by Piers Platt
“You’re on New Oz,” the man replied. “It’s what everyone calls this planet. Short for New Australia, not the ‘Oz’ from the movie.”
“What?”
“‘The Wizard of Oz’? It’s an old movie, from centuries ago.”
“No,” Falken said, shaking his head. “I mean, am I back in the facility?”
“Ah. No,” the man said. “You’re in the colony. This is our infirmary, such as it is. My name’s Saltari. And you are?”
“Falken,” Falken said. “How did you find me?”
“A foraging party came across your tracks, and followed them to the beach. They brought you back here, although given your size, I’m surprised they didn’t just heave you into the ocean and let you drown.” Saltari held the water to Falken’s lips again.
Falken swallowed another mouthful. “You’re a doctor?”
“No, I dropped out of med school before earning that distinction. But I’m the closest thing we have. Rest now. And I need my sleep as well. Time for more questions in the morning.”
*
The door to the cabin swung open, and the sudden wash of sunlight woke Falken. He turned and watched as Saltari entered, then set a tray down on a table near the door. He closed the door, picked up the tray, and crossed over to Falken’s pallet on the floor. Saltari was elderly – in his sixties, Falken guessed – but wiry and sun-tanned, and he moved quickly, with an air of impatience. His hair was completely white, matching a neatly-trimmed beard, but his eyes were a piercing blue.
“You’re awake,” Saltari noted. “How are you feeling this morning?”
“Still a little sore,” Falken said, rubbing his stomach.
“That should pass.” Saltari set the tray on the floor, and took Falken’s arm in one hand, placing two fingers on the inside of his wrist. Then he held the back of his hand against Falken’s forehead.
“Mm,” he grunted. “Your fever broke in the night. You’re through the worst of it.” He handed Falken a wooden cup. “Broth,” he said. “And if you feel up to it, there’s an oat roll for you. But drink the broth first, and eat slowly. If you throw up again, you’ll be the one cleaning it up.”
Falken sipped at the broth. It was warm and salty, and the taste reminded him of the meat he had eaten back at the facility. He drank another sip.
“What happened to him?” Falken asked, nodding at the man across the room. Falken couldn’t see much of him, but he appeared to have a bandage around his head.
“Concussion,” Saltari said. “A bad one. Been drifting in and out since we brought him here.”
The older man took a second cup from the tray and crossed the room, squatting over his other charge. Slowly, with care, he lifted the man’s head, and helped him drink. The man coughed and spluttered several times, and Saltari swore in annoyance. But he kept feeding the man, patiently, until the cup was empty.
Falken finished his own broth, and took an experimental bite from the oat roll. It tasted like wheat bread, if a little more grainy than normal.
“Eat slowly,” Saltari reminded him, setting the other man’s head back down. He walked back over to Falken and put the empty cup on the tray. He studied Falken for a few seconds. “I suppose you’re looking strong enough now.”
“For what?” Falken asked.
“The mayor would like to talk to you.” Saltari pointed at the fresh cuts on Falken’s forearm, from his victories. “About those.”
Saltari left, and returned a few minutes later escorting a middle-aged man with short-cropped black hair and frown marks creasing his brow. He stood over Falken and crossed his arms, sighing.
“He’s as big as they said he was,” the mayor said, to Saltari.
“That he is. Probably the only thing that saved him from those mushrooms,” Saltari said.
“Falken, is it?” the mayor asked, finally addressing Falken.
“Yes,” Falken said.
As the silence stretched, Saltari broke in. “Falken, this is the colony’s elected leader, Mayor Luo.”
Falken cleared his throat. “Thanks for saving me,” he told the mayor.
Luo grunted. “I didn’t save you,” he said. “And I’d hold off on the thanks until we decide what we’re going to do about you. What are you in for?”
“Murder,” Falken said.
Luo’s eyes narrowed. “Did you do it?”
Falken took a deep breath, and nodded.
