by Piers Platt
“We made sure we never discussed those cases except when our jobs required us to,” Buckniel said. “Simple enough.”
“How did you feel about the fact that he was trying to keep people out of jail, the people you arrested?”
“If they didn’t go to jail, then they didn’t deserve to,” Buckniel shot back. “We were both important parts of the criminal justice system. Just so happens that we were different parts of it. That’s all.”
“Did you know my father before you arrested him?”
Buckniel studied Vina for a moment. “We’d met.”
“Were you friends?” Vina asked.
“Acquaintances,” the sheriff replied, carefully.
“This was my dad’s first arrest,” Vina said. “Did you have any personal disagreements with him before this time?”
Buckniel’s eyes narrowed, and he pushed the computer keypad away – Vina had his full attention now. When he spoke, his voice was quiet, but his tone was full of menace. “You’re about a hair’s breadth away from making a serious accusation, Miss Weaver. Be very, very careful.”
“I’m just trying to discover the truth,” Vina said, her pulse racing.
“You’re questioning my integrity, and my brother’s,” Buckniel said. “I’m an even-tempered man, but I won’t stand for you dragging his name through the mud.” He pushed a button on his keypad. “Deputy?”
A voice came back over the computer’s speakers. “Yes, Sheriff?”
“Miss Weaver and I are done talking. Please see her to the door.”
Chapter 19
Falken took Archos’ hand, and pulled himself up from the sand.
“Why …?” he panted, gesturing at his attackers. Cadellium lay writhing in pain, holding his face, while Auresh was still twitching uncontrollably from the stun blast.
“Why? You tell me,” Archos said. “What beef did they have with you?”
“No, I know why they came after me,” Falken said, grimacing and touching his bruised ribs gingerly. “I’m asking why you helped me.”
Archos shrugged. “I saw them follow you, carrying those weapons. I don’t have many rules, but if there’s gonna be a fight on my island, it’s gonna be on the disk where I can enjoy it, and it’s gonna be fair.” He tossed the pipe out into the ocean. “No weapons.”
Falken narrowed his eyes. There’s something more, something he’s not telling me.
“Come on,” Archos said, pointing at a truck parked in the wood line. “I haven’t got all day. And I’ll leave you here to walk back, if you don’t stop gawking at me.”
“What about them?” Falken asked, pointing at Auresh. The captain, trembling weakly, was attempting to push himself to his knees, as the effects of the stun blast began to wear off.
“Leave ‘em,” Archos said. “They’re on their own now. If I see them back at the facility, I’ll kill them myself.”
Falken crossed the beach and climbed into the passenger seat of the truck.
“Did you get what you were looking for?” Archos asked.
“Yeah,” Falken said, touching his pocket to ensure the album was still there.
“Good.” Archos started the truck up, then drove down onto the beach, heading toward the facility.
Falken glanced over at Archos, frowning. Is Oz … helping me? Did it help me find the album, too? Or was that just a coincidence?
“Thanks for the help,” he said, awkwardly.
Archos stared straight ahead, appearing not to hear him. Falken decided to drop it. As they neared the facility, Archos pointed the truck back into the woods, and they followed a well-worn set of tire tracks through the trees to the entrance to the garage. The truck’s tires squealed as they drove down the entrance ramp, and then Archos jerked to a stop in one of the empty vehicle bays. He climbed out, and without another word to Falken, headed for the stairwell, disappearing into the facility.
Falken stepped down carefully from the truck’s cab. His ribs ached, and when he touched the side of his head, his fingers came back sticky with drying blood. He probed the ribs along his right side experimentally.
Ah! Sore … but not broken. He sighed. I should probably clean that head wound, but … it’s not real, anyway. Other than the pain.
He left the garage and climbed the stairs to the roof. Weaver was still sitting in the middle of his transmitter, the guts of a server spread onto a faded piece of fabric on the ground in front of him. Falken sat cross-legged next to him, but the bookkeeper paid him no mind.
