by Piers Platt
“Falken!” Archos screamed.
Falken ran on, counting his steps in his mind. In a few strides, the gantry below him had faded into the darkness, and by the time Archos stepped into the hatch, he was running blind.
The hole should be right about … here.
With a mighty yell, Falken leapt forward, his arms cartwheeling in the air.
Chapter 33
Falken’s leap seemed to stretch into an eternity, but just when he was sure he had misjudged it, and was falling to his death, the gantry on the far side hit him squarely in the chest. Falken scrabbled desperately at it with both hands, cutting his fingers on the sharp metal grating, and then he found a purchase, and hung there, gasping for breath.
Behind him, he could hear Archos running as well, his heavy footfalls ringing on the walkway. He glanced over his shoulder, and against the dim outline of the hatch, he saw the warden’s shadowy form. Then the shadow gasped and Falken saw him stumble. For a second, Archos’ arms flailed, grasping desperately in the air, reaching for the hand rails. Then, with a suddenness that surprised Falken, he dropped out of view. Falken heard the older man scream – a mixture of fear and shock and anger – and then he heard a sickening crunch, and the cavernous room fell silent again.
Falken hauled himself up onto the walkway, and then carefully edged a dozen paces farther along it, before turning around and facing the distant hatch.
One more jump. You can do it.
He ran, counting his steps once again, and then jumped. His weakened arms nearly gave out when they caught the walkway on the far side, but with a supreme effort, Falken held on. He dangled for a moment, and then with a primal grunt, he pulled himself up, laying his upper body across the walkway before hauling one knee up as well. He lay, panting, catching his breath, letting the sting of the impact fade from his chest and arms. There was something hard under his chest, a cold lump – he felt under himself with one hand, and realized he was touching the captain’s pistol – Archos had dropped it when he fell. Falken tucked the weapon into the belt of his overalls, and then grabbed hold of the railing and levered himself to his feet. He took a deep breath, checking to ensure that the keycard was still in his pocket, and then retraced his steps to the hatch.
Outside, the cool night breeze ruffled his sweat-soaked hair. He stood above the hatch, and saw the jeep on the beach below, engine running, headlights pointed at the base of the hill.
“Weaver!” Falken waved both hands in the air.
The jeep’s engine shut off. “Falken?”
“It’s over,” Falken called.
Weaver hurried out of the jeep and back up the hill. “What happened? I thought you were right behind me,” Weaver said. “I got all the way to the jeep before I realized you weren’t there.”
“I stayed back. But he’s dead now,” Falken said.
“How?” Weaver asked.
“He fell off the walkway in the cargo hold,” Falken said, starting back down the ladder. “Come on.”
They made their way back to the crew lounge, and then stepped through into the foyer between the lounge and the bridge. Ngobe lay slumped against the bulkhead into the bridge, bleeding from a gaping chest wound.
“Aw, shit,” Falken said. He and Weaver knelt beside the scientist.
“Archos?” Ngobe asked, wincing.
“Dead,” Falken said.
Ngobe nodded, smiling briefly. “I thought he was one of you, and then I turned around and he had the gun ….”
“It’s okay,” Weaver said, squeezing Ngobe’s arm.
“You still have the keycard?” Ngobe asked.
“I’ve got it,” Falken agreed, patting his pocket.
“Good. My little gambit paid off, then.” Ngobe sucked air in through his teeth as a fresh wave of pain surged through him.
“How bad is it?” Weaver asked.
Ngobe shook his head. “It hurts to breathe.”
“You’re bleeding bad,” Falken said. He put a hand on the astrophysicist’s chest, pressing down over the wound.
“Ah!” Ngobe cried. “No … no. Just leave it. It’s just delaying the inevitable, Falken. Let me die with some dignity, at least.”
Falken nodded, and took his hand away, wiping the blood on a muddy pants leg.
“You got Mr. Weaver out, I see,” Ngobe said. “That’s good. And the colony?”
Weaver and Falken shared a look.
“They didn’t make it,” Weaver said.
