Return to Oz (The Falken Chronicles Book 3)

by Piers Platt

  Peshai smiled.

  Good man.

  He switched the view back to Falken, feeling slightly awkward about intruding on the two friends’ private moment. Then he heard his office door chime.

  “Enter,” Peshai said.

  The hatch opened, and Joneis walked in, sweating and out of breath.

  “Sir, I’ve been trying to reach you,” he panted.

  Belatedly, Peshai remembered the calls to his wristpad; a quick glance down at it showed that he had more than ten missed calls from Joneis. I never switched it back on after the reactor issue.

  Peshai frowned. “What’s up? I was down in the reactor—”

  “The audit team is here,” Joneis said, interrupting. “You said to warn you if they showed up.”

  Peshai felt his pulse quicken. “They’re here, now? They were just here a week ago,” he said.

  “I know, sir, but they’re back again already. I tried to delay them, but …”

  “No,” Peshai said. He pointed at Joneis. “You stay out of this, you hear me? It was my call to put Falken back in, I don’t want you trying to cover for me and getting caught up in this mess.”

  “Yes, sir,” Joneis said.

  “How long have they been here?” Peshai asked. “Where are they now?”

  Before Joneis could answer, the view on Peshai’s monitor changed, and he glanced over at it. Joneis hurried over to the desk, peering over Peshai’s shoulder. In Oz, Falken was back outside again, striding purposefully through the facility’s vehicle bay. But the footage of his real body on the UNCS Sydney had suddenly brightened, as the lights in the hibernation room came fully on. Peshai tapped on the screen, and the view widened, pulling back to show the entire room. A pair of men carrying a DNA sampler had entered, escorted by one of Peshai’s orderlies. As he watched, they walked over to the first man in the top tier of inmates, and set the man’s unconscious hand on the sampler. Falken lay just three chairs over.

  “They just had to pick that room to start …,” Joneis groaned.

  Peshai sighed. “Go and wait for them,” the warden said. “When they find him, bring them to me.”

  “Yes, sir,” Joneis said. “Sir …?”

  “No questions, Joneis,” Peshai said. “As far as you know, the Corrections Committee signed off on his reentry into Oz. If they ask, that’s what I told you yesterday.”

  “Yes, sir,” Joneis said.

  “Good,” Peshai said. “Go.”

  He watched as Joneis slipped out, heading off to the hibernation decks. Peshai let his mind wander for a moment, staring out his viewport at the distant transit hub floating over Earth. Then he came to a decision, and turned back to face his desk.

  “Sydney, schedule a Corrections Committee meeting for one hour from now. Emergency calendar override for the committee members, if necessary.”

  “Yes, Captain,” the computer replied.

  On his screen, the auditors had reached Falken. Peshai saw one of the men take Falken’s hand and place it on their scanner. He put Falken’s hand down and started to move to the next chair, and for the briefest of moments, Peshai thought they had missed it, that some glitch in their database had identified him as a valid, registered inmate, perhaps recalling his stay in Oz years ago. But the two men stopped in their tracks and looked down at the scanner for a second. They turned back to Falken, and tested him again. The man facing the camera frowned. He gestured at the device, and they sampled Falken’s DNA for a third time, then both peered at the datapad connected to the device.

  He’s not in the database, Peshai could almost hear them saying. How could that be? He shook his head, imagining their confusion. Their main job is making sure no inmates leave here before their time in Oz is up. It probably never occurred to them that they might find somebody in Oz who wasn’t supposed to be there in the first place.

  Peshai saw Joneis enter the hibernation room, and walk over to the auditors. The warden turned the screen off, squared his shoulders, and faced the hatch to his office, preparing himself.

  Chapter 21

  “We need some tools,” Falken said, leading Weaver into the garage. “Do you know where the tools are?”

  “I know where everything is in this building,” Weaver said.

  “Oh, right,” Falken said.

  “What do you need?”

  “A saw, and a couple shovels,” Falken told him.

  “There’s a locker labeled ‘Pioneer Tools’ in the third bay on the right,” Weaver said.

