The Falken Chronicles

by Piers Platt

  Vina smiled at the memory. “And Enzo would always win, and get brain freeze in the process.”

  “You always were the more sensible one,” Rauno agreed. “No root beer float, then?”

  “No, thanks, Grandpa.”

  He turned to leave, but caught sight of the computer. “What’s all that? Catching up on work?”

  “No,” Vina said. “It’s Dad’s case file, from the sheriff’s office. Did you know they let you just download this stuff, if the case is old enough?”

  Rauno sighed. “You’re determined to turn those rocks over still, hm?” He shook his head. “It’s not going to bring him back, you know.”

  “I know,” Vina said. … but Falken’s working on that.

  Her grandfather shook his head, and then disappeared back into the store. Vina turned back to the computer, switching to her own notes document, and reading it from the top.

  So … the evidence log answered the first big question I had. Sheriff Buckniel wasn’t just conveniently in the area, like Mom said. He found Dad at the crime scene because someone left an anonymous tip with the sheriff’s office. According to the dispatcher’s records, a message on their website said that a steer had gotten loose from one of the ranches, and it was wandering along the road, getting in the way of traffic. Which still feels … just a little too coincidental. And also, why would someone care about being anonymous when they reported that? Note to self: did they ever find the missing steer?

  Vina drummed her fingers on the desk, then continued reading.

  Next issue: it looks like the medical examiner and the sheriff didn’t have the exact same timeline. The medical examiner said the time of death was about an hour earlier than what the sheriff wrote down, after interviewing Dad. Why the discrepancy? How accurate are medical examiner’s time of death estimates?

  Vina opened the next file in the Notes section. It turned out to be a memo requesting the release of the sheriff’s full case notes, from Buckniel. She was about to close it, but then frowned.

  Wait a second … why is Buckniel requesting his own case notes?

  She scrolled back to the top, and realized that the memo’s letterhead read From the Law Office of Tarpon Buckniel, Esq. – Public Defender.

  Vina’s frown deepened. “Tarpon?” That’s not the sheriff. She opened a search box and put in tarpon buckniel. The first result was a seven-year-old obituary item.

  … Tarpon Buckniel served as Lawson County’s public defender for nearly eighteen years. He is survived by his younger brother, Sheriff Paulson Buckniel.

  Vina sat back in her chair. So the sheriff’s brother was my dad’s defense attorney. I know it’s a small town, but … wouldn’t that be a conflict of interest, somehow? The younger brother arrests my dad, and then the older brother fails to keep him out of jail. Hmm.

  Vina shook her head.

  Add it to the list of questions I need answers to.

  Chapter 10

  Falken followed Peshai out of the changing room and down the corridor. He shivered involuntarily, but whether it was from the thin inmate’s uniform or nervous anticipation, he could not tell. Peshai led him to a wide hatch flanked by a pair of guards. Above the hatch, Falken saw a phrase stenciled into the frame: All truths are easy to understand once they are discovered; the point is to discover them. – Galileo Galilei.

  A wry smile flickered across his lips. The sneaky bastards were planting clues all along, and I didn’t even notice.

  “Last-minute addition here for you, gentlemen,” Peshai told the two guards, jerking his thumb at Falken. “Take him inside, please.”

  The guards looked Falken over, and he felt a flash of fear, feeling certain that they would refuse and raise the alarm. Instead, the two men simply nodded.

  “Yes, sir,” one said, his expression neutral. The guards took Falken by the elbows, guiding him smoothly into the dimly lit room. Inside, tiers of surly-looking inmates sat waiting, medical technicians hovering beside them, making final arrangements to their equipment. Falken’s guards buckled him into an empty seat, and a technician began hooking him up to a monitoring device. At the front of the room, Falken saw Peshai take his place facing the gathered inmates.

  How many of these rooms are there on board …? Falken wondered. Weaver’s here, somewhere on this ship … maybe just a room or two away.

