is practically impenetrable. The Krenzin aren’t going to hurt any of them, not since the entire people cloistered there two generations ago during the Secret Wars.”

  “Secret Wars?”

  Dekker paused in deep thought. It was what conflict which eventually claimed his father’s life: underground religious factions waging wholesale war on each other—many sects had trie
d exterminating any of those they believed were threats… and there was Jude Knight and his Watchmen in the middle of it all, trying to broker peace. “Never mind,” Dekker said flatly.

  He examined the contents of his mug: hot, black, and thick like sludge. Dekker put the hot cup to his lips. “This crud is terrible. Ugh! How long has it been simmering on that hot pan?”

  “It’s just how I like it,” MacAllistair smiled. “I saw some sugar over there in the back, where Nibbs did his research.”

  Dekker scanned the room. It hadn’t been used for much else lately. They hadn’t even had time to properly investigate their friend’s disappearance; the team had been far too busy simply reacting to the threats rearing up around them.

  Scratching his head, Dekker realized he hadn’t even found enough time to properly introduce Krav to the rest of the team. He shrugged the notion off—the fire and fray Krav had endured with the team in District Three bound him to the group in a far better way than any words Dekker could muster.

  Dekker spotted the sugar dish and went to retrieve it. The table it rested upon had all but disappeared under the collection of papers, photos, notes, and other clues. Dekker dumped a healthy dose of sweetener into his vile drink and he shuffled through Nibbs’ last bit of research.

  Picking up the framed patch of Austicon’s skin, the red tree tattoo, Dekker tapped a computer screen and woke it from sleep mode. He leaned the frame back against the computer monitor it rested against and compared the modified star chart against the tattoo.

  The pieces suddenly came together in Dekker’s mind, jump-starting it to full-awake mode. He set his drink aside and rummaged through the clues frantically, comparing them to each other and against the star chart. “Rico.”

  “What’s that?” MacAllistair asked.

  “I know where Nibbs went.”

  ***

  For years, silence and peace had reigned supreme. They’d kept hidden all these years deep within a cave snuggled below the dark-leaved trees of Rico. Abject blackness filled the air and a cloy odor drowned out the light. Only one mechanical mind remained active since they’d laid to rest, probing, constantly searching for a single signal, the sign that would finally give this unit a purpose for enduring wakeful and watchful.

  The unit blinked rapidly as his processer received the signal like an answer to robotic prayer. The first of many, it stood on legs that hadn’t been exercised in a hundred years.

  In their torpor state, the residents required only one shallow breath each year to keep their systems supplied. Their bodies shuddered as lungs suddenly inhaled deeply and rapidly. Within the deep darkness, hundreds of mechanical humanoids sat erect, activated for one reason only. As they stood in the darkness, the tension pulled catheters from bodies and veins as they ripped free from their medical tethers.

  The wave of bodies corporately stepped over their peers which had failed to activate due to a century of corrosion and failed implants. Pushing against a loose, earthen wall from the inside of the mossy knoll, the army broke free of its secret tomb: a sleeper cell made up of pre-mechnar cyborg prototypes. Their master had tucked away for just this purpose—mutiny.

  Crunching soft vegetation underfoot, the mechnar sleepers did not blink against the light of the red suns. They knew no pain, only service to their owner, Prognon Austicon. They stealthily pressed towards their mark: the ring of arbolean leaders.

  ***

  Nibbs shuddered and groaned. Beads of sweat dripped down his nose. His resolve had begun to waver under the torture that the arbolean implant inflicted upon his psyche. He dared not rest lest he lose control; sleep deprivation had taken a tremendous toll.

  The iron grip of the apothecium fiends who restrained his arms and legs had also weakened him. He’d lost feeling in his extremities long ago. But the voice, the soothing voice of the implant was ever-present—reassuring him that surrender would be painless.

  Nibbs clung to the pain, reveled in it, used it to sustain his consciousness. Sweat stung his eyes, though it barely kept his mind stimulated enough to resist the invading consciousness. He knew it would eventually consume him, and yet he refused to surrender without a fight.

  A faint wisp of wind blew through the tree ring. Information poured through the psychic link the implant provided. The Pheema was dead, the doing of the Left Hand. Austicon plotted to overthrow the Arbolean council and annihilate all of humanity! The DNIET! Austicon has his own—another units exists!

  Searing pain flooded Nibbs brain. It nearly blinded him during the information exchange. The arbolean implant both gave and took information from him. The aliens knew that the Dozen rescued Doctor MacAllistair and that he lived among the investigators.

