The Falken Chronicles

by Piers Platt

  They neared the tunnel entrance. A pair of armed guards had been posted outside the hole into the Sydney’s hull – beside them, a large temporary sign was taped to the hull. It read: Crew Only After This Point – Violators Will Be Shot. The dock workers in the bay appeared to be giving the guards a wide berth. Vina eyed their rifles warily, but Peshai walked straight up to them.

  “Afternoon, sir,” the nearest guard said.

  “Afternoon, Pewitt,” Peshai replied. “How are you?”

  “Doing well, sir,” Pewitt replied. He reached into a pocket, and handed Peshai a keycard. “Chief sends his regards, says you forgot this, sir.”

  “Thank you,” Peshai said, taking the card. “Let’s go, Miss Weaver.”

  Vina glanced at the guards nervously, but they were staring straight ahead, appearing not to see her. She followed Peshai through the hull.

  “That’s it?” she asked, glancing back at the guards once more, before she turned a corner in the ship’s hallway.

  “Were you hoping for something a bit more dramatic?” Peshai asked, smiling. “I suppose we could have snuck in through an escape pod or something, but … much easier to just walk on board.”

  “I guess so,” Vina replied.

  “If things don’t go well for us, I expect you’ll have trouble remembering which guards were on duty just now,” Peshai warned her, leading her up a set of narrow metal stairs.

  “I’m sure I couldn’t say,” Vina told him.

  At the top of the staircase, Peshai’s access card opened a hatch, and they passed through into what looked to be a laundry room. The compartment was hot and humid, and Vina could barely hear amid the sounds of humming machinery.

  “We’re taking the back way,” Peshai called, over his shoulder. “Just stay close.”

  After three more rooms and a set of stairs, Peshai led her out into a hallway. She recognized it, after a moment – doors along both walls led into various offices, and a conference room stood on one side. At the end of the hall, a closed hatch was labeled Warden.

  “That’s your old office,” Vina whispered.

  Peshai nodded, and walked into the conference room, where he activated the vidscreens.

  “Emergency Corrections Committee session,” Peshai said. “Notify members and connect.”

  “Unable to process request,” a robotic voice replied. “Voiceprint authentication failed.”

  Peshai frowned, and bent over the keypad on the conference room table, typing.

  “Connecting,” the robotic voice said, after a moment. “Conference will begin when attendees have been located and logged in.”

  Peshai straightened up, smiling. “Lucky for us, Ms. Locandez didn’t change the password yet.” He turned to Vina. “Are you ready?”

  Vina took a deep breath. “I think so.”

  A white-haired woman appeared on one of the screens. She looked up, and then frowned. “Captain? What …?”

  “I’ll explain in a moment, Ms. Arkanian,” Peshai told her. “Let me go find Ms. Locandez.”

  He disappeared back into the hallway, leaving Vina alone in the conference room. She turned and found the older woman staring at her, one eyebrow raised.

  “Uh, hi,” Vina said, to cover her nervousness.

  Two men joined the conference before Arkanian could reply, appearing on their own screens – the names Huginot and Ojibwe popped up at the bottom of their screens. Huginot was wiping his mouth with a napkin as he entered the frame – he appeared to have been caught in the midst of a meal.

  “Altogether too many emergency meetings these days,” he said, sitting down with a sigh. He caught sight of Vina and stopped. “Can I help you?” Huginot asked, confused.

  “I hope so,” Vina said.

  To her relief, Peshai appeared a moment later, with another woman in tow. Locandez wore a scowl on her face, and her mood did not improve when she spied Vina and the committee members already gathered.

  “For your service, this committee has turned a blind eye to your past transgressions, Captain,” Locandez said. “But no more leniency. Not after breaking back into this facility, and with a civilian in tow.”

  “Sit, please,” Peshai said, pulling out a chair for her. “I’m willing to accept whatever punishment the committee decides is appropriate. But please, hear us out first.”

  Locandez paused for a moment, and then sat in the proffered chair. Vina and Peshai sat, too.

  “This is Miss Vina Weaver,” Peshai explained. “Daughter of Sef Weaver.”