  “My name is Captain Peshai. I’m the warden of this ship,” the warden began. “And for the time being at least, you are all in my care. The goal of the Corrections Department is to determine whether any of you are capable of reforming, and if you are, to give you the tools you need to avoid offending again. In other words, we aim to rehabilitate you – all of you. But the only person who can determine whether you get a second chance or not … is you. Your actions in the months and years ahead will decide that. We can’t do it for you.”

  Falken saw the vidscreen behind Peshai turn on, and an animated version of the UNCS Sydney appeared in orbit over Earth. “In a few minutes, each of you will be sedated for a period of several months. During that time, this ship will transport you to the colony of New Australia.”

  Falken flinched as the medical tech inserted a needle into his arm.

  “Sorry,” the tech whispered.

  Falken looked up again – the video showed cartoon inmates picking crops under the watchful gaze of surveillance drones. “Think of New Australia as a trial run for reintegration, for life as a free man again,” Peshai said. “You will be under observation at all times, but corrections officers only intervene when it is absolutely necessary. Join the community there, help your fellow prisoners, and in time, you may earn your parole.”

  Everyone paying attention? Falken thought. ‘Cause he just told you how to get out of here.

  Peshai looked up, surveying the room. For a brief instant, his eyes fell on Falken.

  “Good luck,” the warden said. Then he pushed off the floor, and floated over to the exit.

  Falken turned to see his medical tech push down the plunger on a syringe connected to his intravenous line.

  “Hibernation drugs,” the tech explained. “Just let yourself relax and fall asleep. Don’t try to fight it.”

  “I won’t,” Falken said, and closed his eyes.

  *

  “What the hell’s going on?”

  Falken started awake. The room was dark, and he could hear wind whistling through the cracks in the walls.

  Falken shook his head, trying to clear the cobwebs from the hibernation drugs. His mouth was dry, but the fuzzy feeling in his head faded after a few deep breaths. He felt a sharp jerk, and then his seat seemed to sway beneath him.

  There goes the parachute.

  “Hello? Is anyone else awake?” one of the inmates across the room asked.

  Falken let his eyes adjust to the dark – after a moment, he saw the man who had spoken fumbling with his seat harness.

  “I’m getting the fuck out of here,” he said.

  “I’d stay seated if I were you,” Falken told him, as the man climbed out of his chair.

  “Oh yeah, big guy? Why’s that?” the man sneered.

  The crate slammed into the ground, and the man tumbled to his hands and knees, cursing.

  That’s why, Falken thought, calmly unbuckling his harness. He stood and turned to the wall behind his seat, and kicked hard at the wooden slats, methodically widening a hole large enough to fit through. Then he climbed out of the crate, pushing aside the silk of a parachute and straightening up. On the far side of the clearing, Falken saw a stand of spiral-shaped trees, their lower trunks smooth and white. In the distance, he heard the warbling cry of a female blue-ball.

  He took a deep breath, and smiled despite himself.

  Oz. Son of a bitch.

  “Where the fuck are we?” an inmate asked, emerging from under the parachute.

  “Landing zone four,” Falken said, without thinking.

  “What?” the man asked, frowning. “What are you talking about, ‘landing
zone’? Where’s the damn space elevator?”

  About three miles that way, Falken thought. What’s left of it.

  He turned slowly in place, taking his bearings. Okay, the facility and ruined space elevator are that way … no sense going there. Weaver should be at the colony. But I want to check something else out, first.

  Behind him, two more men emerged from inside the crate. Falken glanced back at them, then started in surprise.

  You’ve got to be fucking kidding me …

  Auresh’s eyes narrowed as he recognized Falken. Beside him, Cadellium straightened up, frowning. Then he, too, recognized Falken.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” Auresh asked.

  Maintain the illusion, Falken told himself. “Got into some trouble back on Harrison’s after the trial,” Falken lied. “Why? What are you in for?”

  Cadellium sneered at him. “You know damn well.”

  Auresh put his hand on the older man’s arm. “That’s okay,” he said. “No sense starting trouble. At least not yet.”

  Falken drew himself up to his full height and glared down at them. “If you think you want trouble with me, I’d think again.”

