by Piers Platt
A long corridor … with rooms branching off on one side. And Tevka locked us in the last room, all the way at the end. So no one could hear us. But we tried. We yelled ourselves hoarse that first night, after he left.
Vina walked deeper into the bunker, feeling the hair on the back of her neck stand up as she passed the yawning, pitch black entrances to the other rooms. Finally, she stopped at the last door, which stood open. She shined the flashlight inside, playing it over the low cement walls and packed earthen floor. For a moment, she debated going inside, but then lost her nerve.
We put the sanitary bucket in that corner … and the crate of food and water that he left us up here, by the door. Mom would always stand facing the door when Tevka came, and make Enzo and me stand behind her. But he never touched us, not once. Just checked that we were still there, and that the lock was still in place, and left. And then he stopped coming at all – when Dad killed him, though we didn’t know it at the time.
Vina crouched down, touching one hand to the dirt floor.
That was the scary part, she thought. When he stopped coming, and we started to realize he might not come back, ever. Mom tried to distract us, but we were old enough. We knew what being locked in here with a limited supply of food and water meant.
Vina played the flashlight around the windowless cell once more. The room was empty now, save for some trash: a half-burnt candle, some magazines, and empty soda bottles.
The police would have taken all the evidence, anyway. She sighed. Not sure what I was hoping to prove by coming here. Tevka’s dead – his crimes don’t matter.
A breath of cool air brushed against her skin, and Vina startled, but a quick look around with the flashlight showed her that she was still alone. She stood and hurried out of the bunker, eager to be back in the sunlight, and then half-walked, half-jogged back to the car.
“Continue to the grocery store?” the car asked, as she took her seat.
“One more stop,” Vina told the car. “I’ll mark it on the map.”
The car drove for another ten minutes, and then eased off the side of the road in a clearing amidst of a stand of trees, dry leaves crackling under the tires. Vina climbed out again, and stood beside the car, surveying the clearing.
This is where he killed Tevka. Tevka sent him the message, and Dad met him here.
Vina walked in a slow loop around the clearing, dragging her feet through the undergrowth, stopping from time to time to peer down at the ground. But all she saw were twigs and dry leaves amongst the grass. She sighed.
You visited two crime scenes and didn’t find anything useful at either of them. Some Nancy Drew you are.
She got back in the car, shaking her head.
What did you expect? she thought, buckling her seat belt. They’re ten-year-old crime scenes that professionals have already gone over with a fine tooth comb.
“Grocery store,” she told the car.
At least there I’ll find what I’m looking for.
*
After she returned from the store, Vina set her datapad on the coffee table in the living room, and opened her notes again. This time she ignored the police files, and instead opened a file she had requested from the courthouse the day before. The file held all of the records from her father’s trial: a video recording of the trial itself, transcripts of witness testimony, and pictures of the exhibits entered by the lawyers. Vina sent the video file to the living room vidscreen – it appeared a moment later, and she saw the front of the courtroom. The judge’s bench stood empty, but a pair of lawyers sat at separate tables facing the witness stand, and a number of spectators sat in chairs behind them. Vina caught sight of her grandfather on one side of the room.
Grandpa was there to support Dad, Vina thought. Since the rest of us were still locked in the bunker. Mom said he used to stay at the courthouse in the mornings, and then go continue the search for us in the afternoons.
As she watched, a corrections officer appeared at a side entrance, leading her father in by the elbow. Sef Weaver wore a dark gray suit and tie, and to Vina’s eyes, he seemed to have aged dramatically since the video of him at the press conference on the town hall steps. The corrections officer removed her father’s handcuffs, and then guided him to one of the tables, where he sat next to a portly man with wavy gray hair and a pair of tortoise-shell glasses.
That’s Tarpon Buckniel, his lawyer.
A jury filed in next, taking their seats under the watchful gaze of the bailiff. Then the judge entered, and the courtroom stood. Vina tapped on her datapad, thinking to check the video’s length. It came up as nearly fifty-five hours.