  Falken found it and swung the lid up. He pulled out a pair of shovels, and after some rummaging, a rusted old handsaw. “These’ll do.”

  Falken tossed them into the back of a jeep – the same one he had ridden in with Archos – and then sat down in the driver’s seat.

  “Are we allowed to take a truck?” Weaver asked, glancing back at the stairwell. “Archos has very strict rules about who can use them.”

  “Something makes me think he won’t mind,” Falken said. “Especially if you’re coming with me. Hop in.”

  New Australia’s sun was dipping toward the horizon as they drove out of the facility, golden light filtering through the needles of the trees above. Falken picked a dirt track leading away from the building, and they drove in silence for a time. When the track ended, he slowed, and wove through the forest until he reached the shoreline. Then he turned and followed the water’s edge, the truck’s tires throwing up sand behind them.

  “You’re taking me back to where we built the boat,” Weaver said, over the noise of the rushing wind and the truck’s engine.

  “Kind of,” Falken replied.

  He parked the truck in the shadow of Lookout Hill, and as Weaver waited, lifted the tools out of the cargo bed.

  “We’re going up,” Falken said, pointing at the hill with his chin. Weaver followed him without a word.

  “When I was on the little island,” Falken said, as they climbed, “I found something. After you left me there. It was a sensor node, from the spaceship that initially explored Oz. A monitoring device, basically.”

  “Was it functional?” Weaver asked.

  “Yeah,” Falken said. “Solar-powered, and still working.”

  Weaver stopped, and turned to look back at the island. “Really? A device like that might have a communications suite.”

  “You’re right, and it does,” Falken said. “But it’s only a short-range transmitter. Enough to talk to the ship, but not much more.”

  “Oh,” Weaver said, disappointed.

  Falken shifted the tools to his other shoulder, and started back up the slope. “That’s the bad news.” They reached the crest of the hill, and Falken oriented himself, and then set off toward the bow of the ship.

  “Was there good news?” Weaver asked.

  “Yeah,” Falken said, stopping next to a patch of freshly-turned earth on the ground. “The good news is it was still communicating with the ship. And the antenna was pointing right here.”

  “At Lookout Hill?” Weaver frowned. “Why?”

  “Because this is the ship,” Falken said. He pushed at the earth in front of him with the blade of a shovel, and it caved in, revealing the open hatch. Weaver’s jaw dropped open.

  “Let me be the first to welcome you aboard the UNEV Khonsu,” Falken said, smiling.

  “Does … does it fly?” Weaver asked.

  “No, it’s damaged,” Falken said. “It can’t fly, but many of the systems are still working.”

  “Oh.” Weaver rubbed at his forehead, thinking. “Wait … if you found the sensor thing years ago, why have you kept the ship a secret for all this time?” he asked.

  “Um,” Falken said, mind racing. Shit. I didn’t think this through far enough. “I, uh … I knew the sensor node was pointing back at the big island, but I didn’t know exactly where. I tried searching for a while, and then gave up. And then … a couple days ago, it suddenly came to me. Lookout Hill – it’s shaped like a ship.”

  “Oh,” Weaver said.
Falken could see concern creeping into his face.

  I’m losing him. He’s starting to think this is another of Oz’s miracles. “I found this hatch, and explored it for a bit, and then Archos’ crew made another supply run to the colony while I was there, and I heard them talking about you. I thought you were dead this whole time. But I wouldn’t have found the ship without you and the boat. So I came to find you, to show you.” Falken smiled again. “It all just kind of came together at once.”

  “Okay,” Weaver said, cautiously.

  “Let’s get inside,” Falken said, eager to change the subject. He dropped the tools through the hatch and then climbed down the ladder. “It’s okay,” he said, looking up at Weaver, who stood, hesitating, outside the hatch. “It’s just a little dark down here.”

  Weaver climbed down and stood blinking in the dim light of the airlock. “Feels like a tomb,” he said, in a hushed whisper.

