Dekker's Dozen: The Last Watchmen

The Verdant Seven

Nibbs frowned; Satyr, the dead person from The Pheema's interview, had been the source of the best clues on Nibbs' desk. Although, the more evidence they pieced together, the broader the web of conspiracy seemed to span and the more powerful this enemy appeared. His eyes fell to a photo and a list of names, some of which were circled. Red pen marks linked them to a circled question Satyr had asked, Bankers? Historical ties to Illuminati?

In another margin, Satyr's chaotic scrawl asked, Who are the Verdant Seven? Nibbs was determined to answer that question.

* * *

Prognon Austicon's ship orbited a distant planet at the furthest reaches of human occupation. With the great advances in technology and the relatively peaceful coexistence of most sentient races Homo sapiens had flung themselves far and abroad these last many decades.

He gripped the armrests of his pilot seat and shivered. The demon within raged with resentment at its feigned submission to the red tree. This trip had taken several days to complete and he hated being so far removed from the plans he'd meticulous laid. He did not trust The Pheema. For years the two plotted an underground war against humanity; now they plotted against each other, constantly searching for leverage or weakness.

This trip momentarily removed him from his surreptitious struggle against the Right Hand, but Austicon wasn't yet prepared to defy their masters on the Arbolean Council. The pieces were in play, but for now he waited for the opportune moment, and that meant accomplishing these tasks before him and performing the least of his duties.

The assassin stood and scanned the readouts of the human colony below. This would be the first of many stops along a tour of the occupied territories in the outer rim planets. It would take the long while for anyone to notice the dire fate of populations in these sectors.

Austicon secured the stone vessel under an arm and slid into an atmospheric shuttle. He would operate quickly, slipping in and out, infecting the scheduled colonies. He didn't want to risk his pans by giving that Krenzin snake any extra time to plot against him.

Shutting the door, the ageless killer grinned wickedly. There would be plenty of plotting, but Prognon Austicon would not be the one who died. An otherworldly laughter welled up from within. As the living avatar of what dwelled within, Austicon now doubted that even the power of death held any sway over him.

Austicon transmitted a falsified customs manifest to the MEA constabulary forces below and waited for his clearance to drop planetside. It would not be long, now—and for the next couple days, at least, he could play by the rules.

He smiled again. All in due time.

* * *

Dekker stretched out in the booth at the earth-side pub. Under the table, his leg brushed against Vesuvius's. It had been a tough week following Jamba's funeral. Plus, there remained plenty of work for all of the Dozen, not least of it including the administrative aspects of operating the Salvation. Many of those duties had been voluntarily assumed by MacAllistair. It was an oddly good fit..

"So," the fearless Vesuvius Briggs ventured as she broke the silence, "what are we, Dekker?"

Dekker remained tight lipped. He shrugged, but not indifferently. He treaded unfamiliar waters.

Vesuvius took another swig of her drink. "Well, yeah. That's why I ask. I mean, what does it take to get a guy's attention around here? I don't know if you haven't gotten the signals, or if you're rejecting them? Every time I think we start gaining a little momentum it feels like you purposefully put the brakes on. That feels like rejection to me." She took another drink, searching for some additional courage in the liquid.