by Piers Platt
“I know,” Falken said. He glanced at Cadellium and Auresh one more time, and then turned his back and disappeared into the trees.
He ate the energy bar in his supply pouch and drank one of his water bottles as he walked, setting an easy pace through the trees. After a few minutes, he glanced up at the sky, spotting a pair of New Australia’s moons through the tree-tops, and further to his right, the sun. He squinted, gauging the sun’s distance from the horizon.
Mid-afternoon, he judged. Assuming those hibernation drugs only knock you out for an hour or so while they get you hooked into the simulation, it looks like the time on Oz is synced up with the time on the UNCS Sydney. Peshai said he could give me a week … so I better remember to keep track of how much time has passed. But did he mean seven days starting tomorrow, or does it include today? Falken shook his head. Shit. I don’t know.
He picked up the pace, breaking into a slow jog. Nearly twenty minutes later, the coastline emerged into view through the trees, and Falken saw that he had picked his course nearly perfectly: Lookout Hill was just a few hundred yards to his left. The buried bulk of the UNEV Khonsu rose up over the ocean, dotted with trees. Falken hurried over to it.
He checked the worksite first – the spot between the hill and the ocean where he and Weaver had built their boat. There was no boat there, and the sand was smooth, free of footprints. Falken frowned.
Well, if we built a boat together in Weaver’s simulation, it would have been years ago … there might not be any evidence of it left.
A piece of faded white cloth, half-hidden in the sand, caught Falken’s eye. He bent down and tugged a scrap of sail free.
So we did build a boat. Looks like that part of the simulation was the same for both of us.
He turned and climbed the hill next, breathing hard from the exertion. When he reached the crest of the hill he stopped and squinted, inspecting the ground around him.
… but we didn’t discover the ship. It’s still buried, undisturbed. Falken turned and faced out to sea, eyeing the small island several miles away. What happened after we built the boat? Why didn’t we find the sensor node, and the spaceship?
Falken walked to the bow of the ship, and after several false starts, found the tree he was looking for. He set his back against it and then paced out thirteen steps toward the ocean. Gingerly, he toed the earth in front of him, and then watched as it crumbled away, slowly at first, and then the ground caved in all at once, revealing an open hatch.
He arched an eyebrow. And I didn’t have to fall in to find it this time, thank you very much.
Falken climbed down the ladder into the airlock. Spacesuits lined the walls, their faceplates staring blindly at him. The familiar, musty smell of the ship’s stale air washed over him. Through the hatch, he saw the moldering corpse of the Khonsu’s captain, gun in hand. Falken walked over to it and knelt down. He checked the gun – it was loaded, safety off. Falken set it down on the deck, and then slid it behind the captain’s back, hiding it from sight.
Best to leave that here for now.
He took the captain’s keycard next, unclipping it from the man’s uniform. Then he stood and continued deeper into the ship. He stopped in the aft compartment first, grabbing the toolbox they had found his first time on Oz. Then, by the dim glow of the ship’s emergency lighting panels, he found his way to the crew lounge. The wide, circular table still sat, dust-covered, in the middle of the room. A crewmember’s jacket, with the UNEV Khonsu logo embroidered on its sleeve, hung from one of the chairs. Falken touched the chair and it spun slowly in place, squeaking softly.
He made his way to the entryway into the bridge next. There, he stopped in the small antechamber, and pushed the keycard into the slot in the wall. The wall panels folded upward dutifully, revealing the escape pod in its silo. The lights on the pod’s control panel blinked gently, waiting.
Good to go.
Falken pulled the keycard out of the wall, and the panels folded back down, hiding the pod. He set the toolbox on the floor, tucked the keycard into his pocket, and crossed through the lounge, then hurried through the corridors until he reached the airlock and the ladder leading topside. In the fresh air again, he took a deep breath, and then faced in the direction of the colony.
Okay, enough sightseeing, he thought. Time to find Weaver.
Chapter 11
Vina woke up sore from the previous day’s run. She scowled at herself in the mirror as she brushed her teeth, debating whether to go for another run. Eventually she decided against it and pulled on a pair of jeans instead of her running shorts. Downstairs, her mother had already left for the bookstore – Vina had slept later than she intended to.
Still a little space-lagged, I guess.
In the kitchen, she poured herself a bowl of cereal, but discovered that they were out of milk. Vina considered eating the cereal dry for a moment, then smiled as a long-forgotten memory rose to mind.
We ran out of milk one time when Dad was watching us – Mom had gone away for a convention or something. And instead of going out for more, he just scooped ice cream into our bowls.
Vina smiled at the memory, but poured the cereal back into the bag and found a banana in a fruit bowl on the counter. She set a cup of coffee to brew, then sent her mother a quick message on her wristpad.
We’re out of milk – send me the car? I’ll go to the store.
The reply came a moment later: Car’s on its way. Can you get some other stuff, too? Shopping list on the home server. Thanks!
Vina downloaded the list to her wristpad, then went and sat out on the porch swing to eat her breakfast and wait for the car. As she ate, she used her wristpad to flip through the notes she had made regarding her father’s case. The car arrived soon after she finished the banana, pulling into the driveway and then beeping once, announcing its presence.
“I know, I’m right here,” Vina told it. She tucked the banana peel into the empty coffee mug and set it on the arm of swing, then jogged down the stairs to the waiting car.
“Good morning, Vina. What is your destination?” the car asked.
Vina frowned. “The truth?” she asked.
The car was silent for a moment. “I’m not sure I’ve found the exact location for that listing. There is a bar called ‘The Truth,’ in Seattle, Washington. Would you like to—?”
“No,” Vina interrupted. “Take me to the grocery store.”
The car pulled off, heading back down the driveway. “Seatbelt, please,” it reminded her.
Vina buckled up. Then a thought occurred to her.
“Take me through McMurtry State Park on the way there,” she said.
“That will add ten minutes to your travel time,” the car warned.
“That’s fine,” Vina said. Nothing else to do today, anyway.
The car wove its way through the rolling grasslands, passing ranches and houses from time to time, and then turned at a large wooden sign for the State Park. The road wound past a lake – Vina saw a woman and her child feeding a pair of ducks on the far side of the water. The scene vanished from view as the car passed into a stand of trees, and on through a campground.
“Turn here,” Vina said.
“This road has no outlet,” the car said, turning.
“I know,” Vina said.
She let the car drive another three miles, before taking manual control so she could park off the side of the road. Vina got out and looked around, feeling her heartbeat quicken.
I haven’t been back here since … well, since Grandpa found us.
She shivered, despite the warm air, and then set off through the trees. Five minutes later, she arrived at a long, earthen berm – it stretched for hundreds of yards in either direction. To her left, an entrance had been dug into the side of the berm. Concrete walls held back the earth from a narrow doorway.
What was this building, originally? Vina wondered. I never asked, after we got out. I never wanted to come back here.
She walked
to the entrance. A metal door hung ajar, pitted with rust, and there were leaves strewn on the floor inside. Vina steeled herself, pausing for a moment, and then stepped inside, flipping the flashlight on her wristpad on.
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?”
“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.