Luo cocked an eyebrow. “Really?” He turned to Saltari. “Well, either he’s an honest criminal, or he’s an arrogant one. Prior convictions?”
“A couple,” Falken said. “Assault and battery.”
“You were on the last parachute drop, about a week ago. Archos and his boys picked you up?”
Falken nodded.
“You’ve already earned your third scar,” Luo said, indicating Falken’s arm. “That’s unusual. Highly unusual.”
Falken noticed that the mayor bore three scars of his own on one arm, though they were all faded and smooth.
“I was a fighter, back on Earth,” Falken explained.
“A boxer?”
“Mixed martial arts,” Falken said. “Before it was banned.”
“I used to watch that, back in the day. When did they ban it?” Luo asked.
“About five years ago.”
Luo shook his head. “Jesus. Five years … time flies, eh Salty?”
The doctor smiled, nodding.
Luo turned his attention back to Falken. “Well, I guess you put that martial arts training to good use. I want you to tell me everything about your time at the facility, from the moment you arrived, to the moment you left. I want to know everything.”
Falken told them, beginning with his capture on the beach, and ending with Archos’ threats on the rooftop, and his flight from the vehicle bay. When he had finished, the mayor rubbed his forehead in thought.
“Sounds like Archos hasn’t changed,” Luo observed, finally. “Why did you leave?”
Falken adjusted his position on the pallet, sitting up slightly. “I didn’t want to die. And I didn’t want to keep fighting.”
“Yeah?” Luo asked. “Seems like you have a history of fighting. Stand up, you big fuck.”
Falken frowned, confused.
“I said, ‘stand up!’ ” Luo shouted.
Falken complied, pushing himself slowly up off the floor, wincing.
“Hurry up, you lazy bastard,” Luo swore. “You’re moving slower than your mom after I’ve fucked her in the ass.”
“What?” Falken asked, anger seeping into his tone. He stood a full head taller than Luo. “What did you say?”
“You heard me, you deaf bastard,” Luo said. “Do I need to kick your ass to get you to listen?”
“Don’t start something you can’t finish,” Falken warned.
“I’ll start whatever the fuck I want to start,” Luo told him. “You don’t like me talking about your whore mother, then do something about it.”
Falken’s hands bunched up into fists. “I’m warning you …”
“Well, quit warning and do something, you big coward,” Luo shouted. “How about this: I pissed in your broth this morning. Did you like it? Want some more?”
Falken felt a flash of hot anger. He sized up the shorter man, tensing himself for a strike. Then, with an effort, he took a deep breath, and let his hands fall to his sides. “I’m not gonna fight you,” he said. “But I don’t have to stay here and listen to this.”
“Stay,” Luo said, his voice softening. He held both hands up, palms out. “That was a test. I apologize for my language, but … I needed to see what kind of man you are.”
“A test?” Falken asked.
“Just seeing if I could get a rise out of you,” Luo said. “I didn’t piss in your broth, and I’m sure your mother is a very nice lady.”
“Such a rude test,” Saltari said, clucking at Luo in admonishment. “Getting my patient all worked up before he’s fully recovered.”
“You accept my apology?” Luo asked, holding a hand out to Falken.
“I guess,” Falken said, still frowning. But he took the mayor’s hand and shook it.
“Relax, Falken, please,” Saltari said, pushing Falken gently back onto his pallet.
“Again, I’m sorry for that,” Luo continued, as Falken sat. “This colony lives and dies by our residents’ ability to be better than our criminal past. That means putting tempers aside and thinking objectively, even under great stress. And a man of your physical strength, and demonstrated abilities … you’d be a great danger if you couldn’t rise above your emotions as well.”
“My emotions are what got me sent here in the first place,” Falken pointed out.
“Perhaps,” Luo allowed. “Perhaps you’re learning to control them already. Either way, if you want to join our community, you have my approval.” Luo clapped Saltari on the back. “Salty here can tell you more about what that entails, but I have a few other things to attend to this morning. I believe there’s a new duties roster to review.”
