by Piers Platt
“Yes,” Locandez said. “The issue that brought me here is close to being resolved.”
“Falken is out of Oz?” Arkanian asked.
“He is. And I’ve reinstated his sentence – he’s on his way to the permanent facility, as we agreed.”
“That took longer than expected,” Huginot noted.
“Mm,” Locandez nodded. “We were waiting on the simulation to separate the two men, and give us an opportunity to unobtrusively remove Mr. Falken. Unfortunately, however, Mr. Falken disclosed the true nature of Oz to Mr. Weaver before we could effect his removal. You will no doubt have seen the automatic notification to that effect.”
“I saw it earlier today, and figured you would be convening this meeting. Where is Mr. Weaver now?” Huginot asked.
“He has also been removed from the simulation,” Locandez said. “The program had no choice but to wake him up. And technically, he still had another ten months to earn his parole inside Oz. Which means the case now rests with us – we need to determine his final disposition.”
“Why did Mr. Falken let the cat out of the bag? I assume it was intentional?” Ojibwe asked.
“It was,” Locandez confirmed. “He became convinced that Mr. Weaver was innocent, and determined that the best solution was to force us to review Mr. Weaver’s case, rather than allowing him to continue in the simulator.”
“Falken knew the consequences for breaking the rules in the simulator, surely?” Arkanian asked.
“He did,” Locandez said.
The other woman gave a low whistle. “I don’t approve of his methods, but I admire the conviction of Mr. Falken’s beliefs.”
“Regardless, the question now is this: do we reasonably believe that Mr. Weaver would have completed his rehabilitation in Oz, given the chance?” Locandez asked. “Did Captain Peshai’s little experiment rob him of his right to earn parole?”
“What does the simulation believe?” Ojibwe asked.
Locandez turned to her datapad. “Mr. Weaver was – for all intents and purposes – a model inmate. He exhibited no further violent tendencies while in the program, and contributed to the community. His psych profile notes that he became somewhat obsessed with exploring Oz by boat – which is unusual. When Oz put an end to his explorations, he spent a great deal of time withdrawn from the rest of the inmates, and displayed suicidal tendencies at one point, but his reunion with Mr. Falken seems to have brought him back out of his shell, temporarily.”
“No fights, no conflicts with other inmates?” Huginot asked.
“None,” Locandez said. “His educational background and career mean he is well positioned for successful reintegration into society.”
“Sounds like he should have been released years ago,” Arkanian said.
“Except that the program believes there is only a thirty-eight percent chance that Mr. Weaver would have rehabilitated,” Locandez said.
“Oh,” Arkanian said, frowning in dismay. “Well, that’s not very optimistic.”
“No,” Locandez agreed. “While he completed all other requirements, Oz has been waiting on an admission of guilt. Simply put: he has yet to take responsibility for his crime, or express remorse over it.”
“That’s right,” Ojibwe said. “Now I recall – that was what Falken had hoped to do. Well, let’s talk to him ourselves, shall we?”
Locandez nodded. “I think that’s best. Excuse me.” She stood and stepped out into the hallway, then opened the door to the warden’s office. Weaver sat in one of the chairs facing the desk – he was staring out the viewport at Earth, but turned and looked at Locandez when the door opened.
“Come with me,” she said.
Weaver stood carefully, picking a cane up off the arm of the chair. He shuffled toward her, shaking his head ruefully at the slowness of his movement.
“Sorry,” he said.
“Take your time,” Locandez said.
They made their way down the hall, and in the conference room, Locandez pulled a chair out for Weaver, who sat again, with a sigh.
“Mr. Weaver,” Huginot said, nodding. “How are you?”
“It’s been a confusing day,” Weaver said. He gestured at the cane. “And I’m tired. It feels like I’m learning to walk all over again.”
“I imagine,” Huginot said. “But I’m told our inmates recover fully within a matter of weeks.”
“I hope so,” Weaver said.
“Mr. Weaver, I’ve explained to you the true nature of Oz,” Locandez said.
Weaver nodded.
“And you know that Mr. Falken’s … outburst … has caused you to be removed from the simulation early,” Locandez continued.
“Where is he?” Weaver asked. “I’d like to talk to him.”
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible, not right now,” Locandez said.
“He earned his way out, didn’t he?” Weaver asked, frowning. “And then he came back in, to try to help me.”
“Yes,” Locandez said. “But he did so in direct violation of our instructions. He was not supposed to go back into Oz, and he was most definitely not supposed to tell you the truth about Oz.”
A tear rolled down Weaver’s cheek. “What have you done to him?”
“We’re here to discuss your case, Mr. Weaver,” Ojibwe said.
“Please …,” Weaver pleaded, “just tell me where he is.”
“He will be serving out the remainder of his life sentence at our permanent facility,” Locandez said.
Weaver gave a quiet sob, and covered his face in his hands.
“Why are you crying, Mr. Weaver?” Arkanian asked.
Weaver took a deep breath, and composed himself. He faced Arkanian’s vidscreen. “It’s just hard to believe that he did that for me. I spent the last five or six years basically on my own, by choice. I thought I was going crazy. And to find out that I’m not crazy, and that I’m not alone … that I have such a true friend …,” Weaver’s voice broke, and his eyes filled with tears again. “And to learn what Falken did, what he sacrificed, for me.”