  “You’re a big man, but even big men have to sleep sometimes,” Auresh told him.

  “And there are two of us,” Cadellium added. “Sweet dreams.”

  Two? Where’s Shep? Falken wondered. Ah, right: he was a repeat offender. He doesn’t get a second shot at Oz.

  Falken was about to reply when he saw a group of inmates emerge from the trees, their uniforms faded and tattered from long years of use. They dragged a pair of crude wooden sleds behind them. This will be the scavenger team from the colony.

  “Welcome to Oz!” the lead inmate called out. “You boys better come with us if you don’t want to end up with Archos and his crew.”

  “Who’s Archos?” a new inmate asked, but Falken had already started toward the tree line.

  “Hey!” the scavenger team leader called out. “That ain’t the way to the colony, big guy.”

  “I know,” Falken said. He glanced at Cadellium and Auresh one more time, and then turned his back and disappeared into the trees.

  He ate the energy bar in his supply pouch and drank one of his water bottles as he walked, setting an easy pace through the trees. After a few minutes, he glanced up at the sky, spotting a pair of New Australia’s moons through the tree-tops, and further to his right, the sun. He squinted, gauging the sun’s distance from the horizon.

  Mid-afternoon, he judged. Assuming those hibernation drugs only knock you out for an hour or so while they get you hooked into the simulation, it looks like the time on Oz is synced up with the time on the UNCS Sydney. Peshai said he could give me a week … so I better remember to keep track of how much time has passed. But did he mean seven days starting tomorrow, or does it include today? Falken shook his head. Shit. I don’t know.

  He picked up the pace, breaking into a slow jog. Nearly twenty minutes later, the coastline emerged into view through the trees, and Falken saw that he had picked his course nearly perfectly: Lookout Hill was just a few hundred yards to his left. The buried bulk of the UNEV Khonsu rose up over the ocean, dotted with trees. Falken hurried over to it.

  He checked the worksite first – the spot between the hill and the ocean where he and Weaver had built their boat. There was no boat there, and the sand was smooth, free of footprints. Falken frowned.

  Well, if we built a boat together in Weaver’s simulation, it would have been years ago … there might not be any evidence of it left.

  A piece of faded white cloth, half-hidden in the sand, caught Falken’s eye. He bent down and tugged a scrap of sail free.

  So we did build a boat. Looks like that part of the simulation was the same for both of us.

  He turned and climbed the hill next, breathing hard from the exertion. When he reached the crest of the hill he stopped and squinted, inspecting the ground around him.

  … but we didn’t discover the ship. It’s still buried, undisturbed. Falken turned and faced out to sea, eyeing the small island several miles away. What happened after we built the boat? Why didn’t we find the sensor node, and the spaceship?

  Falken walked to the bow of the ship, and after several false starts, found the tree he was looking for. He set his back against it and then paced out thirteen steps toward the ocean. Gingerly, he toed the earth in front of him, and then watched as it crumbled away, slowly at first, and then the ground caved in all at once, revealing an open hatch.

  He arched an eyebrow. And I didn’t have to fall in to find it this time, thank you very much.

  Falken climbed down the ladder into the airlock. Spacesuits lined the walls, their faceplates staring blindly at him. The familiar, musty smell of the ship’s stale air washed over him. Through the hatch, he saw the moldering corpse of the Khonsu’s captain, gun in hand. Falken walked over to it and knelt down. He checked the gun – it was loaded, safety off. Falken set it down on the deck, and then slid it behind the captain’s back, hiding it from sight.

  Best to leave that here for now.

  He took the captain’s keycard next, unclipping it from the man’s uniform. Then he stood and continued deeper into the ship. He stopped in the aft compartment first, grabbing the toolbox they had found his first time on Oz. Then, by the dim glow of the ship’s emergency lighting panels, he found his way to the crew lounge. The wide, circular table still sat, dust-covered, in the middle of the room. A crewmember’s jacket, with the UNEV Khonsu logo embroidered on its sleeve, hung from one of the chairs. Falken touched the chair and it spun slowly in place, squeaking softly.

