Muramasa, Dekker, and Vesuvius milled outside the temple. Shin’s body remained inside, available for viewing until the next day when his body would be burned after the funeral.
None of the three seemed ready to go inside. The elder Muramasa asked, “Should I see you to your room? Perhaps you’d like to put your luggage away first?”
“Rooms,” Dekker corrected with a gentle smile. Muramasa had been trying to steer them together over the years after the early tragedies in Dekker’s life which threw him into Muramasa’s care for a period. He continued to do so, even after they split. “I think our bags will be fine here until after.”
Muramasa nodded. “In that case, let me take my niece for a walk.”
Dekker nodded. He spun on his heel and slipped into the crowd of mourners, giving them their privacy.
Vesuvius took Muramasa’s arm as they meandered through the ornate gardens of the temple grounds. She proudly wore Shin’s blades on her hip.
“You are all that remains of us now,” Muramasa stated; a slight tremble warbled his voice. “You know that you have always been like a daughter to me?”
Vesuvius nodded, continuing in silence. Her family line was a complicated one; Muramasa raised her through her teen years, playing the part of a second father, really.
“Family can mean more than just blood, sometimes. I am afraid, though, that it might all end with you.” He keyed in on exactly what primal fears afflicted her—even when they spent so much time apart, Muramasa knew her. “Don’t let your fears about family dictate your future.”
She turned as if to scold him for assuming she’d let fear control her. She immediately thought better of it.
“Since the General’s death, you may be the last Briggs, but with your mother, my sister, gone, and now with Shin’s murder, you are the last Muramasa, too.”
“I know,” she sighed. Vesuvius wished she could somehow encourage him, tell him there was another way, but he was well past his prime; it wasn’t a viable option. “What would you have me do?”
“It’s not too late,” Muramasa smiled brightly and nodded his head towards the temple. “He still waits for you.”
“Dekker? No. That ship sailed long ago.”
“Don’t be so quick. I’ve known him longer than you have. Has he told you yet about his father, about his own heritage? Do you know about Aleel?”
“Aleel?”
Muramasa looked discouraged. “Don’t mention her name. You must let him tell you in his own time,” he sighed. “Dekker is a complicated man. Above all, he wants to continue his own line—his convictions and commitments demand it.”
“So I’m the last of my line. He’s the last of his, what? You want me to join the two?”
He grinned. “Is it so obvious?”
“It has been for years.”
Muramasa smiled and chuckled. “I’ve made that no secret, I suppose. Just think about it; he has been waiting for you for years now. He has been, although he might not even realize it. At many times, he could have chosen another.”
“I just don’t think I could ever be a mother. I don’t think I can settle down, either; my life is far too dangerous.”
“You will make a fine mother, like my sister before you. You know that you were her everything; she went to such great extremes to gift the world with you, Vivian.” Muramasa flipped her curly, red hair. She should have been half Asian; Muramasa and Shin both teased her for her red locks. Her mother vainly underwent many painful medical procedures in order to conceive; finally she’d opting for donor eggs. “I like your hair like this. Curly.” He smiled warmly.
“Besides,” Muramasa continued, “With Prognon Austicon’s escape, there’s no more dangerous a place than at Dekker’s side—but there is also no place safer. Like his entire lineage, Austicon will hound him until one has fallen. The two are intertwined.”
“And you want me to weave our lineage into that mess? That sounds like every girl’s dream,” she said exasperatedly.
Muramasa grinned. “Perhaps not. But Dekker… is he your dream?”
Vesuvius smiled despite herself. Her uncle, the old sensei, had a way of reading her. “I’ll think about it on one condition.” She steered them back towards the temple. “If you can get Dekker to open up about this mysterious past of his, maybe I’ll seriously consider it.”
“After the funeral,” Muramasa promised. “I will talk with the boy then.” He paused lengthily and composed his thought. “Too many funerals,” he muttered. “Never enough weddings.”
***
Guy stumbled into the cockpit only to find Corgan struggling with the stick. The horizon lurched sickeningly. He asked nonchalantly, “Problems?”