Ngobe closed his eyes, and thumped his head against the bulkhead in anger. “Damn it.” He broke into a fit of coughing, and the last cough brought up a bloody froth. He wiped it away with his sleeve, then held out a hand. Falken took it, and Weaver placed his hand over both of theirs.
“Don’t let this all go to waste, Falken,” Ngobe said. “You get back there and make sure they come for Weaver, and anyone else left alive on this rock. Understand?” Falken nodded. “And make sure the next shipment of inmates never reaches the planet, too. Tell them what you’ve seen here. No more parachute drops. No more senseless suffering. No one deserves a fate like this, even Earth’s worst criminals.”
“I’ll make sure,” Falken promised.
“Will you take me back outside?” Ngobe asked. “I don’t want to die in here. I want to see it launch.”
“Of course,” Falken said.
They carried him, carefully, back to the hatch, and then Falken put the wounded scientist over his shoulders, and gingerly climbed the ladder, before setting him with his back to a tree, facing the bow of the ship.
“That’s better,” Ngobe said. “Thank you, my friends. And farewell.”
They shook hands, one last time, and then Falken and Weaver descended back into the Khonsu. When they were outside the hatch to the bridge, Falken took the keycard from his pocket and slid it into the control panel, and the wall panels separated and slid downward, folding away into the floor. Beyond, the escape pod sat waiting in its launch tube, its lid propped open. Falken stared at it in silence for a moment, and then brushed his hand along the curving hinge of the lid.
“No sense delaying, right?” Weaver asked, smiling bravely.
“I guess not,” Falken said.
“I never thanked you for coming back for me,” Weaver said. “Archos was wrong, you know.”
“What do you mean?” Falken asked.
“I don’t know if this place has changed you or not,” Weaver said. “But you’re a good man, regardless.” He cleared his throat. “You’ll find Elize and my kids, right? You’ll tell them the truth about me?”
“Of course,” Falken said.
Weaver smiled, a tear rolling down his cheek. “Even if … well, even if I don’t make it back, for whatever reason, I’m glad to know that they’ll hear it from you.”
He held his arms wide, and the two men hugged. “Fly safe,” Weaver said. “Tell my family I love them.”
“No,” Falken said. Behind Weaver’s back, he activated the stun glove, and then clapped it against Weaver’s shoulder. The bookkeeper tensed, a great spasm gripping his body, and then Falken felt the smaller man go limp in his arms. “You’ll tell them yourself.”
Falken bent over and scooped Weaver up, grunting as he lifted the bookkeeper up and over the lip of the pod.
Weaver’s eyes were wide with shock, his mouth working silently. “What are you doing?” he managed.
Falken slipped Weaver’s arms through the pod’s chest restraints. “I’m sending you home, Weaver.”
“No,” Weaver said, struggling ineffectually against the restraints, his arms still weak from the stun attack. “No. You won the lottery. You should be the one to go.”
“No,” Falken said.
“Why?” Weaver asked, crying.
“You know why,” Falken said. “You’re an innocent man. You have a family to take care of. You have something to go back to. I … I have none of those things.”
“You do,” Weaver protested. “You have Mallerie.”
&
nbsp; Falken shook his head. “She’s not waiting for me. She deserves better than me, anyway.”
“But you’ll die here,” Weaver said. “You’ll starve.”
“I’m not going to starve,” Falken said. “I’m not going to go out like that.”
Weaver frowned. “What do you mean?” Then his gaze fell on the pistol stuck in Falken’s belt, and realization dawned on his face. “No! Falken, no! Promise me you won’t do that.”
Falken stepped back from the pod and ran his eyes over the straps, checking to ensure his friend was safely in place.
Weaver sobbed. “Don’t, Falken,” he said. “Just hang on. They could be sending supplies already for all you know. Don’t give up hope.”
Falken smiled. “Just find your family, okay?”
“Promise me!” Weaver cried.
Falken reached up and grabbed the lid of the pod’s hatch. “Bye, Weaver.”