Oof. That’s … gonna take a while.
She tucked her legs up under her on the couch, and settled in.
Chapter 12
Falken strode down the cart track, a field of potatoes on one side, knee-high rows of corn stalks on the other. The pungent smell of freshly-tilled earth filled his nostrils. The main buildings of the colony rose out of the dusty earth ahead of him – he saw the faded wooden sides of the Great Hall and the smithy, and beyond them, the latticed roof of the blue-balls’ cages. But instead of heading for the main square, he turned and made his way through the potatoes, angling for the colony’s infirmary.
“Hey!”
Falken stopped and turned. He held a hand up, shielding his eyes from the setting sun, and found Mayor Luo walking toward him.
“Falken, your supervisor tells me you missed your harvesting shift today,” Luo said, frowning. “Where were you?”
Shit. Peshai said that Luo was a character, part of Oz’s programming. I figured the program would just leave me be while it focused on Weaver. I guess not.
“Well?” Luo asked.
“It just slipped my mind,” Falken said, lamely. “Sorry.”
Luo sighed. “You’re sorry? We can’t eat apologies, Falken.”
“It won’t happen again,” Falken said.
“See that it doesn’t,” Luo told him, wagging a finger at him. “Tomorrow I expect to see you in the fields bright and early. It’s not like you have anything better to be doing.”
Actually … Falken thought, but he nodded instead. “Of course. I’ll be there. Sorry again.”
Luo grunted. “If you see Saltari, tell him there was another drop today. I need his help updating our rationing plan based on the new headcount.”
“Sure,” Falken said. “I’m headed there now.”
Falken climbed the steps to the infirmary, and pulled the door open. The fading sunlight spilled in, bathing the infirmary’s workshop area in a golden glow. Ngobe and Saltari sat on stools at the tables. Saltari appeared to be examining the corpse of a blue-ball, while the astrophysicist pored over a hand-drawn star-map.
Falken smiled. Real or not, I missed these guys.
“Come in or go, but either way, close the door!” Saltari complained.
Falken grinned and shut the door. Ngobe looked up from his map and frowned. “Ah, Falken. You’re in trouble,” he observed.
“I know,” Falken said. “I just saw Mayor Luo.”
“So why are you grinning like an idiot?” Saltari asked.
“No reason,” Falken said, patting him on the shoulder. “It’s just good to see you, that’s all.”
“Hmph,” Saltari grunted. “It’s been … what? Nine years that you’ve been here? Somehow I doubt it’s good to see me.”
“I think we’re seeing the results of all that fighting Falken did before he came to Oz, Saltari,” Ngobe said. “One too many blows to the head, and now he’s finally losing his sanity.”
“Luo says he needs your help figuring out rationing for the new guys,” Falken told Saltari.
“In good time,” Saltari replied. “I’d heard about the drop, and planned on taking a look at the numbers tomorrow.”
“Great. Where’s Weaver?” Falken asked, glancing past them. The infirmary’s sleeping pads appeared empty. “Is he still on the construction crew?”
&nbs
p; “Who?” Ngobe asked.
“Weaver,” Falken said, a frown creeping across his brow. “Our friend.”
“Peters?” Saltari asked. “On the blacksmith team? I’d hardly call him a friend.”
“No, Weaver. Sef Weaver.”
“There’s no one by the name of Weaver that lives in the colony,” Saltari said. “Is everything okay with you? You’re acting quite strange.”
“I’m fine,” Falken said. “Look, you gotta remember Weaver. We were good friends, all of us.”
“Weaver,” Ngobe mused, and then recognition dawned on his face. “Oh! The bookkeeper.”
“Not the man you built that boat with, all those years ago,” Saltari said.
“Yes!” Falken nodded. “Him. Where is he?”
“Dead,” Saltari said, simply.
“What?” Falken’s jaw dropped open. He shook his head slowly. “No, that can’t be ….” He reached for a spare stool, and sat down heavily. Dead? How can that be, when I’m in his version of the simulator?