“Nope. Couldn’t be better,” Corgan grimaced.
“Oh good. Here I was thinking we might be crashing while Druze crimelords used us for target practice.”
“That’s a problem?”
The airship shook again as it took direct fire. It rapidly lost altitude and belched smoke from the aft engine.
“Okay,” Corgan admitted. “I think we might have problems.”
The tree-line suddenly enveloped the screens and the skiff smashed through the canopy and dug into the ground. The impact dug up earth and razed greenery; the vessel skidded to a stop, toppled, and finally rested upside down. Gun fire impacting on the vehicle’s shell and echoed through its interior.
Guy slapped Corgan until he emerged from the shell-shock that deafened his ears. “Come on! We’ve got to get out of here!”
Crawling through the capsized vessel, they bumped into Rock. He’d already loaded his favorite weapon and slung the heavy chain gun over his shoulder.
“Prisoner’s gone already! He took off like a jackrabbit as soon as we hit the dirt.” Rock smirked. “If he figured his chances were better on his own than with us, he must really be scared of whoever is shooting at us.”
The three mercenaries leapt through a huge breach in the skiff’s side, ducking gunfire from the heavy transport hovering nearby. They used the side of the vehicle for cover and returned fire.
Guy scanned the grounds and spotted the prisoner. “Lynch!” he shouted.
Lynch stopped just long enough to look back. The momentary delay proved just long enough for a sniper to find his mark. Lynch’s body fell like a ragdoll as the bullet ripped through the side of his head, leaving only a surprised look on Lynch’s face as whatever intel he possessed disappeared permanently.
Using their wrecked ship as a shield, Rock swung his chain gun at the enemy cruiser and squeezed off a couple hundred rounds. The enemy spun for position as the bullets chiseled away its armor.
The fore missile launcher swiveled as it targeted Dekker’s damaged craft; Guy grabbed his men and yanked them away from their cover. A rocket streaked into the guts of the grounded skiff, erupting with billowing flames and flinging the three survivors behind the dirt embankment furrowed up by their crash-landing. Wreckage and debris lay everywhere.
Behind the dirt berm, Guy and company crawled beneath a large hunk of hull and waited. After several long, uncomfortable minutes, the Druze airship departed. Guy scrambled from the rubble and ran for Lynch’s lifeless body. “Ah, crap.” He looked back at the burning wreckage. “Double crap.”
Lynch’s hand relaxed and he dropped a wadded up piece of paper.
Guy unfolded it. Lynch wrote a message as they crashed; pen marks scribbled a barely legible note. The Verdant Seven exist! He’d jotted coordinates below that in a hurried scrawl.
Corgan and Rock flanked Guy. “I thought Dekker told us not to blow anything up?”
“Yeah. I’m sure we’re gonna hafta buy him a new skiff, now.” Guy checked his GPS against the coordinates and started walking through the forest.
“Where are we goin?” Corgan called.
“To get some answers.”
***
Inside the temple, Dekker waved to Vesuvius as she waded through the crowd. He conversed with an oddly dressed older
gentleman. The stranger wore an odd, metal contraption on his back; his ragged clothing and grizzled beard had never been in style, as far as Vesuvius could tell.
Dekker had initially been drawn to the old man because of the heavy, Jerusalemite talisman he wore around his neck. Dekker owned the same one, though he’d never shown it to anyone before, and Dekker knew that the one in his possession dated to many thousand years ago as the genuine artifact.
The old man’s piece shone a brighter bronze than Dekker’s and didn’t have the dented edges, but was otherwise unmistakably the same. Unverifiable myths shrouded the jewelry’s origins; for Dekker, it was his connection to his late father. He had planned to ask the old man about it, but the conversation took a surreal turn.
“Here, Vees,” Dekker called, sounding mildly amused. “You have to meet this guy. Ezekiel you said your name was, right?”
“Yes. I am Ezekiel,” the old man bowed in a way neither had ever seen before. Neither could place his odd accent.
“Ezekiel is a time traveler,” Dekker said matter-of-factly.
