Dekker's Dozen #007

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."

Red Tree Blooming

"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'd of been practically 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 sharing.

"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 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 gray zone 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.

She took three hard slashes at him, followed with blocks from his counter attack. They both breathed a little heavier by now. "Doc said something about a promise that he expected you to make good on."

A moment of dawning recognition passed over Dekker's face. Vesuvius used the distraction to push his blade aside; she slapped him across the cheek and gave him a welt.

"Score one for me!"

Dekker rubbed the growing redness from his face. "So that's how it's going to be."

Vesuvius chuckled. A cutesy grin spread wide on her face, pleased with her ability to beat him at his own game. She'd learned many things about misdirection from him—Master Muramasa had always frowned on that and preferred to teach strength and form instead of reaction.

Dekker grinned in response. "So he told you he was going to hold me to that one, huh?"

"Something like that." She gripped the handle of her bokken, aware that he would try goading her into some new distraction and attempt to recoup the point.

True to form, he lunged in with a hard slash from high guard, then three blows, each widening the arc of her defenses. Vesuvius had seen him perform this exact same move in a duel years prior—they'd barely known each other then and it had been the first time she'd seen him with a blade.

One step ahead of him, she stole Dekker's next action and hit the bottom of his sword with a palm-strike. The bokken popped out of his hand and into the air.

Dekker grabbed the wrist of her sword hand in both of his—he'd obviously intended for her to disarm him like that. His firm grip tightened and he rolled her across his hip. They both spun to the mat; her practice sword clattered to the ground and rested atop his, nearby.

They rolled through half guard and grappled for a few moments; sporadic laughter punctuated grunting as they each anticipated and countered each other's maneuvers. Finally, Vesuvius decided on a full guard position and wrapped her legs tightly around Dekker's waist where she could wait to lock in a submission hold if it presented itself.

Sweat dripped off Dekker's nose and brow, stinging his eyes slightly. "You know, if this was a real fight I'd just do this," he widely spread his legs for a base, grabbed her waist and lifted her up in the air as he stood. "Now, I'd just drop you."

"But that'd be downright ungentlemanly of you." She winked at him. Then, she tightened her core and arched herself forward and pressed her lips to his neck—latching on with a different sort of submission hold. She turned her face to his and kissed him. Vesuvius felt Dekker's genuine surprise ripple through his tense body. Seizing his left wrist, she released her locked legs and tripped him backwards—setting in a painful, Brazilian wrist-lock.

Breathing heavy, sweating, and in pain, Dekker coughed a surprised laugh and then tapped the mat. They collapsed against each other, breathing heavy and let their bodies cool down.

A brief moment of awkward silence followed. The timing felt both perfect and terrible for revisiting their romantic discussion.

Vesuvius mustered up the courage. Just as she opened her mouth to break speak, Dekker said the oddest thing.

"Ezekiel?"

Vesuvius untangled herself from Dekker and stood awkwardly at arm's length. She'd locked the door after her: before launching the initial surprise attack on Dekker.

The tattered old man leaned against the far wall; nonchalant, he held a large, metal bowl of fruit under his left arm. He bit into a mango he clutched in his free hand. The same heavy contraption hung off his back, held in place by a cracked, leather harness.

Aside from the fruit and muddy boots he looked exactly the same as the last time she'd seen him, just moments before her uncle's death. He spoke. "Sorry. I didn't mean to intrude. I can wait; I have all the time in the world."

Vesuvius noticed the way Dekker's jaw tensed. She collected her swords and excused herself, anticipating her partner would catch him up later. "You're eating with us, right? We're still breaking into those gourmet officer rations?"

"I'll be there," he promised.

She turned and left.

An awkward silence hung as Dekker and Ezekiel both watched her leave. "That woman is a good match for you. You make an excellent team, and you probably need her more than you'll ever realize."

Dekker sighed, resigning himself to the surreal conversation he knew would unfold. "I'm sure. Just, please, don't strap anymore ancient artifacts to me. I've already got one galaxy destroying super-weapon in my closet. If you keep showing up, I'll run out of room."

"Oh, no. Just this." Ezekiel handed him the bowl of fruit; he kept a fig in one hand. Heavy, the bowl weighed more than Dekker expected.