  “Captain, the committee has already rendered judgment on Mr. Weaver’s case,” Locandez said, crossing her arms over her chest. “Trotting out his daughter in a misguided attempt to appeal to our sympathies will not change our minds.”

  “We’re not here to plead for mercy, ma’am,” Peshai said. “When the committee rendered its judgment, it did so without all of the facts.”

  “Isn’t Mr. Weaver already en route to the permanent facility?” Ojibwe asked.

  Locandez checked her wristpad. “Momentarily,” she said.

  “This committee – and this ship – is the final step in our criminal justice system,” Peshai said. “We’re the last gatekeepers of justice in the galaxy. And I believe you have an opportunity to right a long-standing injustice, here and now. An opportunity, and a responsibility.”

  “Please,” Vina said. “I just want a chance to prove his innocence.”

  “Your father had that chance already, Miss Weaver,” Locandez said. “During his trial.”

  “My father’s innocent,” Vina shot back. “I can prove it. And I’ll shout it to every newsnet agency in the galaxy if I have to.”

  Chapter 38

  Locandez studied Vina for a moment. Then she sighed. “There’ll be no need to go causing a scene with the media, Miss Weaver. We’ll hear your evidence. I won’t have it be said that I didn’t give your father every possible chance at earning his freedom.”

  “Thank you,” Vina said, nodding.

  Locandez touched a button on her wristpad. “Signal to the Mandolin,” she said. “Have them return to the dry dock, and await further instructions.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the controller replied. “The Mandolin is still docked, but I’ll relay your message.”

  “Why are they still docked?” Locandez asked, frowning.

  “Uh, I believe there was an unscheduled contraband inspection, ma’am,” the controller replied.

  Locandez glared at Peshai. “I suppose that shouldn’t surprise me,” she said, and hung up.

  “Sorry,” Peshai said, chagrined.

  “Save it, Captain,” Locandez said. “Miss Weaver, say your piece.”

  She nodded, and turned to Peshai. “Can you dial in the sheriff?”

  Peshai bent over the keypad. After a moment, Buckniel’s face appeared on the fourth screen in the conference room – Vina could see that he was seated at the desk in his office.

  “Ms. Locandez, this is Sheriff Paulson Buckniel. He arrested my father after the murder,” Vina said.

  Buckniel inclined his head at the screen. “Ma’am, gentlemen.”

  “You’re addressing the members of the Corrections Committee, Sheriff,” Vina told him. “Would you mind telling them your version of events?”

  “Absolutely,” Buckniel said. “I’ve been the sheriff of Lawson County for close to twenty-five years now. Ten years ago, Mr. Weaver’s family was abducted by a man named Tevka Savanh – he sent Mr. Weaver a ransom note soon after the kidnapping. My assumption was that Mr. Savanh wanted to extort money from Mr. Weaver, and use it to purchase Drift. Mr. Weaver brought that note to me, and we spent the next few days searching for his family. We were not successful.”

  Buckniel shifted in his chair.

  “On the evening of the fourth day, I responded to an anonymous tip about some missing cattle, and happened upon Mr. Weaver’s car, parked next to another car, out in the woods. I stopped to investigate, and Mr. Weaver showed me a message from Mr. Sa
vanh, to meet him there, and then he showed me Mr. Savanh’s body. Mr. Weaver claimed to have found him that way.”

  “What way, Sheriff?” Arkanian asked.

  “Uh, dead, ma’am,” Buckniel said. “Of multiple stab wounds. I found a knife near the body, which had been wiped down. I asked Mr. Weaver for permission to search his car, which he granted. In his trunk, I found a jug of bleach, some trash bags, and a shovel. Mr. Weaver claimed that he did not put those items in his car, and he claimed he did not murder Mr. Savanh. He said he received the message, had a brief discussion with his father-in-law, Rauno Korhonen, at his home, and then drove straight to the murder scene, where he found Mr. Savanh dead. I arrested him on suspicion of the murder. We later found a bloody hat, and Mr. Savanh’s wristpad, in the kitchen garbage at Mr. Weaver’s house. He was tried and convicted.”

  “We – my mother and brother and I – were still missing throughout the trial,” Vina said.