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Ngobe asked, eyeing Falken with concern.
“Tell me what happened,” Falken said.
“You don’t remember?” Ngobe asked.
“Just humor me,” Falken said. “Please.”
Saltari took a deep breath, peering up at the ceiling in thought. “Okaaay. Let’s see. You and this Weaver fellow arrived on the same crate, if memory serves. About six months after you landed, the two of you got it in your heads that you could cross the ocean, and maybe find a way off this planet. So you built a boat, and sailed over to the island together.”
“I’ll give them credit: it was a decent boat, considering,” Ngobe said.
“A decent boat, but a stupid idea,” Saltari said.
“And then?” Falken pressed.
“And then … you washed up here, alone, half-dead, draped across a ramshackle raft, about a week later. You never told us what happened. My assumption was that you capsized and Weaver drowned, but perhaps now you’ll finally tell us about it, since you seem to want to dredge up the past.”
Falken sat up straighter. “So you don’t know he’s dead.”
“I know we haven’t seen Weaver since then,” Saltari said. “What else could have happened to him?”
Falken rubbed at his forehead, thinking. Peshai checked on Weaver’s status when we first talked, back in his office. He would have known then if Weaver was dead. And he wouldn’t have taken the risk of sending me back in here for no reason. So that means … Weaver’s alive. He’s not here, but he’s alive. He must be! He’s just … somewhere else in Oz.
Falken stood up, and began pacing between the door and the work tables, staring at the floor intently.
“I can hear the gears grinding in his head,” Saltari told Ngobe. “Falken, what’s going on?”
Falken looked up, and his eye fell on Ngobe’s star-map. “Ngobe, did you finish your calculations for the moons’ orbits?”
“Yes, years ago,” Ngobe said. “Why?”
“The alignment – when did it happen?” Falken asked.
The old professor’s eyes lit up. “Did I tell you about the alignment? I wasn’t sure that I estimated the fourth moon’s velocity quite right.”
“Yeah, you told me. Did they already align?” Falken asked.
“Well, yes,” Ngobe said. “They align every forty-eight years. But none of us were here when they last aligned. They’ll align again in ten months. It should be quite the astronomical event.”
So that’s a major difference between this simulation and my own, Falken thought. Which makes sense – everything is normal outside, the tide clearly hasn’t come up and flooded the colony. But if the alignment happens in ten months, that must be synchronized with the end of Weaver’s ten year window to earn his parole. When the moons align, the tide comes up, all the simulated characters die … and Weaver gets pulled out, and sent to the permanent facility.
He looked up to see the two old men staring at him quizzically. “I have to find Weaver,” Falken told them. “You’re sure he’s not in the colony?”
“I’m certain,” Saltari said.
Falken turned to the nearest workshop table, and sorted through papers until he found what he was looking for – a rough map of the main island of Oz, depicting the colony and surrounding fields, and each of the landing zones.
He’s not at the colony. So where is he? Could he still be out at sea? Or on the little island? At the edge of the map, Falken traced the outline of the small island he and Weaver had sailed to. No. Without food supplies, he couldn’t have stayed on the island long. Ditto being still out at sea – he’d have starved, or more likely, the simulation would have found a way to force him back here, to the main island. A storm or something, perhaps. It needs him here, so he can interact with people, and confess to his crime. So where the hell is he? There’s no other place he could be!
Falken’s eye fell on the lower half of the map, and a square outlined in red near the coast.
… oh, shit. The facility.
Falken sighed. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the keycard, then handed it to Ngobe.
“I need you to hold onto this for me, Ngobe,” Falken said.
“What is it?” Ngobe asked, inspecting the card.
“It’s the master key for the Khonsu,” Falken said.
“The what?” Ngobe asked.
“You’re talking in riddles again,” Saltari chided him.
“Don’t tell anyone about that,” Falken said, turning and heading for the door.
“Why?” Ngobe asked. “Why are you giving it to me?”
