Dekker's Dozen #002

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.

Flammable Kittens and Conspiracy Theories

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 espoused 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."

Dekker grinned. Just as I thought. The MEA's covering up the incident at Osix. The possibility of a resurgent Mechnar threat would destabilize the people. His subtle threat of an information leak won them the contract.

"Bidding is over," the bureaucrat announced. "The job goes to Dekker's Dozen for his bid amount, plus five percent." The premium implied hush-money.

Exasperated, Dekker never hid his frustration with the bid process. Potential data leaks were across the board. The MEA should have hired Dekker privately without risking the security of the prisoner, and he let the bureaucrats know it. Because of the defunct process, the time and date of the prisoner transfer had become public knowledge.

Dekker switched off the monitors and the secure data feed whirred as details for the new job downloaded. He looked up to see Vesuvius coming in.

With a sober expression, Vesuvius displayed the katana. Dekker's face fell with shock and dismay.

"Shin?" he asked, recognizing the markings. His voice was as close to trembling as it would ever come.

Emotions still bottled up, Vesuvius nodded and bowed her head.

Dekker hesitated, unsure of what to do. "Um..." he fumbled and then stepped forward and embraced her. She buried her face in his broad shoulder. Shin had long been one of Dekker's best friends, but he was like a brother to Vesuvius.

Finally, in the security of Dekker's arms, she let out her emotions and broke. Only in his arms, nowhere else, would she ever allow that. Not even with Guy.

In that moment, the contract became unimportant. Dekker didn't bring it up. For a long time, he simply held her.

* * *

Vesuvius dreamed. She remembered; the memory overtook her when her guard was down—as she slept.

Flames terrorized her, flames and the howls of her dying father. This memory haunted her more than any other. Vivian was just a girl, barely beginning to cope with the changes in her teenage body. She remembered the kitten, a gift from her father on the anniversary of her mother's death. She loved that kitten.

The flames became gushes of water—they nearly drowned her as they quenched the blazing apartment—drenched everything with cold wetness. It had come too late, though, to save her father, the famous war general, Harry Briggs. The memory remained preserved in crystal lucidity.

A Krenzin zealot burst through the door of their home; he stunk like the inflammable canister he carried. Her father tried to stop him, but had only been doused, himself. The media called it a 'peaceful demonstration gone wrong.' Flames engulfed both zealot and general with an inferno that couldn't be extinguished, killing them both.

She remembered the stench of burning flesh as it lingered in the air. She remembered the blackened cadavers of her father and of the Krenzin 'peaceful demonstrator;' the body of her scorched kitten lay next to her father's.

There was the thought that haunted her. You can't take care of anything. You couldn't care for a kitten, let alone a child.

* * *

Vesuvius awoke in a cold sweat, her dreams too lucid to tolerate.

She'd awoken in Dekker's quarters, in his main room, curled into a ball on his couch. He'd laid her there to rest; she just didn't want sleep at her own place—she didn't want to be alone with her grief. Vesuvius glanced at the closed doors to Dekker's bedroom: it had always been an impassable barrier. Not even during the serious days of their relationship had she been behind those doors.

It was a mystery she seemed unable to solve. Try as she might, there were aspects of that man that seemed forever closed off to the rest of humanity.

Pounding her pillow, she rolled herself back into the blankets. In a few hours morning would come and they would have a job to do. At least for tomorrow, she didn't have to think about the funeral.

* * *

"You know, those weapons are illegal," a snooty corporal said in his nasal tone. "Only beam-weaponry is allowed per MEA regulations."

Disapprovingly, he looked Dekker up and down. The Investigator flashed him a smile. Dekker wore his favorite weapons, a pair of semiautomatic flak pistols, strapped to his hips and in plain sight.

"Those things are near the top of the banned weapon's list, actually."

"Are you going to take them from him?" Vesuvius challenged. She knew the MEA's law enforcement had a 'hands tied' judiciary system; they were bound by so many layers of protocol and legality the paperwork even to report him would take hours. She glared at the corporal. "Do you really want to slow down this prisoner transfer, or maybe you'd like to keep Austicon around?"

The corporal pretended he hadn't heard Vesuvius. He also pretended he hadn't seen Dekker's weapons and waved them through the security checkpoint.

Guy chuckled, "So this lunatic that eluded us for years, only to get accidentally locked in a cryo-unit by kids on a field trip? This is gonna be fun."

"Don't run your mouth in front of him," cautioned Dekker. "He may have an ugly soul, but he is the most dangerous man in the galaxy. His skills demand respect. Let's not antagonize him."

Guy shrugged. "Well, I hope those kids used the reward money for something worthwhile."

* * *

The Dozen split into three groups. While the job seemed simple by any account, Dekker insisted they maintain the highest alertness. One group remained aboard their armored transport. Another group deployed to the loading zone, weapons ready. Dekker, Vesuvius, and Guy would escort the prisoner to their craft.

"I almost feel sorry for Shaw," quipped Guy.

Shaw's team remained outside in the frigid air which currently registered ten below centigrade. The prison, built in the middle of Antarctica, discouraged escapes by nature of its climate. The prison's surveillance monitored the entire continent via heat signatures which were even more pronounced by the cold.

"If you'd like," said Dekker, "I can always let you trade places."

"No thanks. I'm good."

Vesuvius was in no mood to engage Guy in playful banter. Shin's death consumed her thoughts. After all these years, you'd think I'd be used to my loved ones dying.

The security team led the Investigators on a short walk through sterile corridors until they came to a small retaining room. On the far side of the room, Austicon sat behind a transparisteel barrier watching video feeds of his past exploits. He'd been stuck in the Antarctic detention center for nearly three years as the MEA compiled case evidence against him. Waits of this length were only normal if the death sentence was sought, a rare occurrence. Still, even some Krenzin cried out for lethal justice against the notorious terrorist—especially those with ties to the old Krenzin parliament which fell by Austicon's hands. Austicon's terrorism led to the emergence of the theophilocratic rule of The Pheema.

Austicon grinned sadistically as he watched old footage of his crimes played over and over on various channels. His upcoming trial had become the center of media attention. Pixilated explosions peppered the digital playback as the Krenzin parliament building detonated over, and over again.

Security guards exited and locked the room behind them as the transparent barrier lifted. They weren't paid for this and didn't want to liability for anything that happened after Austicon's cage opened.

"Prognon Austicon," Dekker said, weapons ready.

The criminal looked up, his reverie broken. "Dekker," he said. "Ironic that you should be the one chauffeuring me about. We go way back, don't we? And far forward as well, I should suspect." His tenor words dripped with a sinister tone.

Dekker kept his gaze fixed. Prognon Austicon had an old face, but his body looked virile enough; a long silver mane draped over his shoulders. Even in what appeared as advanced age, he remained extremely dangerous. Enigmatically, he'd always registered as a human in scans, but the assassin had spent over two hundred years as the most wanted man in the galaxy, and he hadn't aged so much as a day in all that time.

"How many years did you waste trying to hunting me, eh? I suppose that this token transport job will help you to recoup a little portion of those losses."

Dekker ignored the taunt. "Fasten yourself to the cart," he demanded.

Austicon stood upright and stared into Dekker's eyes. Dekker's guns stayed level at the prisoner's vital organs. "I wonder," he mused. "If I tried to escape, would you kill me?"

The prisoner chuckled. "My guess is no. You have too much at stake; murdering an inmate would ruin your reputation. Plus, you wouldn't get paid for today's transport."

Prognon Austicon feigned a lunge at Dekker.

The Investigator didn't even flinch at the mock attack.