Ezekiel continued, "I just wanted to gain your attention for a few minutes and inform you that everything is going exactly according to schedule, again."

"You mean, that whole thing about me destroying all of reality. Yeah. I'm sure you gave me the DNIET weapon just so that could be accomplished. But I don't think I really want to play that game, Ezekiel. I don't think I want to be the guy that destroys everything. And the fact that whatever this failure, or decision, is will cost me my life is disturbing—I'm not the kind of guy who sees suicide as a viable option."

"You seem so sure of this, so sure of everything. You've had the means for reality's destruction all along. It's part of you, inescapable. And you seem sure that this is a bad thing. Let me ask you if excising a diseased branch is a bad thing if it prevents the death of the whole tree?"

"Logic says no, but what about me? I understand you've got some grand, superhuman understanding of parallel timelines and alternate realities, but what about my say?"

"I already told you. It is your choice. I just happen to know what it will be, through no fault of my own. The failure of the Watchmen does not exist in every reality, and that is why you will do what you do. In at least one branch we saved Aleel; in some, Austicon killed your father at the monastery and you never existed. But those realities do not mean that this reality doesn't matter, that you are unimportant to the great machine."

"It sounds like you're trying to anthropomorphize this contraption," Dekker retorted.

Ezekiel's face softened. "But I am. He feels, he hurts, he yearns for restored completeness—both His and yours. Don't you remember journeying through him when we traveled back previously? When we jumped through the divine machine?"

Dekker gave it some thought. A wave of suppressed memory washed over him. He remembered momentarily sharing the machines desire, passions, and pain. He looked at Ezekiel with moistened eyes; the emotions had shot through him like they were his own.

"If Aleel isn't dead in every reality, does our son live in others?"

"In some of them. Not all. Not your reality; the surviving Aleels belong to another Dekker. You named him David."

Dekker nodded. "And Vivian?"

"She's strong, hard. She endures in all of them, though her role seems faded in this one. She waits for something, in this line."

"What should I do?" It was unlike Dekker to ask advice, but he did it anyway.

"Continue—stay your course. What you're doing is good, Dekker." He looked at his timepiece and cranked a knob on his machine. "I know you yearn for your lost Aleel, but she is gone. Keep Vivian close, she is dearer than you realize. And, in the end, new life is spawned by through the destruction. Apart from the great engine, celestial observers might never notice the pain in the absolute violence of your decisions." He let the cryptic words dangle in the haze of confusion.

Ezekiel gave a goofy looking salute. "Until later, watchman." He tossed the fig to Dekker as if to punctuate his statement and with a belch of smoke he vanished.

* * *

Dekker carried the bowl of fruit as he walked through the corridor. He'd spent an hour agonizing over any clues the basin might contain. Ezekiel was an enigmatic person and the fact that all the fruits were native to the mid-east did not escape him. But after careful study, neither bowl nor figs or date proved no more special than the next. The only peculiar thing was the weight and material of the bowl. It was old and likely from the place in ancient history Ezekiel had traveled from.

The doors parted automatically and Dekker found his dozen already seated at the officer's table. They each raised a wine glass at his entry. "To the victors go the spoils of war!" Guy said officiously. "I think that's a quote, or something. Hey, is that fresh fruit?"

Dekker smiled. This was his crew. "Yeah, pretty fresh." Of course, it could have been several millennia old, technically speaking. He set the bowl on the table and several of his mercenaries greedily grabbed for it, emptying the vessel within moments.

"I trust you are comfortable, Dr. MacAllistair?" Dekker asked.

The scientist sat nearly hidden in the rear of the room. The paranoia he'd lived so long with had drilled many defense mechanisms into him. Those behaviors had proven enough to keep him alive so far.

He nodded. "Yes." He paused for a moment and then admitted, "This is perhaps the only group that I've been able to trust since... well, you know when."

"Even if we can be a bit fruity at times," Guy popped a date in his mouth. Nobody even groaned at the awful pun. "So, Dekker, I was with Vesuvius when Doc Johnson said something about you owing him something? We all know you and Vees. She's too kind to say anything publicly, she'd never kiss and tell but—ow! She'd also never kick a friend under the table."

Vesuvius grinned surreptitiously. "Yes, Dekker. Do tell the story."