At first she thought Dekker misspoke. Ezekiel bowed. “Yes, that’s quite true. And I’m trying to remember exactly what I’m here for just now, or if I’m in the right place or time at all. I’m quite near the end, I think. Time traveling can get very confusing, you see.”
“The end? The end of what?” Vesuvius asked, obviously taking Ezekiel much more seriously than Dekker did.
“Of everything, of course,” Ezekiel responded. “Cessation. When function ends. And then what use is the Grand Machine? If a single cog grinds to a halt, the whole engine could seize.”
“So,” Dekker asked, “The machine is what, time?”
Vesuvius arced a quizzical eyebrow at him.
“Reality itself,” Ezekiel said. “Reality could cease; time would be rendered inert.”
Muramasa joined them. He looked at Ezekiel skeptically. “Who is your friend? How did you know my son?” he asked, looking at the old man with a shimmer of dawning recognition. “You do look rather familiar.”
Ezekiel wordlessly worked his mouth, as if trying to find a justifiable excuse for crashing a funeral.
“Wait! I do know you. You look exactly the same! Many years ago—” A gunshot rang out and interrupted Muramasa. The old sensei collapsed atop the old time traveler, streaking his odd robes with Muramasa’s blood.
Dekker and Vesuvius snapped into defensive stances. Their eyes searched out the danger, though their hearts were with their dying mentor.
Screams filled the air. The crowd erupted in pandemonium trying to flee as a single unit. Snake-like coils of rope dropped from the high ceiling and black-clad footmen rappelled swiftly to the floor, indiscriminately firing weapons into the chaotic crowd.
High on the balcony Prognon Austicon stood holding a pre-war military rifle. He looked exactly as he did before his escape, except for a seeping bandage taped to his neck, and the lack of restraints. He waved at the Investigators playfully.
Ezekiel lowered the old sensei onto the ground as gently as possible. He muttered a string of fretting, confused sounds.
An explosion erupted near the exit, flinging bodies to the ground. A fire ignited the temple walls; the floor became a killing field as black-clad soldiers chewed through the panicked guests.
Dekker and Vesuvius jumped into the fray; Vesuvius with flashing swords and Dekker with guns blazing, each screamed and delivered lethal retribution. Muramasa’s training guided their movements, but even their precise aim and expertise couldn’t protect all the targets. Planning for a funeral and not a mission, Dekker’s ammunition depleted after the first few moments; he launched himself into the nearest enemy and broke the soldiers elbow with a quick maneuver, disarmed him, and assailed another.
From the balcony, Prognon Austicon opened fire, picking off prey one at a time until his magazine emptied. The murderer threw his gun into the crowd below and leapt over the railing. He plummeted to the ground like a dark angel and unsheathed a jagged piece of metal that looked more like destroyed starship wreckage than sword; he hacked through the nearest three people and locked eyes on Dekker.
Staring at the investigator as he went, Austicon walked purposefully towards Ezekiel and Muramasa.
“Wrong. It’s all wrong,” Ezekiel muttered. “I shouldn’t be here. I’m too early.” The old man stood, straightened his clothes, and dusted his pants off. Just before Austicon could reach him, he turned the heavy dial mounted to his rugged belt. The cylindrical contraption on his back belched a quick burst of muddy air and Ezekiel disappeared.
Muramasa groaned, reaching upward feebly as Austicon thrust the wicked blade into him. He stabbed him over and over, laughing and splattering red rain.
An invisible force spun Austicon to the side, twirling him violently and knocking him flat. On the ground, he fingered the hole in his chest and eyed his own blood as if he disbelieved what he saw.
On the other side of the temple, Dekker held a smoking gun he’d stripped from one of Austicon’s soldiers. From behind the barrel, Dekker glared daggers at the wounded enemy.
“You can’t defeat me!” Prognon Austicon screamed at Dekker, holding his steady gaze; he licked the blood from his fingers. “You are the last of your kind—the last keeper of the secret book which binds us. I am the first of my kind!” He stood and challenged him, gripping his jagged blade with a tight fist. Blood oozed down Austicon’s shirt and his limbs looked heavy. “I am the Left Hand of the Red Tree! I wield invincible forces far beyond your ken,” he spat.
