by Piers Platt
“Short flight,” the guard announced, shouting to be heard over the growing noise of the engines. “No bathroom breaks, no food, so don’t ask.” He buckled himself into a rear-facing seat next to his colleague, and then reached behind his back and banged on a metal door twice. Falken assumed it was the door to the cockpit.
The aircraft accelerated down the runway a moment later, and then rotated off the tarmac. Once airborne, the craft banked hard, and remained flying in a tight circle for several minutes. Falken watched as they circled, higher and higher, the ground slipping away below them. After fifteen minutes, the craft leveled off. The sky above was a deep, inky blue, and Falken thought he could almost see a slight curve to the horizon.
There was a loud metallic clank, and several of the inmates gasped in alarm. Through the window, Falken saw the base module break away, dropping below them to begin its return to the airfield. At the front of the aircraft, one of the guards braced himself against his harness. A second later, the passenger module’s booster engines lit, and the sudden acceleration shoved Falken back into his seat. He had been expecting it, but he grunted reflexively all the same.
Short flight, the guard said. That rules out anything too far away. South America? Western Africa, even?
But as Falken watched, the sky outside gradually shifted to black, and he realized with a shock that they were still climbing.
Space. They’re taking us into orbit.
The booster engines cut off a minute later, and Falken’s stomach churned sickeningly for a moment as the weightless sensation of micro-gravity took hold. Across the aisle from him, another inmate groaned, holding his hand over his mouth.
That must be why they didn’t want to feed us.
The passenger module turned, and Falken lost sight of the Earth. He spied an orbital station in the distance, but the craft continued on its own path for several minutes. Then a massive deep-space vessel pulled slowly into view. Falken watched as they matched speeds with the larger craft, and then a docking tube extended toward them. An indicator light flashed above the cockpit door, and the guards unbuckled themselves, floating free of their chairs.
“We’re here,” one of them announced, as he reached out and swung the craft’s hatch open.
Chapter 3
Falken followed the other prisoners off of the shuttle and onto the deep-space vessel, carrying his duffel bag. Each of the prisoners was matched with a guard waiting on the larger ship; when Falken’s shackles had been removed, his guard led him to a private room with a locker. Next to the locker stood a tall, cylindrical device with a door mounted in the side. Falken, still getting the hang of moving in a zero-g environment, bumped into the locker by accident, and then fumbled for a hand-strap on the ceiling, before steadying himself. The guard merely propped himself against the ship’s bulkhead, wedging himself into a corner with practiced ease.
“Strip,” the guard instructed him. “Put your jumpsuit and duffel bag in the locker, and then step inside the chamber.”
“What is it?” Falken asked, eyeing the door uneasily.
“A decontamination unit,” the guard explained. “For parasites, bacteria from Earth. Won’t hurt.”
Falken complied, peeling off his coveralls while spinning slowly through space. He pulled himself hand over hand toward the chamber, and then hunched awkwardly to fit his large frame through its entry. Once inside, the guard closed the door on him.
If they’re gonna kill me, this would be the moment.
A bright, red light flashed on, and the chamber began to vibrate with a deep humming noise. Heat radiated from the walls, and Falken’s hair stood on end. Then a cooling mist sprayed over him, and the light went out. Falken sighed with relief. The door opened, and the guard handed him a new, white jumpsuit. To Falken, it looked more like a patient’s garb than a prisoner’s.
“Put this on,” the guard said.
Falken dressed, and then followed the guard through a hatch, and down a narrow tube with rungs mounted along one side. They wound their way through several more corridors, deeper into the heart of the ship. Falken had never been on a deep-space vessel before, indeed, had never been in orbit before – he was awed at the size of the spacecraft.
Such a huge ship – all for a dozen or so convicts?
Finally, they stopped in front of a metal door. Above the door, Falken noticed that someone had etched a sign into the bulkhead’s metal in stenciled letters: All truths are easy to understand once they are discovered; the point is to discover them. – Galileo Galilei.
Falken frowned at the sign. Kind of a strange quote to put in a prisoner transport.
Then the door opened, revealing a pair of technicians in medical scrubs, and beyond them, a number of padded, reclining chairs arranged in semi-circular tiers, almost like a theater.
Those look like hibernation seats, Falken guessed. For long-distance space travel.
The majority of seats were full already: other inmates from the transport were strapped in most of them, while various technicians floated next to them, adjusting intravenous tubing and medical sensors. In silence, Falken’s orderlies pulled him to his own seat, and then placed him in it. They secured his ankles and wrists, and then placed a broad strap across his chest, too.
“Are we going to be asleep for a long time?” Falken asked.
“That depends,” one of the techs replied. His colleague shot him a look of disapproval.
“Where are we going?”
The tech flipped on a monitor, which showed Falken’s heartbeat and several other graphs that he did not recognize. “Another planet, in the colonies. The warden will be here in a minute,” he said. “He’ll tell you more then.”
The door to the room slid open again, and Falken saw the man with the phoenix tattoo, along with a guard. Orris took in the room and the hibernation seats, and then turned to his guard.
