Dekker's Dozen #010

Prognon Austicon watched with a mixed feeling of satisfaction as the full force of the warship Salvation's weaponry rained down upon the Jerusalem fortress. The planet shuddered and the blast-wave rippled outward, annihilating everything within miles of ground zero, including the krenzin protestors. Austicon knew the pain this choice must have caused Dekker.

He whirled and walked away from the view-screen and tapped a large, stone cask. Just one of two, the sealed vessels had been fit with electronic, remote locks. Austicon gave an order, "Leviathan, load this onto my ship. The arboleans and humanity may have purchased a little more time, but their end has still been assured," he grinned.

"These containers hold the arboleans' only natural predators, the arbophage scarab. Capable of surviving extreme conditions, even complete vacuum, they live to eat: but only eat one thing. These little beauties slip into torpor without sensing suitable food-sources."

Leviathan mentally contacted two Mechnar units to complete the loading task while his god monologued.

"Everything is subject to the food chain." Austicon smiled wide and wicked. "Do you know what my natural predator is?"

The psychic assassin knew the answer. None existed.

Austicon stared at the second, sealed and repurposed sarcophagus. "Dump that one into the atmosphere above the planet Rico."

Return to Osix

Dekker stumbled down the smoking, hot blast crater. The craggy depression was all that remained of the once stalwart Jerusalem. Frustrated, he kicked a charred femur which lay half buried within the dust. Dekker screamed at the top of his lungs: raspy and painful—the groan of a desperate man.

Small pyres of burning refuse flickered randomly. The flames offered the only color in an otherwise deathly gray landscape.

Dekker staggered through the destruction he'd unleashed and toed through the debris, hoping against hope that Krav had survived. His orders to annihilate the great city, the only community to successfully maintain autonomy from the MEA, weighed heavily on him. Survivors were not expected, but Dekker prayed for at least the one.

He desperately needed Krav to be right. Krav had walked into a deadly situation sustained only by his faith in an ancient myth. Ezekiel had chastised his fellow Jew for such misguided beliefs—but if Krav was right, if he'd survived, then Ezekiel could be wrong. Maybe he could be wrong about Dekker's morbid destiny, too. If Krav is dead, then perhaps so are the Watchmen, faith, and everything Jude Knight stood for.

Dekker arrived at the lowest depths of the crater and sank to his knees. With bare hands he dug through the ash and slag. He overturned cinders and cracked bone; all flesh had been vaporized—flash boiled by the orbital bombardment.

A blackened skull disintegrated as Dekker uncovered it. The next handful of soot contained a hard lump of metal. He held it up and examined it, noticed the markings and ornate metal work. Having owned the stolen artifact for almost all of his adult life, he recognized Nehushtan despite the twisted, mangled form. This was Krav's grave.

Vesuvius stepped behind him. "I know you wanted to restart your life here, to resume the Watchmen and honor your father, to hit reset on your life."

Her words hung heavy in the air. Dekker set his jaw. His face resolute and grim, he'd put off emotion: become a man of action and dedicated resolve.

He stood and faced her. "Krav is dead." He sighed as one whose fate had also been sealed here.

She put her hand on his chest. "Your eyes tell me you're giving up on everything, Dekker Knight. Is there still an us? Do I get a say? Or will you end that, too? Because everything has felt new so recently with you and I. I know you wanted a fresh start, so why must this kill our dreams and why must they wait until you bury Prognon Austicon? You will bury him; I know it beyond a shadow of a doubt. So why can't you wait to restart your life until after his death?"

Dekker looked into her eyes and then embraced her. He couldn't hold onto his bitterness anymore—not with the current state of things. "I know you're right. So much death, but everything can still be new." He leaned in and kissed her, holding her tightly against his body at the bottom of the hellish pit.

An urgent chime beeped from his communicator. Dekker broke the embrace and answered.

"Dekker, you've got to get over to Darkside Station as soon as you can," said Doc Johnson. "I've been rummaging through some old files, looking for something I saw decades ago in cold storage. I found it, and it just may save your life."