“Do you remember the first time we met?” Falken asked. “It was in the infirmary – Salty’s infirmary, back at the colony. You were recovering from a concussion. And you’d lost something. Do you remember what it was?”
Weaver held a small plastic part up to his face, squinting at it to try to read the tiny lettering along one side.
Falken set the album down on the fabric. He saw Weaver glance at it, then look more closely. Slowly, he set the plastic part down and picked up the album. Weaver brushed his fingers over the cracked leather of the cover, his eyes wide. He looked at Falken, and for the first time, made eye contact with him. His face was a mixture of uncertainty and apprehension.
“Open it,” Falken said, softly.
Weaver looked back down at the album, and with shaking fingers, opened the cover. The screen flickered once, and then came on. Beneath the splintered glass of the screen, the photo of his family appeared. He gasped, and covered his mouth with his free hand. After a time, Weaver advanced to the next photo, and stared at it. Then he moved to the next. He scrolled through the album two full times, before carefully closing the cover, and placing the album back down on the ground. He looked at Falken again. When he spoke, his voice was gravelly and hoarse, but Falken recognized it all the same.
“That’s the second time you’ve brought this back to me,” he said.
“Yeah,” Falken agreed, tears welling in his eyes. “It is.”
“Thank you,” Weaver breathed. He looked down at the album again, and then back at Falken. “Why did you come back here? Why were you looking for this? For me?” he asked.
“We were friends once,” Falken explained. “Do you remember?”
“I hadn’t forgotten,” Weaver said, his voice growing stronger. “The last time I saw you was out on the little island. We were just testing out the boat for the first time.”
“Yes!” Falken nodded. “We landed and explored the island together.”
“We found Bearnes and his map,” Weaver said. “And then we argued about what to do next. I wanted to keep sailing, but you said it was too dangerous. You threatened to destroy the boat if I tried to keep going. I had to leave you there – I thought you were going to try to hurt me.”
So that’s where our experiences diverged. Oz showed him a different version of me, to try to stop him from sailing out. But why didn’t it just show him the sensor node? That would have stopped him from sailing, too. Falken frowned, thinking. He wasn’t ready for it. Oz needed him to confess, before it told him about the Khonsu.
“I’m sorry,” Weaver was saying. “For leaving you there. I was upset … and scared.”
“It’s okay,” Falken said. “I’m sorry for scaring you.” Here I am, apologizing for something a simulated version of me did years ago.
“You don’t have to apologize,” Weaver said. “You were right, in the end. It just took me two years to realize it.”
Falken shook his head, trying to organize his thoughts. “So … you remember? You remember everything?” Falken asked.
Weaver nodded. “I didn’t lose my memory. I just … I stopped talking to people. It’s easier that way.”
“What do you mean?” Falken asked.
Weaver reached down to the fabric on the ground in front of him, and picked at a seam with his fingernail. “Have you ever felt like you were losing your mind?” he asked, looking down at the fabric. “Like you couldn’t trust yourself?”
“I lost my self-control once, a
long time ago,” Falken said. “Out of anger and grief, I killed a man. That’s why I’m here.”
“I’m not talking about that,” Weaver said. “I’m talking about feeling clear-headed, but not believing what you’re seeing, what you’re hearing.”
“I’m not following,” Falken said, frowning.
“When I was out at sea, and the storm came, I was hundreds of miles from land,” Weaver said. “The boat capsized, and I … I gave up. I stopped swimming, and just let myself go under. I was tired of fighting, of sailing … tired of everything. I let myself die. And the next thing I knew, I was back here on the island.”
“The storm carried you back,” Falken said.
“While I was unconscious?” Weaver asked. “It makes no sense.”
“Maybe your survival instinct kicked in. You could have held onto the boat, and been dragged back in. Maybe you just don’t remember,” Falken tried.
“Even so, the odds that I would find myself back on this island again, out of so many miles of empty ocean …,” Weaver shook his head. “And … it’s not the only time my life has been saved by luck, or an incredible coincidence.”