Locandez shifted awkwardly in her seat. “I’m sure it’s a lot to process. But we need to discuss your situation for a moment.”
“You have to bring him back,” Weaver said, regaining his composure. “It’s not right. Let me go in his place.”
“That will not be possible,” Locandez said. She cleared her throat in annoyance. “Now, Mr. Weaver, we have some questions for you.”
“I’m not going to tell you anything,” Weaver said, shaking his head. “Not until you bring my friend back.”
“Then we’ll be forced to send you to join him,” Locandez countered. “And you’ll have squandered the sacrifice he made for you.”
Weaver contemplated this news in silence. After a time, he straightened in the chair. “Very well,” Weaver said. “Ask your questions.”
Locandez glanced down at her datapad, then gazed into Weaver’s eyes. “Do you regret killing Tevka Savanh?”
Weaver licked his lips. “I regret that he died. Even after what he did to my family, the danger he put them in.”
“He kidnapped them, correct?”
“Yes,” Weaver agreed.
“If you had to go back … what would you do differently?” Locandez asked.
Weaver sighed. “I’m not sure. I suppose I would try harder to protect my family. To make sure they were never kidnapped in the first place.” He looked up. “Falken told me they were safe. Is it true? Can I speak with them?”
“They’re safe,” Locandez said. “But you can’t speak with them right now.” She arched an eyebrow, studying Weaver’s face. “Mr. Weaver, do you believe you were justified in killing Mr. Savanh?”
“I don’t think he deserved to die, no,” Weaver said.
“Then why did you kill him?”
Weaver took a deep breath. “I didn’t.”
Locandez glanced at the faces on the vidscreens, then back at Weaver. “You didn’t? Think carefully, now.”
Locandez sighed heavily.
“Can I appeal? Can I get another trial?” Weaver asked.
“Was your original trial unfair, or conducted improperly?” Ojibwe asked.
“I don’t know,” Weaver said, frowning. “I don’t think so.”
“Has there been any new evidence of relevance to the case?” Ojibwe asked.
“There could be, I guess. But how would I know?” Weaver asked. “I’ve been here for the last nine years.”
“Mr. Ojibwe is simply listing the possible conditions under which the Justice Department might consider trying you again,” Locandez explained. “None of those conditions have been met. But the point is moot, anyway. We can hardly send you back to Earth for another trial now. Not given all you know about Oz.”
Weaver swallowed, and did his best to sit up straighter in the chair. “What’s going to happen to me, then?”
“You’ll remain here for a few days,” Locandez told him. “Until the next transport is ready.”
“And then?”
“And then you’ll be joining Mr. Falken.”
Chapter 35
On the deep-space transit hub, Vina found a private booth outside the ticketing area, and set her bag on the floor, shutting the door behind her. She dialed a number on her wristpad, leaning against a stool mounted in the booth. The phone rang for some time, and then finally connected.
“Peshai,” the voice came back.
“Captain, it’s Vina Weaver. We met about ten days ago, I was there with my friend, Falken?”
“I remember you, Miss Weaver,” Peshai said. “If you’re calling for an update on your friend, I’m afraid I’m a bit out of the loop.”
Vina frowned. Why is he ‘out of the loop’? “Actually, I was calling to try to arrange a meeting with you,” she said. “I didn’t want to show up unannounced again, but there’s something I’d like to show you. If I hire a private shuttle, could you clear it for docking again?”
“I’m afraid I can’t,” Peshai said.
“Oh,” Vina said, trying to hide her disappointment. “Well, I need to talk to you about my father,” she said. “And I’d feel a lot better if we did it in person. It’s very important.”
“I can do a vidcall,” Peshai said. “But I don’t want you wasting your money on a ticket up into orbit.”
Vina bit the inside of her cheek. “Actually … I’m already up in orbit,” she told him.
“You are? Where?” he asked.
“At the deep-space hub,” Vina replied, wincing in anticipation.
The line was silent for a moment. “There’s a restaurant near the dry docks called ‘Fiddler’s Green,’ ” Peshai told her. “Meet me there in ten minutes.”
*
Peshai was at the restaurant already, waiting for her. She spotted him across the room as she approached the maître d’s booth, and he waved her over. He stood as she approached, and smiled, shaking her hand.
“Thanks for seeing me,” Vina said. “You got here fast!”
“As it turns out, I was already here,” Peshai said. He pulled a chair out for her, and then took his own seat. Their table was set at the edge of a raised dining area – another tier of tables stood below them, arranged in a semi-circle against a wide arc of viewports, which afforded a view of the space station’s exterior. Vina could see two large ships undergoing repairs in the dry docks below – massive supply hoses and docking tubes connected them to the station itself at various points, and several had space-suited maintenance personnel floating along the hulls.
“Impressive view,” she commented.
Peshai nodded, and cleared his throat, and Vina detected a hint of nervousness in his demeanor.
“There’s something I should tell you,” he said.
“Me first?” Vina asked. “Sorry, but I really think you need to see this.”