He'd ever second guessed Doc, and he wasn't about to begin now. "I'm on my way," Dekker replied.

* * *

"So I read this file years ago," Doc said, pry-bar in hand. Fryberger was conspicuously absent. "Now, you didn't get this information from me. The clearance level on it is so high that it carries a kill notice for leaking the info. Not that it makes a difference, the MEA of recent years doesn't have the stones for that kind of thing and it looks like the government's gonna collapse sooner rather than later. I don't expect I'll be around, anyhow. I'm doing like most of those done from other sections of the moon—heading back to Earth, trying to find my loved ones. We're gonna die up here without supplies from Earth and those don't look likely—I might die planet-side, but at least I got a choice of where that might happen."

The huge, wooden box in the center of the warehouse floor was identifiable only by a set of numbers and various cautionary warnings. He rammed the tool into the seams of the crate and split it open; the sides fell off and collapsed to the floor.

Once exposed, they found a self-contained cryogenic unit, running on a nuclear cell with a two-thousand-year battery cycle. Doc wiped the frost from the glass and exposed the life form within. Frozen inside was an elder drone, one of the arbolean apothecium zombies, recognizable by the elongated, gnarled and split horns protruding from the skull.

"So they knew," Dekker stated. "Don't tell Guy. He's always been a conspiracy nut. How long has it been here?"

"Oh, it only gets worse." Doc opened a door to a smaller cryo-unit and withdrew a tray of twelve stoppered vials. "This unit has been in cold-storage... heh, cold storage." He laughed at the unintended pun. "Records date it to over three hundred years old. It's been here for as long as Darkside station as existed. Someone's been keeping this thing a secret for three centuries."

"Did they forgot about it?" Vesuvius asked.

"Not a chance. Every five years the crate gets a review, as with many other special tech projects, not by me, by people way above my paygrade. Something about keeping it current for R and D potential. And here's the kicker," Doc held up a vial. "A vaccination that prevents the attachment of the apothecium spores." He flipped open a bound report and pointed to a medical passage. "Symbiotic spores attach to the victim in a similar method to a virus. This ain't a cure, but it prevents an initial infection. There are just these doses. I figure that's what you got left after losing Nibbs, and adding your Doctor."

"Eleven."

"Eleven?"

"We lost Krav in Jerusalem. You take a dose for yourself."

Doc shook his head. "Nah. If everything falls apart, and I think it will, I'd hate to be one of those few survivors. I ain't nothing but a glorified warehouse manager and pencil pusher. I'll share whatever fate Earth gets. I got family down there, estranged as they may be. I just don't think I could take the knowledge that they didn't get a dose while a bum like me did." He pushed the ampoule back. "Save it, freeze it. You never know, maybe it can be replicated and used to save other lives, should we all outlive the next few days."

"You think it's that bad?" Vesuvius asked.

"Oh yeah. Every hour, more of those ships arrive, ships from both sides: old mechnar cruisers and ghost ships. The MEA fleet has held back thus far, but the way the battle is going for the Mechnar ships and whatever that other enemy is, it's a wonder neither side has run out of units, yet."

"Let's just be glad they didn't have the sense enough to join forces until after they'd taken down Earth." An awkward silence followed with all parties nodding agreement that, as imminent as their destruction looked, it could've been bleaker. Dekker firmly shook his comrade's hand. "Doc, it's been an honor."

"Likewise, my friend." Doc Johnson winked at him. "And if we both survive this, I'll be wanting those cupcakes." He pressed a data disc into Dekker's palm.

* * *

Dekker sat on his bed. From within his inner sanctum he activated his communications device and contacted the other ten members of his team, plus Doctor MacAllistair, and summoned them to his location.

They all arrived promptly but each hung back at the threshold. No person had ever been past that point that they knew of. None was eager to rush past what had always been a boundary in the past.

"Come on, you bunch of babies," Vesuvius chastised. She stepped through and entered his world.