  “That’s true,” Buckniel echoed. “We continued to search for them, without any luck. A few days after Mr. Weaver was sentenced and incarcerated, Mr. Korhonen—”

  “Remind me: Korhonen is …?” Ojibwe asked.

  “My grandfather,” Vina reminded him, setting her datapad on the table and linking it to the conference line.

  “… Mr. Korhonen located Miss Weaver and her family, to everyone’s relief,” Sheriff Buckniel said. “I believed the matter to be concluded at that point. But I was wrong. Vina?”

  “I was reviewing some old footage of the press conference after we were kidnapped,” Vina said. “And I noticed that my grandfather reacted somewhat strongly when Sheriff Buckniel mentioned that his men were searching the area where my family was being held. I suspected that he knew, from the start, where we were hidden. So I confronted him about it, and I shot this video.”

  She hit Play on her datapad, and the video ran. The committee watched it in silence. Vina watched them closely, trying to gauge their reactions.

  “It’s a pretty convincing confession,” Huginot commented, when it had finished. “Kudos for keeping your wits in a rather emotional and dangerous situation, Miss Weaver.”

  “The video’s authentic?” Ojibwe asked. “No evidence of doctoring or manipulation?”

  “None,” Buckniel confirmed. “My technical team went over it very carefully.”

  “Were you able to corroborate this version of events?” Arkanian asked.

  “After Miss Weaver showed me the video, I took a deputy and went to find Mr. Korhonen, intending to arrest him,” Buckniel replied. “He confirmed that the video was true. But he refused to surrender, and took his own life before we could take him into custody.”

  “Earlier, you laid out the case for arresting Mr. Weaver,” Locandez said, speaking for the first time. “What do you believe really happened?”

  “I believe Mr. Korhonen struck a deal with Mr. Savanh to kidnap his family, in order to ‘teach his family a lesson,’ as he put it,” Buckniel said. “But when things spiraled out of control, the two argued, and Korhonen killed Savanh. He then drove to his son-in-law’s house, and, while Mr. Weaver was inside, he loaded the tools into Mr. Weaver’s trunk. He used Mr. Savanh’s wristpad to send a message to Weaver requesting a meeting at the murder scene, and when Weaver left the house, he entered and planted the evidence in Mr. Weaver’s trash.” Buckniel shrugged. “From that point on, it was a simple matter of placing the anonymous tip that ensured I would find Weaver at the murder scene.”

  “You believe Mr. Weaver is innocent, as he has maintained?” Locandez asked.

  “I do,” Buckniel replied. “I’ve spent the last twenty-four hours apologizing to his family for my role in all of this. I’d like the chance to do so to Mr. Weaver himself.”

  Locandez rubbed her chin, thinking. Then she looked up at the other committee members. “Thoughts?”

  “Acquit,” Arkanian said, without hesitation.

  “Concur,” Ojibwe said.

  “The evidence is clear,” Huginot agreed, nodding.

  Vina could feel tears welling in her eyes. She turned to see Locandez facing her.

  The older woman took a deep breath. “Your father’s conviction is hereby overturned. Captain Peshai, I wonder if you would like to escort Miss Weaver down to the Mandolin. I imagine her father would like to hear the good news from her directly.”

  Vina covered her mouth and sobbed. On impulse, she leaned forward and hugged Locandez, and then Peshai helped her up. The next few minutes went by in a blur – she followed him down the corridors and stairwells of the ship, scarcely able to breathe. Then at last they came to a docking tube. Peshai led her down the tube, and into the transport’s cargo bay. A guard was standing over a man in white prison clothes, who reclined in a strange-looking gurney on a mount in the floor.

  The guard looked up and frowned. “Captain Peshai?” he asked, confused.

  “Is he hibernating?” Peshai asked.

  “Just went under,” the guard confirmed. “I thought they fired you, sir?”

  “I resigned,” Peshai said. “Wake him up, please.”

  As the guard turned and fiddled with the medical controls, Vina stepped to the bedside, and looked down at her father. He had aged noticeably – to her eyes, he looked frail and gaunt. But a smile crossed her face, and she touched his hair, brushing it back from his eyes.

  After a moment, Weaver’s eyes blinked open. He exhaled softly, and then his eyes focused, and he looked at Peshai. He looked at Vina next.