Peshai shrugged. “As you say.”
Vina took out her datapad, and set it on the table facing Peshai. “I shot this video of my grandfather yesterday afternoon.”
She hit Play, and let the video run. Peshai watched it in silence, his brows slowly knitting together into a deepening frown. When it was over, he leaned back in his chair.
“My god,” Peshai said. “Are you saying your father’s innocent?”
Vina nodded slowly.
“Did you grandfather turn himself in?”
“No. He killed himself soon afterward,” Vina said. “In front of a sheriff and his deputy, when they went to arrest him. He told them he didn’t want to go to jail.”
“Wrongly accused, and imprisoned,” Peshai said, stunned. “He was telling the truth all along. This video should be more than enough evidence to warrant an appeal. The Corrections Committee would have to consider it.”
Vina sighed with relief. “So you’ll take me to see them?” she asked.
“I wish I could,” Peshai said, looking down at his hands. “There have been some developments on my end of things, as well.”
“Developments?” Vina asked. “What developments? Where’s Falken? Did the committee let him in?”
“No,” Peshai said. “They did not. But … I sent him back in anyways.”
“What?” Vina asked, surprised.
“I believed Falken was right – that he could help. He found your father,” Peshai continued. “He was making good progress with him – I was able to monitor them a bit, and it seemed to be going well. But … the committee discovered what I had done. I had to resign my post as warden.”
“You’re no longer in charge?” Vina asked.
“I’m not,” Peshai said. He gestured at his clothes, and for the first time, Vina noticed that he was not wearing the blue and gray uniform she had first seen him in. “I’m just a civilian now. You were lucky to catch me – I was waiting for a long distance flight out to the colonies.”
“What happened to Falken, then?” Vina asked.
“I imagine they pulled him out of jail soon after I stepped down,” Peshai said.
“But I should have heard from him,” Vina said. “He promised he would call me, as soon as he got out.”
“And he still hasn’t called?” Peshai asked, frowning. “He should have been out some time ago.”
“Not a peep,” Vina said.
“That’s … troubling,” Peshai said, rubbing a finger along his jaw.
“Could they have punished him for going back in?” Vina asked.
“My understanding was that they were simply going to reprimand him. I took care to take as much of the blame as I could.” He shook his head. “But if he hasn’t contacted you, I’m afraid something might have happened.”
“Who’s in charge now?” Vina asked.
“The head of the Corrections Committee. A former district attorney by the name of Locandez,” Peshai said. “And she takes a rather conservative view toward the rehabilitation and release of criminals, to put it mildly.”
“Can I talk to her?” Vina asked. “I have to show her this tape, and get my father out of there.”
“She’s on the Sydney now, as acting warden,” Peshai said.
“I can hire a shuttle to fly me there,” Vina said, pushing her chair back. “But will she let me on board to see the evidence?”
“I doubt it,” Peshai said. “Corrections Department protocol says that no unauthorized personnel are allowed on board. And Locandez is not one for bending the rules. You’re going to need my help.”
“Won’t that get you in even more trouble?” Vina asked.
“Quite possibly,” Peshai said. “But it’s the only way you’ll get onto the ship.”
“If you’re okay taking that risk, I’m not going to turn down your help,” Vina said. “Are you going to call her, to ask for a meeting? Or do you want to just show up?”
&nbs
p; Peshai pursed his lips, thinking. “I don’t have a way to contact her directly, not anymore,” he said. “And I think we’ll be more successful if we argue your case in front of the entire Corrections Committee, not just Locandez. That means getting on board without her knowing, and calling for a Committee meeting.”
“That sounds like it could get you in a lot of trouble,” Vina commented.
“Let’s focus on your father for now. We can worry about me later.”
“Okay. Should we leave now?” Vina asked, picking up her bag by the carrying strap.
“I think we’d better,” Peshai said. “Something tells me we’re working against the clock on this.”
Vina nodded and stood. “Come to think of it,” she said. “I’m not sure I remember where the Sydney was in orbit, either. I’ll need you to tell the pilot where to go.”
Peshai stood and pointed past her, out the windows, into space. “We won’t need a shuttle,” he said. “That’s the Sydney right there.”
Surprised, Vina turned and looked – as she studied it more closely, the first ship in the dry dock began to look familiar to her, and she recognized its pointed bow, and the cannons mounted along the hull.
“It’s in for repairs,” Peshai said. Then he frowned, watching as a long-range transport eased carefully into the dry dock, and began to nestle against the side of the larger prison ship.
“What?” Vina asked, noticing his expression.
Peshai ignored her, and held his wristpad up. He typed on it for a second, and Vina heard a dial tone.
“You haven’t left for the colonies yet?” a voice asked. “What are you waiting—”
“Masoud, there’s a ship docking with the Sydney right now,” Peshai said, interrupting. “I need its flight plan.”
There was no response for several seconds. “You were fired, my friend,” Masoud reminded him.
“I resigned,” Peshai said.
“Same difference,” the chief engineer said. “Either way, you know I’m not supposed to share flight plan information with civilians,” Masoud continued. “That could get me in some serious hot water. And everyone’s just a bit on edge these days.”