  He made his way to the entryway into the bridge next. There, he stopped in the small antechamber, and pushed the keycard into the slot in the wall. The wall panels folded upward dutifully, revealing the escape pod in its silo. The lights on the pod’s control panel blinked gently, waiting.

  Good to go.

  Falken pulled the keycard out of the wall, and the panels folded back down, hiding the pod. He set the toolbox on the floor, tucked the keycard into his pocket, and crossed through the lounge, then hurried through the corridors until he reached the airlock and the ladder leading topside. In the fresh air again, he took a deep breath, and then faced in the direction of the colony.

  Okay, enough sightseeing, he thought. Time to find Weaver.

  Chapter 11

  Vina woke up sore from the previous day’s run. She scowled at herself in the mirror as she brushed her teeth, debating whether to go for another run. Eventually she decided against it and pulled on a pair of jeans instead of her running shorts. Downstairs, her mother had already left for the bookstore – Vina had slept later than she intended to.

  Still a little space-lagged, I guess.

  In the kitchen, she poured herself a bowl of cereal, but discovered that they were out of milk. Vina considered eating the cereal dry for a moment, then smiled as a long-forgotten memory rose to mind.

  We ran out of milk one time when Dad was watching us – Mom had gone away for a convention or something. And instead of going out for more, he just scooped ice cream into our bowls.

  Vina smiled at the memory, but poured the cereal back into the bag and found a banana in a fruit bowl on the counter. She set a cup of coffee to brew, then sent her mother a quick message on her wristpad.

  We’re out of milk – send me the car? I’ll go to the store.

  The reply came a moment later: Car’s on its way. Can you get some other stuff, too? Shopping list on the home server. Thanks!

  Vina downloaded the list to her wristpad, then went and sat out on the porch swing to eat her breakfast and wait for the car. As she ate, she used her wristpad to flip through the notes she had made regarding her father’s case. The car arrived soon after she finished the banana, pulling into the driveway and then beeping once, announcing its presence.

  “I know, I’m right here,” Vina told it. She tucked the banana peel into the empty coffee mug and s
et it on the arm of swing, then jogged down the stairs to the waiting car.

  “Good morning, Vina. What is your destination?” the car asked.

  Vina frowned. “The truth?” she asked.

  The car was silent for a moment. “I’m not sure I’ve found the exact location for that listing. There is a bar called ‘The Truth,’ in Seattle, Washington. Would you like to—?”

  “No,” Vina interrupted. “Take me to the grocery store.”

  The car pulled off, heading back down the driveway. “Seatbelt, please,” it reminded her.

  Vina buckled up. Then a thought occurred to her.

  “Take me through McMurtry State Park on the way there,” she said.

  “That will add ten minutes to your travel time,” the car warned.

  “That’s fine,” Vina said. Nothing else to do today, anyway.

  The car wove its way through the rolling grasslands, passing ranches and houses from time to time, and then turned at a large wooden sign for the State Park. The road wound past a lake – Vina saw a woman and her child feeding a pair of ducks on the far side of the water. The scene vanished from view as the car passed into a stand of trees, and on through a campground.

  “Turn here,” Vina said.

  “This road has no outlet,” the car said, turning.

  “I know,” Vina said.

  She let the car drive another three miles, before taking manual control so she could park off the side of the road. Vina got out and looked around, feeling her heartbeat quicken.

  I haven’t been back here since … well, since Grandpa found us.

  She shivered, despite the warm air, and then set off through the trees. Five minutes later, she arrived at a long, earthen berm – it stretched for hundreds of yards in either direction. To her left, an entrance had been dug into the side of the berm. Concrete walls held back the earth from a narrow doorway.

  What was this building, originally? Vina wondered. I never asked, after we got out. I never wanted to come back here.

  She walked to the entrance. A metal door hung ajar, pitted with rust, and there were leaves strewn on the floor inside. Vina steeled herself, pausing for a moment, and then stepped inside, flipping the flashlight on her wristpad on.