  “Hi Dad,” she said, biting her lip.

  “Vina?” he asked. Weaver’s face lit up with surprise and joy.

  Vina bent over and hugged him, and for a moment, father and daughter simply held each other.

  “They’re setting you free, Dad,” Vina said, straightening up again. “They know you’re innocent.”

  A shadow crossed Weaver’s face then, and he shrank back, eyes flicking between Vina and Peshai. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “No, go away, please. Don’t torture me like this!”

  “What’s wrong?” Vina asked, looking at Peshai.

  “This is real, Weaver,” Peshai said gently. “This isn’t a simulation.”

  “It’s me, Dad,” Vina said, frowning.

  “Prove it,” Weaver whispered, a tear rolling down his cheek.

  “Tell him … tell him a story from your childhood. Something that no one else would know,” Peshai told her.

  Vina shook her head. “I …” She looked up. “Mom was away at a conference, and you were making us breakfast. Enzo and me, down in the kitchen. But we ran out of milk, do you remember?”

  Weaver nodded slowly.

  “So you gave us ice cream,” Vina said, smiling through her tears. “And you made us promise not to tell Mom when she got back.”

  “Ice cream for breakfast,” Weaver breathed, and a massive weight seemed to lift off his shoulders. “Vina!”

  She leaned down again, and they hugged again, and Vina did not want to let go.

  Chapter 39

  Locandez stepped back into the conference room on the UNCS Sydney, and shut the door behind her. On the screens, the other committee members watched her take her seat in the middle of the table.

  “I escorted Captain Peshai off the ship,” she told them. “He was quite adamant that we not pursue any disciplinary actions against the crewmembers who helped him infiltrate the Sydney.”

  “In the circumstances, I don’t see how we could, without inciting a mutiny,” Huginot said.

  “I also took the liberty of reinstating Peshai’s pension and benefits,” Locandez said.

  “I thought you might offer him his job back,” Arkanian said.

  “We discussed it,” Locandez said. “But we both agreed it was no longer feasible. And candidly, I think he’s ready to move on. He’s certainly earned it.”

  “What about Mr. Weaver and his daughter?” Huginot asked.

  “They’re in the recovery wing,” Locandez said. “Mr. Weaver will be get
ting started on his physical rehabilitation, and Miss Weaver has asked to stay aboard for a few more hours. They were quick to ask me – as was Captain Peshai – about Mr. Falken’s disposition. I think we had better revisit that subject.”

  “Falken disobeyed us, and he put the entire program at risk,” Ojibwe said.

  “And he was right,” Arkanian pointed out, frowning at her vidscreen.

  “I know his motives were pure, but … he did break the rules,” Ojibwe replied. “We’re entrusted with representing the entire Justice Department. And one of our cardinal rules has always been that the ends don’t justify the means. The means matter just as much as the ends.”

  Arkanian exhaled noisily. “The Justice Department incarcerated an innocent man for close to ten years. We have to hold ourselves accountable for that.”

  “We are,” Huginot argued. “As we discussed before Ms. Locandez stepped out. From now on, all Class One felony cases destined for Oz will be eligible for at least one round of appeal before the subject is incarcerated.”

  Locandez stayed silent, resting her chin on one hand, thinking.

  “That will hopefully prevent us from making more mistakes in the future,” Arkanian said. “But it’s small consolation to the man who was wrongfully convicted and still served a sentence on Oz, or the man who is back in prison just for helping him. What are we doing for them, gentlemen?”

  “We agreed to release Mr. Weaver, along with a substantial settlement to make up for the error,” Ojibwe said. “Not to mention allowing him to return to Earth. He’ll be the first Oz resident who has ever been permitted to do so.”

  “It’s scant consolation. We’re lucky Mr. Weaver has more capacity for forgiveness than we do, apparently,” Arkanian commented.

  “And Falken?” Locandez asked. “What do we do about him?”

  “I don’t know,” Ojibwe said. “It’s a complex problem.”

  “No,” Locandez said, shaking her head. “I don’t believe it is. You said it yourself: we’re here to ensure justice is served. But Mr. Falken is the one who actually achieved it. He saw an injustice, and he righted it. While we were blindly defending the system, he was the one who saw the flaw.”