“No, man. Fuck, no. I ain’t going in there.”
“You have to,” the guard told him.
“So you can inject me with some poison? I don’t think so.”
Two orderlies approached, but Orris pulled his legs up and kicked out at them, yelling incoherently. His momentum carried him backward into the hallway, where he collided with his escort. The guard, grimacing, wrapped one burly arm around the man, his other arm held out to one side. He was wearing some kind of glove, Falken saw: a metal band encircled his wrist, and connected to a set of thin wires ending in a black disk at each fingertip. As Falken watched, electricity arced between the disks at the guard’s fingertips. The guard slammed the glove’s open palm into Orris’ chest, and the prisoner screamed, arching his back involuntarily, before going limp.
The orderlies, recovered from the sudden attack, took him by the arm-pits, and maneuvered him into the room.
“Fuck you guys,” Orris slurred, still unable to move his arms and legs. “Fucking bastards.”
They set him in his chair, still protesting weakly, and then proceeded to strap him in. One of Falken’s technicians shook his head and snorted. “There’s always one crazy.”
The door opened again a few minutes later, and a man wearing a correctional officer’s uniform glided in, coming to rest in the center of the tiers of seats, where all of the prisoners could see him.
“My name is Captain Peshai. I’m the warden of this ship,” he told them. “And for the time being at least, you are all in my care. You’re hungry, and confused. I can’t do anything about the hunger – hibernation is best on an empty stomach. But I can give you a little bit more information.”
The warden spoke hurriedly, with a hint of exasperation. It gave Falken the distinct impression that he was rattling off an oft-repeated script.
“You are all here because you are Class One felons. You chose to commit violent crimes. Years ago, criminals like you were incarcerated as a form of punishment. But today, that is no longer the case. Your incarceration is not a punishment. The goal of the Corrections Department is to determine whether any of y
ou are capable of reforming, and if you are, to give you the tools you need to avoid offending again. In short, our job is to rehabilitate you – each and every single one of you. But even if we do our job to the best of our ability, I can’t guarantee you will get a second chance. The only person who can determine that … is you. Your actions in the months and years ahead will decide that. We can’t do it for you.”
He turned and gestured to a blank wall behind him, and a screen sprang to life, showing an animated representation of the vessel 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.”
On the screen, the ship left Earth, flew through space, and then arrived at a new planet. From the video, it appeared to be covered in water, but Falken thought he spotted several small islands, too.
“You’re probably wondering why you’ve never heard of it. That is by design. New Australia is a planet reserved for the exclusive use of the Multi-National Corrections Department. It is a prison planet, and its only inhabitants are Class One felons like you.”
The computer-generated ship docked at a space station, and the view zoomed in to show inmates transferring to the station, and then boarding a space elevator that descended to the surface. The warden checked his watch distractedly, then cleared his throat.
“The New Australia colony allows us to safely isolate you from the citizens of Earth and the other colonies, while keeping incarceration costs minimal and evaluating your potential for rehabilitation. You will find that the planet is similar to Earth in most respects, and the colony has everything you will need to survive.”
The cartoon inmates on screen walked out of a building at the base of the space elevator, under the smiling gaze of guards patrolling along a rampart above them. Other inmates handed them hoes and shovels, and they set to work in a field of crops, beside a set of plain wooden buildings. Several small blimps hung over the field – their fabric was painted in red and white stripes, and they hovered slowly around in lazy circles, observing the work below through cameras and sensor suites.
“This is not a penal colony. Think of New Australia as a trial run for reintegration, for life as a free man again. You will be under observation at all times, but corrections officers rarely intervene unless absolutely necessary. Join the community there, contribute to the common good, and in time, you may earn your way back to society.”
“I wanna talk to my lawyer,” an inmate called out, interrupting. “I’m not gonna go work on a farm on some shithole planet.”
The warden frowned in annoyance. “Your lawyer can initiate an appeal on your behalf once you reach the colony, if you choose. You may not talk to him or her at this time.”
“Well, how do I call him when I get there?”
“The facility at the base of the space elevator handles all communications and transport needs,” the warden replied. “The corrections officers there can put you in touch with your lawyer, if needed.”
On the screen, Falken watched as the inmates picked the crops, then carried them to a kitchen, where other inmates cooked and prepared them. They smiled, peaceful and content, as they sat down to eat.
“Officers will be watching you, and the choices you make, in order to evaluate your level of rehabilitation,” the warden continued. In the video, a blimp descended and presented a comically large envelope to one of the inmates, who followed the drone back to the facility. “When you have served your allotted time, you will be eligible for parole board review, and if your behavior warrants it, release.” The cartoon inmate sat at a table in front of a group of corrections officers, and then stood up and shook hands with the corrections officers. He walked back to the space elevator, which took him back up to the ship in orbit.
“If you have any other questions, the staff on New Australia can answer them for you,” the warden said. “We’ll be initiating hibernation in the next few minutes, in order to begin our journey.”
The screen went blank, and the warden pushed himself off the floor, floating back toward the exit. A medical technician appeared next to Falken again, and attached a pouch to Falken’s chest strap.