  Nibbs croaked a dehydrated gasp and hung limp against his arbolean fetters. And then he was suddenly free! Crumpling to the ground, he twisted and watched his captors’ withered, antlered heads fly from their bodies, decapitated by ancient, rusty blades.

  Bleeding through the trees, an ancient mechnar army poured down the hillside and descended towards the green circle. They flowed from the blackish flora which concealed their advance. A guttural shriek resounded through the wood—Nibbs understood it. A call to defense by the arbolean council!

  Camouflaged at the bases of trees, half buried in peat, root, and vegetation, elder apothecium zombies shook off detritus and gnarled entanglements. All around him sentries came to life, joining their voices to the defiant shriek; Nibbs’s implant translated the call, tried to steer the captured investigator to the defense of its arbolean sires.

  The cacophony gave Nibbs an adrenaline burst—just enough of a push to momentarily break the mental suppression his implant wielded. Nibbs scrambled away from the mechnar units and dashed for cover. The voice complained, but the investigator’s unrelenting struggle had left it too weak to override the Nobbs’s self-preservation instincts.

  Looking back, he saw the mechnar detachment. Hundreds strong, they fired weapons into the crowd of defending drones. Fires broke out, and a flame thrower exploded; so many weapons, ancient and aged, misfired or failed. Their wielders used them as clubs or drew secondary hand-weapons as the arbolean sentries flung themselves at their attackers.

  Nibbs scrambled past an incoming wave of arbolean sentries. They didn’t even notice the escapee, so single-minded were they. Nibbs broke into a full sprint; the defenders numbers were so large that they would eventually overwhelm the mechnar usurpers, which meant that they would eventually come for him. His small escape window would close as rapidly as it had opened.

  Minutes later, out of breath, he collapsed to his knees in the area he’d stashed his cloaked ship. Locating the entrance, Nibbs crawled inside and immediately hit the call button to activate a link with the Salvation. Two seconds passed and the video link connected.

  Nibbs’ screen filled with a tired, haggard Dekker. He and the crew had scrambled, gearing up for a preoperational briefing. “Dekker! I’m on Rico!” Nibbs coughed, a black fluid leaked from the corner of his mouth. “Wow, you look terrible.”

  Dekker, drawn and haggard, gave the camera his full attention. “Have you seen yourself? We just figured out where you are!” he stated. “We’re on our way to rescue you.”

  “Don’t” Nibbs said. He panned the camera down to the infectious implant, indicating that he was already a lost cause. He quickly explained what he knew about the arboleans’ plans to infiltrate and overthrow the MEA. “Earth is about to be destroyed. Austicon’s got a DNIET unit and he’s set it to destroy our planet’s sun. It’s got to be somewhere on Earth; the Verdant Seven are frantic to stop it because it means an end to their body snatching, implantation plans. They’re also sending their Valkyries; the symbiont exchange didn’t tell me much about them: all I saw were bones.”

  “Let us send someone to retrieve you, at least.”

  “No. You’ve got to stop that DNIET, and then get over here and exterminate these things. They’ve got something they called Ragnarock; I only know it’s a p
lan that’s been in the works for millennia—and they’ve put the other DNIET unit into it. I only know it’s close; I think it’s got something to do with Osix.”

  Dekker nodded solemnly. “It’s been a pleasure knowing you.”

  Nibbs swallowed hard. He nodded back, and then severed the transmission. He coughed up a gob of thick black fluid and felt the consciousness push back as his adrenaline ebbed.

  Grabbing the implant, Nibbs growled and tried to pull it from his body. Pain wracked his nervous system and he howled. The mental voice screamed that it would kill him, that it would tear out his spinal cord if he severed the union. Nibbs only yanked harder, could feel the stress on his spinal column. He heard—more so, he felt—a loud cracking noise. His vision flashed, blinded, and everything stopped.

  ***

  “Brainstorm people! Earth is a big planet, and we’ve got to find the DNIET before Austicon destroys our solar system!” Dekker ran his fingers through his hair. “We’ve got to assume that since he hasn’t sent us a taunt and tipped his hand, he’s serious about this one. It’s not a game anymore, and if he’s going to do it, it’s likely to be right away. Where is this thing most likely to be? Did anyone grab the Doctor? He’s the expert on this thing.”

  “I got him,” Guy said, stepping in the door with MacAllistair in tow.

  After a few frantic suggestions on locating it, all of them futile, MacAllistair offered a suggestion. “We could scan for a few key energy signatures that the DNIET transmits. It would create a kind of homing beacon.”

  “You mean we can track this thing?”

  “As long as it’s activated, and if I knew what frequency I’m looking for, then yes.”

  “Wait, activated? What’s the warm up cycle before the solar depletion activates—before it extinguishes the sun?”