He pulled down on the lid, and it clicked shut. Falken heard the latch lock into place, and then white gases hissed out from underneath the pod, venting into the tube. Falken, coughing, retreated to the crew lounge, and then stumbled down the hallway and up the ladder, back out to the top of the ship. He walked over to Ngobe, but as he sat down, he saw that the old scientist’s eyes were already shut, his chest still.
Falken smiled and leaned against the tree trunk beside the old man. “That’s okay, Ngobe.” He patted his friend on the leg. “I’ll watch the launch for both of us.”
He faced the hole they had dug, and the mounded earth around it. For a moment, nothing happened. And then Falken jumped as the charges blew the tube open. He shielded his face as pieces of hull flew up and arced out over the trees. Then, with a massive roar, the pod appeared from below the earth, its snub nose pointing skyward. It moved slowly at first, then with increasing speed, the engine bank below it growing blindingly bright with hot-white fire. Falken squinted – he could feel the heat even where he sat. The pod rocketed up above the trees, and as he watched, it dwindled into a single point of light, before fading out entirely amongst the constellations overhead.
“He made it, Ngobe,” Falken said, smiling. “He made it.”
Chapter 34
Falken drew the pistol from his belt and held it in his lap, eyeing it pensively. He slipped a finger over the trigger, and then closed his eyes. His eyelids were heavy with exhaustion.
What did Weaver say? “No sense delaying.”
He blinked his eyes open, fighting back the fatigue.
God, I’m tired.
He raised the pistol to his temple, holding it there for a moment. His finger tightened on the trigger, and then paused.
Maybe Weaver was right. Maybe there’s still a chance I can last long enough for a rescue party to make it here.
He lowered his arm, and then set the pistol down beside him.
Don’t need to decide now, anyway. I can sleep first.
* * *
“Bird-man.”
Falken opened his eyes, blinking in the bright sunlight. He held a hand up over his face to block the sun, and then someone stepped into his field of view, throwing a dark shadow over him.
“Archos?”
His vision cleared, and Falken saw the familiar form of the warden. Falken’s stomach dropped, and he reached hurriedly for the pistol, lying next to him on the ground, but his hand closed on empty dirt. Falken looked up again. Archos raised his arm, and Falken found himself staring down the barrel of the weapon.
“You should be dead,” Falken said, shaking his head. “I don’t understand.”
The gun roared in the warden’s hand, and Falken saw a flash of orange, and then his vision went dark.
* * *
“Easy. He’s coming up now,” a voice said.
Falken heard a metallic click, and then he seemed to be floating, weightless, suspended in the air. He opened his eyes, but everything was pitch black. Fingers touched his head, and he heard the tearing sound of a Velcro strap coming undone. The darkness lifted from his vision, and he saw that some kind of device had been strapped over his eyes. The room was dim, but there was enough ambient light for him to make out two orderlies, floating on either side of him. The man on his right pocketed the device that had been strapped to Falken’s face, while the other detached a set of monitoring cables from Falken’s chest.
“Where am I? What happened?” Falken asked. His voice was a croaking whisper, his vocal chords hoarse from disuse.
One of the orderlies shook his head. “Just relax. The reintegration procedure can be a bit … disorienting.”
Falken looked down and saw that he was strapped to a kind of chair. It looked vaguely familiar, for some reason, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on where he had seen it before. As his eyes adjusted to the dim room, he thought he could make out other figures, shadowy in the dark, strapped to their own chairs, arranged in circular tiers around the room.
“He shot me. I thought I was dead.”
“Mm,” the orderly agreed. “I got him from here,” he told his colleague. Falken saw the man brace his feet against the floor, and push against Falken’s gurney, and then they were floating across the room. A hatch slid open, bathing the room in light. Falken shut his eyes at the harsh glare.
“Where’s Weaver?” Falken asked. “Did he make it?”
“Easy, pal. You’ll get answers soon enough.”
The man guided him down a short corridor and into a sterile-looking room, where a doctor wearing a surgical mask gave him a cursory examination, checking his pulse and blood pressure, shining a pen light in his eyes, and down his throat. The doctor checked Falken’s reflexes, and had Falken follow the light with his eyes as he moved it through the air.