Dekker waved them all in. Laid out upon his bed were the prized artifacts and historical items that he'd kept hidden all these years in a kind of shrine-like private museum. An old tome lay next to the reliquary, a faded but framed photo of an Arabic woman in her youth, the top portion of the ancient scroll of Benaiah—the bottom of the text had been burned off by early Romans, a beautiful, primeval sword with a jeweled grip, Ezekiel's mysterious package, and the mostly melted bronze serpent amongst other odd items.

"Seeing as how the next couple days might just be the last ones left for the human race I feel I ought to level with you all. You're all family as far as I'm concerned, and you've kept your curiosity for my past in check all these years. You know bits and pieces: that I am the last of the Watchmen, an ancient order with roots dating to Solomon's knights which faltered and became the Templars, and eventually evolved into the Watchmen after the dark years.

"After the systematic eradication of organized religion and the burning of human holy books and relics through the generations, we've collected them, preserved them, and passed them on while sharing them. This was the reason for the assassination of my wife, child, and my father near the end of the Secret Wars. This is the reason Prognon Austicon has tracked me all my life, and I him. He believes that killing me and destroying this book will kill God himself: would seize the very engines of reality and annihilate being. He thinks all existence will cease."

An uncomfortable pause. "Is that true? I mean if Austicon wins," MacAllistair asked. "I remember out first meeting, Dekker—I know what I've seen. I'm a man of science and what I've experienced convinces me of some kind of divine mechanism. Can Austicon really break reality? Can anyone kill a god?"

"I don't know," Dekker replied. "I only know that the Watchmen stand for something beyond any mere investigators. We had an old saying, a mantra: 'protect the book; share the words.' Right now, we eleven stand in the gap between an unmasked evil and the continued existence of humanity." He glanced at each face in turn, noting the absence of Nibbs. "Watchmen stand against evil and stand for life. I know you don't know our ways, our secrets, or history, but will you stand with me? I must face this evil, will you join the Watchmen and live for more than this?"

Everyone remained firmly rooted. Guy stated the obvious, "We've just been looking for an official definition, brother. We've always been with you; it's been a long time since any of us have been mere investigators. None here would live for anything less than opposing this evil."

Dekker nodded, smiling for the first time in what felt like forever. He reached for his book. "Let me tell you more about the Watchmen and these artifacts." He paused. "First, let me give you each this." He passed out the vials he'd received from Doc Johnson, "And then we'll bring this fight to Osix."

* * *

"Contact them again!" Captain Johns said, exasperated. Aides bustled back and forth, delivering reports and relaying messages. He'd been trying to raise the Salvation for the last four hours.

He frowned at the next two incoming aides and waved them off; he knew they bore more dire news about the planet-side conditions below. Earth would have to hold her own until the orbital turmoil could be dealt with. Surface conditions were a mess; humanity had descended into chaos and mass panic. Until the two sparring enemy forces nearby could be terminated or routed, the rioting would continue, and that's why he needed Dekker's help.

A much refreshed image of Dekker filled the communications console. "You called?" he asked.

Trying not to sound irked, Johns replied. "Yes. Our forces have prepared for a full assault against the interlopers. We've been tracking the data and both sides' reinforcements tapered off hours ago. Both fleets have also sustained significant damage, though the Mechnar forces have certainly asserted battlefield dominance over the mysterious invaders."

"That's the advantage that shields give," Dekker replied.

"The time to strike is soon! I'm sending you our tactical plans now. Your cloaking field will certainly be pivotal to the plan."

"Hate to cut you short, Captain. I'll send the information on, and we're definitely with you, but I'm going to be personally... elsewhere."

Dekker could read Johns' confused look. "I'm leaving the Salvation under the command of Mister Corgan, one of my men, and Doctor MacAllistair. Corgan probably knows the ship better than I do, anyway. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got a moon to go blow up." Dekker stepped off camera.

A bewildered Captain Johns stared at the screen for a moment. Another of Dekker's crew poked his head into the feed.

"He doesn't mean our moon. It's a different moon, different system. I hope," Guy teased. "Oh wait, here comes Corgan. Allow me to introduce you."

