The Last Watchmen

by Christopher D Schmitz

  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 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 p
erson 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.”

  Dekker sighed and told the tale of how he’d had to negotiate with his shrewd friend before the Osix mission in order to replace the blown engines on Rickshaw Crusader. MacAllistair smiled at the greatly embellished retelling. The Dozen laughed so hard at the self-deprecation of their usually stalwart leader that Rock even teared up.

  “He said, ‘You know, Dekker, being your friend is an awfully expensive privilege.’ So I says to Doc, ‘Fine. If I ever ask you for anything bigger than this… I’ll wear an apron and serve you a plate of those homemade muffins you love so much!’” That brought on another wave of hysteria. Dekker raised a glass then took a sip.

  Guy had nearly tipped over in his chair. Barely able to breath at the notion of Dekker baking and dressed up like a housemaid, he asked, “Do you all smell something burning?”

  Several others chortled at Guy’s follow up.

  “No. Really.” The tone of his voice became suddenly serious and silenced everyone. Smoldering metal splattered center-table and the acrid stench of molten alloy filled the room as someone melted through their ceiling. A distinct thump followed as a thermal grenade dropped through the aperture.

  In the blink of an eye, Dekker scooped up Ezekiel’s fruit bowl and jumped atop the explosive device, containing it within the heavy dish. He screamed, “Get down!”

  His friends ducked for cover. Only a fraction of a second later, the bomb erupted. The fireball rocketed Dekker to the ceiling and washed flames harmlessly across the emptied table; the bowl absorbed the brunt of the blast.

  Dekker crashed to the table and bounced to the floor. He kicked the scorched, red-hot bowl aside where it smoldered innocuously as he coughed through the pain and smoky air.

  “SHIP! This is Dekker, go to full alert!”

  “Affirmative,” A digitized voice stated.

  As Dekker struggled to right himself, everyone else leapt to their feet, weapons at full readiness. “MacAllistair, in a moment Corgan, Ahmed, and Juice are going to escort you to the safe room. Stay there and don’t open up for anyone except us. After that, you three guard my quarters. I don’t have the security installed there yet; some of my… artifacts… are irreplaceable.”

  They nodded. They’d all seen the reliquary and heard other rumors of the powerful items he collected with fanatical devotion.

  Dekker stated a new command. “SHIP, run a full scan on the deck above and check for life-forms.”

  “There are two life-forms.”

  “Are they wearing personal transponders? Are they live-aboards?”

  “Negative. All live-aboard personal transponders continue emitting locater signals: body diagnostics all read normal; no transponder signals originate above your location. Assumed analysis: these life forms are not accounted for in the ship roster.”

  Dekker spat. “Intruders.”

  “Update based upon scan data. It is possible that these life forms are Mechnar in origin,” SHIP interrupted. “Deploying scanner drones to triangulate and assess onboard threats.”

  “SHIP, alert all live-aboards that they are confined to quarters until further notice.”

  “Affirmative.”

  “Alright. Corgan, Ahmed, Juice, go with the Doctor now.” Dekker fitted a communicator into his ear, stood and dusted himself off. “The rest of us, groups of three, lets bust up some machines.”

  The named trio scanned the corridor outside and covered MacAllistair as they escorted him away. The rest filed out and went different directions. “The bomb was an obvious assassination attempt and it had to be a pro job—it’d have to be to get aboard Salvation. Each group, find a different route, let’s flank em if possible.” Dekker asked, “SHIP, how long before that triangulation?”

  A scanner drone, resembling a motorized ball, zipped by their feet as it raced down the hallway. Like a robot mouse it snuck into a tiny port at the base of a wall. “Four minutes until complete assessment,” SHIP reported into the earpiece.

  Dekker ducked at the sound of gunfire just around the corner. He didn’t have time to react before he, Vesuvius, and Guy were faced with their own enemies. A team of two, lithe and cocky figures strutted around the corner. Clad tightly in black, a full helm covered each face like a jet egg—guns at their sides, they each wore swords at their backs: ninjas of the modern age.