“Because I have to go to find Weaver,” Falken told him. “And I don’t want it falling into the wrong hands.” Then he pushed open the door, and stepped out into the cool evening air.
Chapter 13
Captain Peshai scrolled through the dashboard on his computer screen, eyes flicking from data point to data point. His office was quiet except for the gentle background hum of the UNCS Sydney’s life support systems. He sipped coffee from his mug, and then set it back down on his desk. The mug bore an image from an old film: a young girl stood smiling on a yellow brick road, arms linked with a lion, a tin man, and a scarecrow. Peshai’s eyes came to rest on a number in red on the screen. He frowned.
He pressed a button on the screen, and heard a dial tone over the room’s speakers.
“Maintenance,” a voice replied.
“Tengku? It’s the captain.”
“Morning, sir,” Tengku replied. “What can I do for you?”
“You can send me your division’s performance reports,” Peshai said.
“Ah … damn it. Sorry, sir. I had them on my desk last week,” Tengku said.
“I need them on my desk,” Peshai said. “Yesterday. Otherwise I’ll have no choice but to toss your ass back in Oz.”
Tengku laughed. “Yes, sir. I’ll have them to you this afternoon.”
“Good,” Peshai grunted. He tapped on another key, and the phone cut off. Next he closed the dashboard, and switched to a monitoring program. Peshai pulled up the search function, and typed in the name: Falken.
On the screen, two different views appeared: one showed Falken lying in a dark room on the UNCS Sydney, his face covered with a mask, tubes extending from his arm to a piece of medical equipment. The other half of the screen showed an over-the-shoulder perspective of Falken’s avatar on Oz. Falken was in the midst of greeting Saltari and Ngobe, at the colony. Peshai watched as they conversed for a moment, the transcript of the dialogue appearing on the bottom of the screen.
They’re confused. They don’t know who he’s talking about.
Peshai typed on his keypad, and a map of Oz appeared on screen. He entered Weaver into a search app, and a blinking icon appeared superimposed over the facility.
Damn it. Falken went to the wrong place. I should have located his friend before I sent him in, saved him the trouble. He shook his head. Sloppy. You’ve slow
ed him down a bit.
He closed the application. Peshai felt his stomach rumble, and he checked his wristpad.
Okay … lunch it is.
The ship’s mess hall was three floors down, in the very heart of the spacecraft. The room was plain, the furniture utilitarian – heavy-duty plastic chairs stood at worn metal tables, on a well-polished linoleum floor. But the mess hall buzzed with pleasant conversation, and the walls were decorated with still images taken from inside Oz. Each showed one of the staff members in the midst of an act that had earned them their parole.
One of my better ideas, Peshai thought. And one of the first things I did when I took the job. It’s been a while since I’ve tried something new like that. Except for Falken’s little experiment, I suppose. But the jury’s still out on that.
Peshai joined a line of several orderlies waiting for their turn at the buffet. The man in front of him glanced back at him.
“Warden,” he said, nodding. “If you’re in a hurry, sir, you can go ahead of me.”
“No, no,” Peshai said, waving him away. “I can wait, Chikere. Go ahead.”
“You’re sure?” Chikere asked.
“Yes,” Peshai insisted. “Go on, eat!”
Chikere turned and continued through the line. When Peshai had filled his tray, he stopped and looked around the room, and then spotted a burly man several tables over, one massive fist holding a sandwich while he read from a datapad in the other hand. He wore a set of work coveralls with grease stains on them, and where his sleeves were rolled up, Peshai could see prison tattoos covering his skin. Peshai headed to his table.
“Can I join you?” Peshai asked.
The man eyed him warily. “Table’s for those of us who actually work for a livin’.”
Peshai smiled, and sat down. “Everybody else around here calls me, ‘sir’ or ‘captain,’ ” he pointed out. “Hell, even ‘warden’ is considered generally acceptable.”
“Er’body else didn’t know you on Oz. Er’body else didn’t see you get your ass kicked on the disk too many times to count.”