Dekker's Dozen: The Last Watchmen

Red Tree Blooming

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."