  They stopped for a split second, sizing up their competition. Then, they simultaneously sprang into action, drawing guns and strafing as the investigators dove for cover.

  Dekker couldn’t quite shake the feeling. “There’s something very familiar about these guys!”

  Guy and Dekker had their own weapons drawn. Bursting from behind their cover, they fired into empty air. The assassins shifted with uncanny ability, reacting to each shot before the trigger was even pulled. They seemed to literally dodge bullets.

  Running his pistol dry, Guy pulled out an obtuse gun with a glassine canister tube. Dekker only spared it a glance. “What is that thing?”

  “I got it from Doc! Don’t be jealous. He called it a phlogiston gun.” He fired several rounds, they splattered out with projectile force and expanded rapidly into a sticky, foamy glob. None of the snot-shots snared their enemies, who’d fled before the random splatters could ensnare them.

  A momentary respite followed. “Modified sticky gun,” Guy declared, beaming. “There’re sequenced micro-charges rigged inside each round.” He held up the detonator in his other hand.

  Dekker surveyed the wide, random splatter pattern. “If you get any of that on me, make sure you don’t blow my number. You’ll have to take my place baking those cupcakes.”

  “Everyone here wants to see Dekker do that job,” Vesuvius stated with a grin.

  Guy winked in agreement.

  The trio checked for their attackers and then doubled back to the earlier gunfire. They rounded a corner just in time to lay down a suppressive salvo against another two black assassins. Vesuvius slid down the wall and checked on Nibbs who slumped against the wall; his torso had soaked through with blood.

  “He’s breathing, but barely,” She screamed over the gunshots and applied compression to his chest. “Britton! Get over here!” she yelled; he was their second-most experienced with medical trauma.

  Britton popped up, fired a few rounds at the enemy which moved with supernatural deftness and then moved towards
his fallen comrade. As Vesuvius covered him, Britton wheeled around and took over giving first aid. “It’s like these things can predict exactly where we’re gonna shoot!”

  “Then let’s shoot everywhere and randomly!” Vesuvius whipped out a pair of fully automatic disruptor pistols and squeezed the trigger, screaming with the special, raw rage reserved only for infuriated women; she randomly sprayed a hail of stuttered laser bursts in the general direction of the assassins.

  As soon as she began firing, the two invaders slipped down the hall and out of sight. Vesuvius held the trigger, peppering the area until her barrels overheated. Glowing red, they forced the weapons’ shut down cooling-cycles.

  Shaw joined Nibbs and Britton. He slid down the wall next to Nibbs. Shaw poked a finger through his own shirt and winced. “I think I’m gonna need your help, next, Brit” he said.

  Dekker peeked at Shaw’s shoulder. “It’s not bad. You can still hold a weapon?”

  Shaw nodded.

  “Okay. You guys guard our rear if we need it.” Dekker checked Shaw’s blaster charge to make sure his comrade was at max.

  SHIP alerted them, “Analysis complete. With ninety-five percent certainty, there are six intruders.”

  “Acknowledged.” Dekker signaled Guy and Vesuvius and the others as they gave chase down the hall.

  They cleared the next two rooms and then ducked blaster fire as they charged into a portside loading dock. Nathan, Matty and Jamba were pinned down as another two of the assailants tried flanking their position on the far side of the dock.

  “Just four of em,” Dekker stated the simple math, “And they somehow got us all riled up.” Dekker fired and moved in, advancing behind some heavy machinery.

  Guy fired several globules at random; he didn’t even look. “Fire in the hole!” He detonated the phlogiston rounds and the room rattled, filling with smoke and shouts.

  “Are you trying to kill us all?” Matty screamed. The only thing visible through the haze were flashes of laser fire.

  “I’m just testing a theory!” Guy yelled back. “These things seem to know our own moves before we make em. Seems like they can read minds!”