“What’s that?” Falken asked.
“Hm? Oh, supply kit. Just for when you wake up,” the technician replied. Falken saw other orderlies attaching similar pouches to the inmates around him. The orderly unzipped the pouch quickly, showing Falken the contents. “A couple bottles of water, an energy bar … and your personal item. We decontaminated it, and brought it from your locker. What kind of gloves are these?”
“Sparring gloves,” Falken said.
The orderly shrugged. “Okay. Hibernation drugs should be kicking in momentarily,” he warned Falken.
Falken felt a cold liquid pass into his arm through the intravenous tube, and almost immediately a sense of heaviness and exhaustion washed over him. It was followed by a wave of nausea. He groaned.
“There it is,” the technician said. “Sweet dreams.”
Falken fought to keep his eyelids open, his stomach churning in protest at the drugs. His eyes closed, fluttered open, then closed again.
He slept.
Chapter 4
Wind. It was all Falken could hear. Harsh, insistent wind, like a storm shaking the branches of a tree. He had been falling in his dream, and the sudden dropping sensation in his gut had startled him awake. The falling sensation was gone, replaced by a slight, unsteady swaying. He opened his eyes, but the room was dark, lit only by thin strips of light at odd intervals along the far wall. The view reminded Falken of the slats in a fence.
The wind was cold – he could feel it rushing through the cracks in the wall behind him, too. His eyes started to adjust to the dark, and slowly he began to make out the shadowy forms of other inmates, strapped into makeshift seats along the outer wall of the room.
Where are we?
The entire room jerked, as if something massive had smashed into it at speed. He tried to call out in alarm, but his throat was inexplicably dry, and the sound came out an unintelligible croak. The room seemed to move again, tilting drunkenly. Falken noticed that his arms and ankles were free, no longer strapped to the hibernation seat. He reached across and felt for the IV drip, but it was gone.
We’re not on the ship anymore, Falken realized, holding his hand up in front of him. That’s gravity I feel.
And we’re falling.
Panic set in. Falken fumbled with his chest strap, searching for a buckle. He yanked on it, and it came free. He stood awkwardly, bracing himself against the chair as the room lurched to one side. He felt a heavy weight against his chest – the supply kit, still clipped to his jumpsuit, where the orderly had left it. He considered opening it – was there a flashlight inside? – then, with a splintering, thunderous CRACK, they crashed into the ground, and Falken was thrown to the floor.
“What the fuck,” another inmate groaned.
Falken pushed himself to his knees, and then stood. He crossed to the closest wall – it was rough to the touch.
Feels like wood that hasn’t been sanded.
“Someone get me out of this goddamn seat?” another voice asked.
Falken pushed on the wall, and felt the board creak and bend. He pushed harder, straining against it, and the board cracked, and then fell off. He ducked down to look through the opening. A thick layer of fog covered the ground, but in the distance, he could make out a cluster of trunks reaching toward the sky.
Trees …? Not like any tree on Earth.
The branches on the trees grew upward and out from the ram-rod straight trunks, twisting around each trunk in an intricate, repeated pattern, like a spiral staircase. Green needles lined the branches, which shivered in a light breeze. A breath of wind tugged at the fog, and five men emerged from the tree line, wearing faded yellow jumpsuits, stained and dirty from hard use. They jogged purposefully toward Falken and the other inmates.
Shit.
“S
omeone’s coming,” Falken said aloud.
“Who?” a voice replied.
“Other inmates,” Falken said. He turned to the nearest chair, and saw that it was the man with the phoenix tattoo. Falken helped him undo his chest strap.
“Where the fuck are we?” Orris asked him, his voice hoarse.
“Not Earth,” Falken said.
More light pierced the room – the inmates outside had begun tearing slats from the walls. One man stopped and peered inside, looking over the huddled prisoners. He wore a thick, gray beard, and underneath it his face was sunburned and lined.
“Full load this month,” he observed. He eyed Falken appraisingly. “Welcome to Oz, boys. Give me a hand with these slats.”
Falken kicked at the lower part of the wall, and in another minute, there was enough space to climb out. He ducked through the gap. The five inmates outside were busy stripping wood off of the walls, piling the slats onto a handmade sledge with a harness. Falken turned to get a better look at the room, and realized it was just a giant wooden crate, lined with seats for the inmates. A set of large silk parachutes lay draped over one side of the crate.
“They dropped us in by parachute?” Falken asked. He brushed sawdust off his hands onto his bright yellow jumpsuit.
“The fuck happened to the space elevator?” one of the other inmates asked.
The old man with the beard chuckled. “They’re still showing that fucking orientation video, huh?” He shook his head. “Lying assholes.” He tossed another board onto the sled. “Anyone that wants to join the colony better get ready to come with us.”
“What’s the colony?” an inmate asked.
“Home,” the bearded man said. “It’s not much, but we got food and shelter, if you’re willing to work. The stuff they gave you in the supply kits ain’t gonna last you more than a day. Listen, the warden and his boys will be along in a minute, and I wouldn’t recommend sticking around to meet them.”