The spreading fire flared again, taking on a life of its own. It licked the old walls and devoured anything it could. By now, most everyone who could flee had already escaped. Only a few foot soldiers remained, engaged with Vesuvius, a furious opponent who clearly outmatched all of them combined.
Dekker walked casually to Austicon who teetered precariously above the murdered sensei. “Why did you come here,” he demanded. “Why must you kill all that I hold dear!”
“I’m just tying up some loose ends,” Austicon mumbled drunkenly.
Dekker clenched his lips, and then hooked the psychopath with a right hand haymaker that would have shattered any normal person’s jaw.
Austicon laughed, reeling; suddenly revitalized he stepped up and head-butted Dekker, dropping him to his knees. The murderer towered over him, taunting the Investigator, toying with him like a plaything.
“Perhaps you consider using it? You think that uttering the sacred words might save you? I have news for you. That name has no power over us; there are none fit to wield the secret powers. No person can unleash those forces.” He raised his machete for a killing blow.
At the apex of the arc, both hand and blade clattered to the floor anti-climactically. Austicon stared at his severed wrist as it spurted blood; this time the surprise was genuine. He looked left and spotted Vesuvius who’d thrown her wakizashi with razor precision.
She brandished Shin’s katana. “Not today!”
Dekker seized the moment and pulled his gun to bear and fired seven shots into Austicon’s midsection, not stopping until the chamber clicked empty. Austicon recoiled, howling. Then, he turned and fled, leaping through the flames; the entire building groaned, about to come down.
Vesuvius retrieved her blade as Dekker futilely searched the enemy bodies for bullets. They took one final glance at the bodies of Master Muramasa and at Shin, and then scrambled outside as the temple collapsed in a firestorm.
***
The machine’s chassis rattled below as they tried to coax more speed out of the vehicle than it could muster. “We’re still too slow to catch him,” Vesuvius cursed.
Dekker simply growled in response. Of course Austicon had stolen the fastest vehicle in the temple’s parking kiosk, leaving them to select the second fastest. They’d followed his vapor trail a considerable distance, but it began to fade. They were losing ground.
Neither voiced the nagging thought on both their minds. Exactl
y what was Prognon Austicon—who or what could have lived through the damaged they’d just inflicted on him?
Abruptly, the trail ended altogether. Dekker scanned the area frantically.
Vesuvius punched up a triangulation plotter and vectored the vapor trail on a three dimensional grid. “It looks like he was descending. Maybe he landed?”
“There,” Dekker spat and whirled the vehicle around. Far below, an old factory belched smoke. He activated the VTOL engines and began a rapid descent. The air rumbled beneath them and a section of the building burst, exploding outward.
Dekker landed adjacent to two other vehicles—one he recognized from the funeral. Austicon’s stolen speeder still radiated heat from around the engine compartment. The other transport looked as if it had crash landed here earlier.
Another quake rumbled for several moments before a section of the building’s roof collapsed. Dekker paused by the crashed speeder and yanked a piece of paper off the window.
Vesuvius pointed to the unstable structure. “You think it’s set to self-destruct?”
Dekker handed her the paper. “No.”
She read. I O U. One J.Hawk Class 3 Air Cruiser. Bill to Dekker’s Dozen -- Reef City. She handed it back. “I assume he might be safer with Austicon than you, right now?” She offered a melancholy smile before they charged headlong into the building.
They covered each other and went room by room, clearing the facility. Resistance proved minimal as they navigated the corridors. Most of the hostiles they encountered had already been wounded; most were more interested in escape than fighting.
A loud crash shook the walls, but it didn’t feel like an explosion—it’s reverberations emanated far too long, never peaking and tapering off. They peered through a blown-out window and watched a nearby wing of the facility crumble as a space cruiser burst through the roof, climbing skyward.
“There goes Austicon,” Dekker observed as a soldier stumbled in upon them. Already bleeding from the ragged stump where his left arm used to be, Vesuvius’s blade relieved him of the other arm and then his head before he could even blink in surprise.
The Last Watchmen Page 6