* * *

From the Salvation's command center Corgan watched the Rickshaw Crusader blast into FTL as it headed for the planet Rico and its moon, Osix. He turned to MacAllistair, "Are you ready to go to war?"

"As ready as I'll ever be."

"Captain Johns, this is Corgan, we're ready to move into position." He switched on the ship-wide communicator and warned the live-aboard residents to double check the integrity of their escape pods and man whatever systems they'd been trained to operate. Any with piloting skills had already been assigned a place in John's fleet.

"Copy that, Corgan. Keep my babies safe."

"Indeed. Salvation out." He activated the cloaking device and the ship disappeared with a shimmer. The field extended to cover the host of A-class and B-class fighters that had attached themselves to the Salvation's hull with magnetic docking clamps.

Pushing the engines as best as he could without disrupting their light-bending invisibility field, they laid in a course to skirt the edge of the nearby conflict and flank their enemies. They intended to surprise them at their exposed rear line after they turned to defend against the MEA assault. In full black-out mode the massive Class-G crawled towards effective weapons range. They held course; it would take time before they arrived at their intended position.

"SHIP," Corgan commanded, "Activate mechanical loader drones for 'Plan B' contingency."

"Confirmed." SHIP replied.

MacAllistair fidgeted anxiously. "And now?"

Corgan observed the MEA ships moving into position, grouping for their initial assault. "Now we can only wait."

* * *

The FTL jump was faster than it seemed. It only took a couple hours and they used every second of it preparing and rehashing everything they had learned about the arboleans. The FTL drives cut out and dumped the Rickshaw Crusader into real space near the krenzin outpost. The system's two bright red suns shone like rubies; a third, dimmer star glowed with an ominous, ruddy gloom.

Shuddering under unexpected fire, Matty whirled the Crusader around and adjusted shield control. The outpost's gunnery turrets fired poorly placed shots.

"What's going on?" Dekker demanded, bursting into the cockpit.

Matty pointed at the station. "I highly doubt that's one of the Valkyries Nibbs told us about." The comm unit crackled.

"Human interlopers," the outpost accused, "You won't get anywhere near that moon!"

Another poorly aimed barrage burst towards them. A few of the more accurate shots glanced harmlessly off their deflector shields.

Dekker glowered at the krenzin observation station. "So the krenzin have betrayed mankind, wholesale. Idiots. But I'm thankful for the information they offered—the target is definitely the moon. What damage do you think we'd sustain in a close flyby?"

"Negligible."

Dekker nodded. "Then take us in. Let's rip her open."

The Crusader pivoted sharply in the void and streaked towards the observation center. Unshielded, the krenzin light armor didn't stand a chance against the ship's guns.

Matty tipped the Crusader into a tight roll as they dipped under the station's underside. Guns blazed, the heavy cannons tore through the underbelly of the outpost and caused catastrophic damage. Atmosphere vented while critical, mechanical sections collapsed.

With just the one strafing run, the Rickshaw Crusader left the krenzin traitors to a dire fate. Abandoning further, unnecessary attacks they vectored for the Osix moon, ignoring the random shots flung wide by a solitary gun turret that clung to the misguided belief that it remained a relevant threat.

"Take us down," Dekker directed with his eyes fixed on the target.

* * *

Corgan and MacAllistair watched the passive scanners as they pushed past the rear of the arbolean forces. Data streams downloaded to the man banks, but the most interesting information came from the visual scopes. The cloaked ship passed close enough to study the vessels that had fallen back to recoup after battle at the front line.

Through the damage and gaps between hull and rib supports they could pick out the movements of the individual infected sentients within the ghost ships. They watched the apothecium spore zombies operate within a zero-atmosphere environment. Passive scans showed that none of their ships maintained full hull integrity. Instead, each possessed large, internal air bladders with veins supplying the ships extremities much like a heart pumping blood to a human body; the air mixture possessed high levels of carbon dioxide, likely to enable photosynthesis. They already knew from previous encounters that the infected breathed very little and had more in common with flora than fauna.

They watched their enemy working within their vessels. Occasionally, the drones attached to fibrous tethers on the vine-work which supplied a dose of necessary gas.