His suicide attempts, Falken thought.
“If you see enough things that can’t be explained, enough miracles, it makes you question everything,” Weaver continued. He bit his lip, and then sighed. “I don’t talk to people because I can’t tell what’s real anymore.”
Falken’s eyes went wide. Holy shit. Weaver figured Oz out. He wasn’t trying to take his life, he was forcing the simulation to save him, forcing it to tip its hand. He knows the truth about this place already. Or at least, some of the truth.
Weaver looked up at Falken. “Do you think it’s real?” He swept an arm across the roof, gesturing at the ocean. “All of this?”
Falken swallowed. “I believe in miracles. When I first came here, I was selfish and immature, a brawler picking fights every chance I got. I’m not that man anymore. And it’s partly thanks to you.”
“That’s … good,” Weaver said. “But it still doesn’t explain what happened to me.”
“Not everything in life has a logical explanation,” Falken said. “Maybe there was a higher power watching out for you.”
“I don’t believe in God,” the bookkeeper said. He looked back down at the ground. “Not anymore. Not in a world where I can’t even choose whether I live or die.”
“Maybe I can help,” Falken said.
“I don’t want to die,” Weaver said softly. “Not really. I was just … frustrated. And looking for answers.”
“I don’t know if I have many answers,” Falken told him. “But maybe I can help restore your faith.”
“My faith in God?” Weaver asked.
“In God, in humankind … in your own sanity,” Falken said. “Come on.”
He stood up. Weaver peered up at him, doubt in his eyes. “Where?”
“To find out what happened to your family,” Falken said.
Weaver’s eyes widened. He scrambled to his feet. “You know what happened to them? How?”
“I’ll show you,” Falken said, bending over. He straightened up, and handed Weaver the photo album. “Try not to lose this again, huh?”
For the first time since coming back to Oz, Falken saw Weaver smile.
Chapter 20
In the reactor room on the UNCS Sydney, the hooting alarms threatened to deafen Captain Peshai.
“What did you say?” he yelled, leaning in close to Chief Masoud’s ear to be heard.
“God damn it,” the chief growled. He took a deep breath. “Alarm system: mute!”
“Alarms may be muted only during a reactor drill,” the computer system announced. “During an actual emergency, their volume may only be lowered.”
“So lower them, Sydney!” Masoud yelled.
“Alarm volume lowered,” the computer reported. The alarms continued, but they dropped to a more reasonable level.
“I’ll be deaf or insane in another five minutes of that. And perhaps both,” Masoud said. He glowered at Peshai. “Give me a minute.”
Peshai nodded. “Do what you need to do.”
As Masoud bent over a complex control terminal, Peshai’s wristpad buzzed abruptly – he silenced it, hanging up without looking. Then it rang again.
Who the hell is calling me in the middle of a reactor emergency?
He looked down at the wristpad this time, and saw that it was his administrative officer.
Joneis? He should know better than to bother me right now. Peshai frowned, and placed the device into Do Not Disturb mode. I’ll have to have a word with him when we’re through here.
Masoud was still in the midst of surveying the numerous gauges and indicators mounted in the control terminal’s face.
“This god damn analogue monitoring tech … stuff is practically prehistoric. You know this ship is one of the thirty or so oldest craft still in active use?”
“Really?” Peshai asked.
“True story,” Masoud said. “I looked it up.”
He turned several knobs, and then peered through a viewing window into the reactor. He frowned. “That can’t be right,” he muttered. He tapped on the glass face of a dial, and the needle within twitched in response. “Hm. Okay, looks like that’s our problem. Sydney, give me an assessment on rod four.”
“Rod four is overheating at an exponential rate.”
“Leaks or damage?”
“None,” the computer said. “The reactor has full integrity. However, it has passed the point at which our cooling system has the capacity to stop it. In less than thirty minutes, it will cause a meltdown.”