He smiled briefly, and then let himself out of the cabin. Saltari picked up the empty food tray and set it on one of his work tables, and then pulled a stool over and sat next to Falken’s pallet.
“That wasn’t ideal, but it could have gone worse,” he admitted, grudgingly. “I’ve seen the mayor take a few punches to the chin in interviews.”
“I didn’t know it was some sort of audition,” Falken noted.
“Well, that’s the point,” Saltari said, exasperated. “It wouldn’t work if we warned you about it.”
Falken picked at the scab on the oldest of his scars. “Saltari, how long have you been here?”
“On Oz?” Saltari looked up at the ceiling, thinking. “A hair over thirty years now.”
“So the space elevator was down when you arrived?”
“Indeed. I came in via parachute, as you did. As did all of us – there’s no one left that was around when the space elevator was still operational.”
“Archos was,” Falken said.
“Is that what he told you?” Saltari asked. He rubbed at his chin. “Interesting. It could be true, I don’t know. He’s potentially old enough. Though perhaps he just cooked that story up to impress his followers.”
“I don’t think so,” Falken said. He frowned. “Archos also said they never send a ship down for us. There’s no way to contact Earth, no parole board … none of us ever leave Oz.”
Saltari nodded. “That much is true.” He smiled sadly at Falken. “It’s a harsh truth to learn, but you must accept it, and quickly, if you’re to maintain your sanity. This island is your home now. You’ll spend the rest of your life here. And you’ll die here.”
Chapter 12
In the awkward silence that followed, Saltari slapped his knees and stood up. “On that note … are you feeling up for a little walk?” he asked. “I can show you around the colony. And some exercise might do you good.”
Falken nodded and stood carefully. He followed Saltari toward the front of the cabin, passing the older man’s work benches and tables. They were littered with animal bones, plants in pots, rocks and soil samples, and reams of loose leaf paper, covered in notes and diagrams. Falken gestured at the mess.
“This is your office?”
“My study,” Saltari agreed. “In addition to being the primary physician here, I study the local ecosystem – the plants, animals, soil. My job is to help ensure the colony survives, by managing our natural resources carefully. It’s my reward for getting too old to be of much help in the fields anymore. You won’t get off quite so easily, I’m afraid.”
The old man pushed the door open, and Falken blinked in the bright sunlight, stepping out onto a short set of stairs. In the distance, Falken could see the alien trees of the forest, but the colony itself sat amidst large, open fields, stretching away on all sides. To their right, Falken saw a cluster of single-story wooden cabins, much like the infirmary, arranged in a rough grid. Smoke rose from the chimney of the largest of these buildings. Surrounding the cabins were the fields, much like he had seen in the orientation video – as he watched, inmates walked along the rows of crops, tending to the plants.
“Is that … corn?” Falken asked.
“Mm-hm,” Saltari agreed. “Corn in these fields here, here … and here. Over there is wheat. And behind us are the vegetables – root vegetables, mainly, but some broccoli and legumes, too. It’s not much, our little slice of the island here, but … we survive,” he said, grimacing slightly.
“We’re on an island?”
“Yes, we are – just like our namesake, though this island is much, much smaller. One could walk across it in a day, if one had a mind to.” Saltari climbed down the steps and Falken followed. They set off through the fields toward the cluster of buildings at the heart of the colony. “Do you know the history of Australia? The real Australia, back on Earth?”
Falken shook his head. “Don’t think so.”
“Our home is aptly named. Back in the eighteenth century, England had a surplus of criminals and a newly discovered colony that it wanted to populate – the Australian continent. So it sent those criminals to Australia, and they formed the initial inhabitants of that colony, simultaneously isolating them from the other, law-abiding citizens, while ensuring the crown retained control of this new territory. So it is today, with us.”
“They send us away, so they don’t have to deal with us,” Falken said.