“What’s your name?” the doctor asked.
“Sirio Falken,” Falken said, coughing.
“How do you feel?”
“Throat’s sore. My arms and legs feel … weak. Tired, like.”
“That’s normal,” the doctor said, handing Falken a water bottle with a straw, sealed for zero gravity. “All of that will resolve in a few weeks, with therapy. Anything else?”
Falken shook his head. “I just don’t know what’s going on.”
“That’s normal, too,” the doctor said. He made several notes on a tablet computer, and then nodded to the orderly. “He’s good to go,” the doctor said.
They floated down another corridor, and through a set of doors, and then the orderly locked Falken’s chair into a mechanism in the room’s floor, anchoring it in place, before he left the room. A wide vidscreen dominated the front of the room. It flickered to life after a moment, and showed a split-screen conference call with two participants. Falken frowned. He recognized both: one was the judge from his trial and sentencing back on Earth, the other was his lawyer. Then a side door into the room slid open, and a third man entered wearing a correctional officer’s uniform. He, too, looked vaguely familiar. The officer smiled, not unkindly, at Falken, and pulled himself over to Falken’s side using handholds along the ceiling, before steadying himself using the railing along the side of Falken’s gurney.
On the screen, the judge looked up from his desk and saw Falken and the officer waiting.
“Ah,” he said. “Good afternoon, gentlemen.” He set a digital readout aside, and then nodded at the screen. “Warden,” the judge said, speaking to the man next to Falken. “We’re ready when you are.”
Warden. He’s the one who greeted us on the ship. Back in orbit over Earth.
“Very well, your honor,” the warden said. He lifted his chin, speaking directly into the camera at the front of the room, over the vidscreen. “For the record: this is Captain Peshai, and the following testament serves as Corrections Form 1022-R, video-filed per updated protocol. Date and time as stamped on vid. Subject is Sirio Falken, sentenced to life without parole for second degree murder. Time served to date: two hundred and seventy-one days.”
Captain Peshai gestured to the screen, and Falken saw that he was h
olding a small remote control in one hand. At his command, the screen minimized the views of the judge and lawyer, replacing them with a video recording. Falken realized that it was footage from New Australia; he watched as inmates from the colony opened a landing crate, and then saw himself climb out of it.
“Mr. Falken’s initial behavior in the program suggested a disappointing return to form,” Peshai said. The video jogged ahead, and Falken saw an inmate walk up to him, then cross over to Weaver, kneeling on the ground, and smash him over the head with a board. Falken winced. Then the video skipped forward again, and he saw himself on the disk at the facility, fighting his first fight.
“Mr. Falken failed his first series of ethical tests, falling back into a pattern of self-involvement, social isolation, and violent problem-solving.” Falken saw himself defeat the first man he faced, and then the second. “But he eventually self-selected to join the colony, and from that point on, his improvement was noticeable.”
On the screen, Falken saw scenes of him escaping the facility, and then meeting Luo and Ngobe, giving Weaver his photo album, working in the fields beside the other inmates, and studying under Saltari. Falken felt a pang of sadness at seeing his old friends alive again.
“In fact, following the first several weeks of incarceration, Mr. Falken was a model prisoner, conforming very closely to the ideal rehabilitation path for the program. In his apprenticeship, Mr. Falken studied xenobiology, with concentrations in zoology, agriculture, and ecology.”
“What are you talking about?” Falken asked. “Will someone please tell me what’s going on?”
“In a moment, Mr. Falken,” the judge said. “Just bear with us, please.”
Captain Peshai cleared his throat, and clicked on the remote again. The scene changed, and Falken saw himself climbing into the facility, searching for Weaver. “When presented with his final series of tests, Mr. Falken passed with flying colors. He prioritized rescuing his friend when an easy escape back to Earth was available, and eventually chose to send his friend in his place, sacrificing himself for the good of others. Throughout this final series of evaluations, he made a concerted effort to avoid further violence, using it only in defense of others, when no other recourse was available.”