“The hell it will,” the engineer said. “How much power can we generate on only seven rods?”
“Eighty-seventy point five percent,” the computer replied. “Life support systems will not be affected, but any high speed maneuvers could cause another overheat situation.”
“I can live with that. Prepare to eject rod four, Sydney. Standard rod disposal protocol.”
“I have notified high orbit traffic control to clear an exit envelope,” the computer said.
“Eject,” the engineer ordered.
Peshai felt a shiver through the soles of his shoes, and heard a distant thunk, as the offending rod was fired out of the reactor and into space. The alarm klaxons stopped suddenly, their after effects ringing in the two men’s ears.
“All clear?” Peshai asked.
“All clear,” Masoud confirmed. “Cancel the evacuation, crisis averted.”
Peshai lifted his wristpad to his mouth. “This is the captain. All clear, I repeat, all clear. Chief Masoud has repaired the reactor. All crew return to your normal duty stations.” He tapped on the wristpad, and then let out a long sigh. “So you just toss the rod out?” he asked.
“Just toss it out, and launch it into the sun,” Masoud said. “It’ll take a couple months to get there, but it’s a pretty good way to get rid of radioactive material. Beats leaving it hanging out in interstellar space waiting to smash into someone’s ship.”
“… but we’re on reduced power,” Peshai said.
“Yes,” Masoud said. “Like Sydney said, we shouldn’t try any crazy flying – in fact, if you can get a couple of tugs to take us into the dry dock, I would say the safest thing is just to keep the engines off completely.”
Peshai made a note on his wristpad. “Tugs. Got it.”
“And I’m moving a cot down here for the foreseeable future, and keeping someone from my department in here at all times until we get this reactor fully offline,” Masoud said.
“Next week,” Peshai promised. “They’re clearing out one of the dry docks now.”
“Can’t happen soon enough,” Masoud said. “I checked with my supplier, and the new reactor is already in orbit waiting for us. If it’s okay with you, I’m going to start disassembling non-essential components, and cut through a few of the bulkheads to start making a path for the new reactor. Might as well be r
eady the minute we get in the dock.”
“That’s not dangerous?” Peshai asked.
“Not the way I plan to do it,” Masoud said. “You want to see my full plan?”
“Later,” Peshai said. “Let me go see about those tugs.”
Peshai made his way out of the reactor room and climbed two flights of stairs, then crossed a long corridor back into the administrative area of the ship. The hatch to his office slid open at his approach – he walked inside and took a seat at the desk. He spent nearly ten minutes arranging for a pair of tugs to haul the Sydney into dry dock the following week, then thought to call the dry dock facilities again just to ensure that their space would indeed be open, as promised. He sent a quick note to Masoud letting him know that the tugs were laid on, and another memo to the crew to expect construction work in the reactor area for the remainder of the week, and to please stay clear unless their duties required them on that deck. Finally, he leaned back in the chair and stretched.
Crazy morning. Who knew keeping a virtual planet running smoothly would be so much work? He frowned. That reminds me: I wonder how Falken is getting along …
He typed on his keypad, and the view on his screen changed. As Peshai watched, Falken strode out onto the roof of the facility, then took a seat next to a smaller man who was tinkering with some electronics. The name Weaver appeared over the smaller man’s head, along with his prisoner identification number. Peshai rubbed at his chin.
He found his friend, at least. Now we’re getting somewhere.
Peshai saw Weaver pick up an object from the ground and open it up. It looked to Peshai like a digital album of some kind. He tapped on Weaver on the screen, and the other half of the screen switched over, showing him Weaver’s unconscious form in a separate hibernation chair. The view inside the simulation changed, too, switching to be from Weaver’s perspective. Peshai saw him flip through the album – at the bottom of the screen, a biometric readout indicated that Weaver was experiencing a very strong reaction to the album.
Joy, some sadness … more raw emotion than he’s felt in some time. Falken knew exactly how to get through to him.