  “It is,” Falken said, pointing at the body of the Khonsu’s captain, sprawled on the floor through the airlock door. Weaver caught sight of it and jumped, sucking in his breath in surprise.

  “The ship must have been buried here for ages,” Weaver said, eyeing the decaying skeleton with distaste.

  “Over two hundred years,” Falken agreed. “According to the ship’s log. This way.”

  They left the tools in the airlock, and Falken led Weaver past the captain and down the corridor, into the ship’s lounge.

  “What’s in the aft part of the ship?” Weaver asked, jerking his thumb over his shoulder.

  “There’s a hydroponics garden full of dead plants,” Falken said. “Another room with some big machines, I’m not sure what they’re for … and then the cargo hold. But the lights are out back there. You can’t see much.”

  “I bet there’s a ton of electronics equipment in here,” Weaver said, wistfully, looking around the lounge. “Oh! Manuals!” He crossed to the shelf lining the lounge’s outer wall, and ran his finger along a stack of binders. “Some of these might be really useful for building my transmitter. The facility’s library is mostly stuff about prisoner psychology and filling out administrative documents. They have very few technical publications.”

  Falken smiled. “Archos said you’ve made a lot of progress on that transmitter, given you’re teaching yourself electrical engineering as you build it.”

  Weaver nodded. “Lesson number one: unplug everything before you start messing with it. I lost count of how many times I gave myself a shock,” he said.

  “Come and see the bridge,” Falken said.

  He walked past the escape pod – still hidden behind its wall panels – and pulled a spare chair over to the computer terminal in the bridge. He took a seat, and Weaver sat next to him. Falken touched the computer’s screen, and it lit up.

  “It works,” Weaver breathed. “The main computer … access to all the ship’s systems.”

  “Don’t get too excited,” Falken warned him. “A lot of stuff is offline, and the long-range transmitter was destroyed when the … uh, when the ship crashed, or whatever happened to it.”

  “It can’t send any signals?” Weaver asked, disappointment creasing his face.

  “No,” Falken said. He typed into the computer, and pulled up the newsnet application. “But it’s still receiving data. This is an up-to-date newsnet feed. Look.”

  Weaver skimmed over the articles, then frowned. “We’ve been here so long, I don’t know what the date is anymore. I don’t even know what year it is.”

  “That’s the right date,” Falken said, touching an article headline. “At least, I think it must be.” He typed Elize Weaver into the search bar. Then he stopped, holding his finger over the Enter key. “Are you ready?” Falken asked, studying Weaver.

  Weaver nodded silently.

  Chapter 22

  Vina set her datapad on the kitchen counter, arranging it carefully in its stand so that it was facing her.

  Wonder how Falken’s doing? she thought. He said he would call, and keep me updated, but it’s been a while since I’ve heard from him. I’m not sure whether that’s good news, or bad news.

  She took a final sip of coffee, and put the mug to one side.

  Okay, lots of calls to make today, she thought. Here goes.

  She tapped on the screen, and the dialing icon appeared. A moment later, an older man’s face appeared.

  “Yes?”

  “Dr. Gillanon? It’s Vina Weaver.”

  “Good morning,” the doctor said, smiling at her. “Vina, was it? I’m sorry, you’ll have to remind me – is this a therapy session, or an interview?”

  “Uh, an interview,” Vina said. “But I’m not from a newsnet agency or anything. I was just hoping to ask you some questions about my father’s case.”

  “Oh, right,” Gillanon said. “The murder case. My assistant shared some of the, ah, details you sent over. Are you asking for a second opinion on your father’s diagnosis?”

  “I guess?” Vina said. “I’m mostly trying to understand his mental health, and how it all fits into the case.”

  The doctor frowned. “Well, without actually examining him, I’m afraid I can’t say much about your father’s, ah, health. This whole discussion would just be theoretical.”

  “Theoretical is fine,” Vina said.

  “Then, ah, then fire away,” the doctor said, waving his hand at her on the screen.

  “So, let’s assume for a moment that my father is innocent, as he claims to be. Is there any way to prove that he’s telling the truth?”