“Just so,” Saltari agreed. “Here we can’t cause them any more trouble. It doesn’t cost them anything to keep us here, we’re not a danger to anyone except ourselves. Here we can be safely forgotten about. Just like the original Australian colonists. And much like they discovered, life on a distant colony is a lot of hard work. It’s subsistence living, and that only barely.”
“Why didn’t they just sail back?” Falken asked.
“The Australians? Some did, eventually,” Saltari told him. He stopped and faced Falken. “But that’s where the similarities between us end. We can’t return. Ever. Understand?”
Falken paused, and then nodded. “Yes.”
“Good,” Saltari said. He set off again.
The two of them passed between a pair of wooden buildings and emerged into a small open square, ringed by cabins. Saltari gestured around the square. “The long building with the chimneys is the Great Hall, which includes the kitchens and a large dining room. We eat our meals there, of course … such as they are. Next to it is the wood-working shed – most of the wood for the buildings and furniture comes from the crates they parachute in. We’ve tried using local wood, but once chopped, it never really dries and hardens properly. We can’t even burn it.”
“Why do they use the crates and parachutes?” Falken asked.
“Why not use a landing vehicle to deliver us here?” Saltari replied. “We’re not sure. But I imagine it’s the cheapest way to do things, and the least risky. If they merely skip through the upper atmosphere and drop a crate every few months, they burn less fuel getting back up into orbit … and of course, if they never land, there’s no chance of us attempting to seize the craft or damage it in some way.”
“Okay, I get that, but … why send us here at all? Seems like a lot of effort to go to, flying us who-knows-how-many light-years from Earth, then just leaving us to fend for ourselves. Why don’t they just kill us and save themselves the trouble?”
“They do,” Saltari said. “We’ll all die here on this rock, and much sooner than we would have back on Earth. You’ll see soon enough – we’ve been sent back to the Middle Ages, technology-wise. Surviving here requires hard labor, and your body will pay the toll. But regardless, they send us here for the same reason the English didn’t simply throw their Australia-bound convicts overboard the moment they got out of sight of land: deniability. If word got out that they were executing convicts, there would be hell to pay. The current government would take the blame. So instead, they send us here. And this wa
y, if asked, the politicians can truthfully say that they didn’t kill us, we’re safely offworld in a secure location. Their consciences are clean, and the budget only has to account for the interstellar shipping of inmates every few months. No maintenance, no supervision, no administration.”
“With no chance to earn our way out,” Falken pointed out.
“True. I didn’t say it was fair for us. Just pragmatic, from a political standpoint.” Saltari squinted, pointing across the square. “Now: back to our tour. The other building with the chimneys is our forge – there was an attempt, years ago, to mine for ore, but it didn’t end well. Tunnel collapses and the like. So again, each time a new batch of convicts arrives, we salvage what we can from the parachute rig. The nails from the crates, the frames of the chairs, and the buckles from the safety harnesses are melted down and turned into basic tools for farming. It’s crude workmanship, frankly – most manufacturing back on Earth is fully automated, and we’ve yet to get sent an inmate with any blacksmithing training.”
“What about the other buildings?” Falken asked.
“Granaries, food storage, and lodgings,” Saltari said. “Bunkrooms. A bit crowded, but workable. They’re building another one right now, in fact.” At one end of the square, Falken saw a group of inmates setting up the frame of an empty building.
Falken turned and looked back at the infirmary. “Why is your cabin off on its own?”
“In case I need to treat someone with a communicable disease,” Saltari said, somewhat defensively. “The distance provides the rest of the community some protection.”
“It’s not because you wanted your own private cabin away from everyone else?”
Saltari crossed his arms. “That’s exactly what the last mayor accused me of, when I first proposed the infirmary be built.”
“What did you tell him?” Falken asked.
“I asked him if he’d ever seen an entire hospital ward overrun with dysentery,” Saltari said, archly.
“Have you ever seen that?”
“You ask too many questions,” Saltari snapped. He glowered at Falken, who tried to suppress a smile. “This way,” the old man said.