  Gillanon exhaled loudly. “From a psychological perspective? Not really. You’d have to speak with a biometrics expert, or perhaps a defense attorney, but my, ah, my understanding is that the science of lie detection is still not well-accepted, either among academics, or by courts of law. Those machines can tell if you’re emotionally aroused, and what emotion you might be feeling, but just because someone is happy or fearful when they say something doesn’t mean they are being honest.”

  “Hm,” Vina said. “Okay.”

  “Was that all?”

  “No,” Vina said. “My father never admitted any guilt. If he did commit the murder, why might he still deny it, even after he was tried and convicted?”

  “Lots of reasons,” Gillanon said. “Let’s see.” He held up his fingers in the air, counting on them one at a time. “He could feel guilty about it, and be reluctant to face what he has done. He could be worried that confessing would, ah, change how you and your family feel about him, or that it would lead to additional punishment for him in jail. He could just be a pathological liar, accustomed to lying about his behavior.”

  None of those sound like things Dad would do. “His attorney argued that he was temporarily insane when he killed Tevka,” Vina said. “Could it be that hasn’t confessed because he’s still … sick? Insane?”

  “Certainly,” Gillanon agreed. “A massive traumatic event like this can sometimes cause people to lose their grip on reality.”

  “Could you prove that that’s the case, if you could examine him?” Vina asked.

  “Possibly,” Gillanon said, shrugging. “But the brain’s a funny thing. It’s not like there’s some kind of marker in there that flips over to ‘insane’ when someone, ah, loses their mind. We’re talking about shades of gray here, it’s not a binary. Proving mental illness in court can be quite tricky.”

  “Oh,” Vina said. She rubbed her forehead, thinking.

  “It would help if he was delusional about other things, too,” Gillanon continued. “If the only thing that indicates he might be insane is that he continues to deny his guilt in the case, that wouldn’t really support a definitive diagnosis. But if he also believed the sky was green, for instance, then you’ve got a bit more evidence.”

  He wasn’t delusional about anything else, Vina thought. At least that I know of.

  “Are you hoping to appeal his conviction on the grounds that he was truly insane, and should be in a mental hospital?” Gillanon
asked. “Or are you trying to prove his innocence?”

  “I don’t know,” Vina admitted. “I think I’m just confusing myself.”

  “Ah,” Gillanon said. “Well, I’m sorry if I’ve added to your confusion.”

  “No,” Vina said shaking her head. “This has been helpful, I think. Thanks for your time, Doctor.”

  “Of course,” he said. “I’ll be happy to examine your father if you are able to convince the courts to allow it.”

  Fat chance of that, Vina thought. “Thanks, Doctor. I’ll let you know.”

  “Of course,” he said. “Good day.”

  The screen went dark. Vina checked the time, and then placed a second call.

  “Professor Dunn’s office?” a robotic voice answered.

  “I have a ten a.m. appointment,” Vina said. “But I’m a little early.”

  “Let me see if she’s available now, Miss Weaver,” the virtual assistant told her.

  The screen lit up again, and Vina saw a middle-aged woman sitting behind a desk, typing at a separate computer.

  “Miss Weaver, you’re early,” Dunn said.

  “I can call back later,” Vina offered.

  “No,” the professor shook her head, causing a set of gold hoop earrings to wave back and forth. “I prefer to stay ahead of my schedule if I can. So this time works fine.” She turned away from the screen and faced Vina. “My virtual assistant reports that you are not a student here, but you were nevertheless quite persistent in requesting to meet with me during office hours this week …?”

  “Both true,” Vina said. “Thank you for giving me a bit of your time. I’ll try to be brief.”

  “Okay,” the professor said. “So … what’s up?”

  “I’d like to discuss a hypothetical situation with you,” Vina started.

  Dunn held up a hand. “Stop there. If you’re thinking about committing a crime, or if you already did commit a crime, attorney-client privilege does not apply here. I’m not your attorney, you’re not my client. Anything you tell me, I have an obligation to go tell the police, if it’s something illegal.”