by Piers Platt
“Peshai,” the voice came back.
“Captain, it’s Vina Weaver. We met about ten days ago, I was there with my friend, Falken?”
“I remember you, Miss Weaver,” Peshai said. “If you’re calling for an update on your friend, I’m afraid I’m a bit out of the loop.”
Vina frowned. Why is he ‘out of the loop’? “Actually, I was calling to try to arrange a meeting with you,” she said. “I didn’t want to show up unannounced again, but there’s something I’d like to show you. If I hire a private shuttle, could you clear it for docking again?”
“I’m afraid I can’t,” Peshai said.
“Oh,” Vina said, trying to hide her disappointment. “Well, I need to talk to you about my father,” she said. “And I’d feel a lot better if we did it in person. It’s very important.”
“I can do a vidcall,” Peshai said. “But I don’t want you wasting your money on a ticket up into orbit.”
Vina bit the inside of her cheek. “Actually … I’m already up in orbit,” she told him.
“You are? Where?” he asked.
“At the deep-space hub,” Vina replied, wincing in anticipation.
The line was silent for a moment. “There’s a restaurant near the dry docks called ‘Fiddler’s Green,’ ” Peshai told her. “Meet me there in ten minutes.”
* * *
Peshai was at the restaurant already, waiting for her. She spotted him across the room as she approached the maître d’s booth, and he waved her over. He stood as she approached, and smiled, shaking her hand.
“Thanks for seeing me,” Vina said. “You got here fast!”
“As it turns out, I was already here,” Peshai said. He pulled a chair out for her, and then took his own seat. Their table was set at the edge of a raised dining area – another tier of tables stood below them, arranged in a semi-circle against a wide arc of viewports, which afforded a view of the space station’s exterior. Vina could see two large ships undergoing repairs in the dry docks below – massive supply hoses and docking tubes connected them to the station itself at various points, and several had space-suited maintenance personnel floating along the hulls.
“Impressive view,” she commented.
Peshai nodded, and cleared his throat, and Vina detected a hint of nervousness in his demeanor.
“There’s something I should tell you,” he said.
“Me first?” Vina asked. “Sorry, but I really think you need to see this.”
Peshai shrugged. “As you say.”
Vina took out her datapad, and set it on the table facing Peshai. “I shot this video of my grandfather yesterday afternoon.”
She hit Play, and let the video run. Peshai watched it in silence, his brows slowly knitting together into a deepening frown. When it was over, he leaned back in his chair.
“My god,” Peshai said. “Are you saying your father’s innocent?”
Vina nodded slowly.
“Did you grandfather turn himself in?”
“No. He killed himself soon afterward,” Vina said. “In front of a sheriff and his deputy, when they went to arrest him. He told them he didn’t want to go to jail.”
“Wrongly accused, and imprisoned,” Peshai said, stunned. “He was telling the truth all along. This video should be more than enough evidence to warrant an appeal. The Corrections Committee would have to consider it.”
Vina sighed with relief. “So you’ll take me to see them?” she asked.
“I wish I could,” Peshai said, looking down at his hands. “There have been some developments on my end of things, as well.”
“Developments?” Vina asked. “What developments? Where’s Falken? Did the committee let him in?”
“No,” Peshai said. “They did not. But … I sent him back in anyways.”
“What?” Vina asked, surprised.
“I believed Falken was right – that he could help. He found your father,” Peshai continued. “He was making good progress with him – I was able to monitor them a bit, and it seemed to be going well. But … the committee discovered what I had done. I had to resign my post as warden.”
“You’re no longer in charge?” Vina asked.
“I’m not,” Peshai said. He gestured at his clothes, and for the first time, Vina noticed that he was not wearing the blue and gray uniform she had first seen him in. “I’m just a civilian now. You were lucky to catch me – I was waiting for a long distance flight out to the colonies.”
“What happened to Falken, then?” Vina asked.
“I imagine they pulled him out of jail soon after I stepped down,” Peshai said.
“But I should have heard from him,” Vina said. “He promised he would call me, as soon as he got out.”
“And he still hasn’t called?” Peshai asked, frowning. “He should have been out some time ago.”
“Not a peep,” Vina said.
“That’s … troubling,” Peshai said, rubbing a finger along his jaw.
“Could they have punished him for going back in?” Vina asked.
“My understanding was that they were simply going to reprimand him. I took care to take as much of the blame as I could.” He shook his head. “But if he hasn’t contacted you, I’m afraid something might have happened.”
“Who’s in charge now?” Vina asked.
“The head of the Corrections Committee. A former district attorney by the name of Locandez,” Peshai said. “And she takes a rather conservative view toward the rehabilitation and release of criminals, to put it mildly.”
“Can I talk to her?” Vina asked. “I have to show her this tape, and get my father out of there.”
“She’s on the Sydney now, as acting warden,” Peshai said.
“I can hire a shuttle to fly me there,” Vina said, pushing her chair back. “But will she let me on board to see the evidence?”
“I doubt it,” Peshai said. “Corrections Department protocol says that no unauthorized personnel are allowed on board. And Locandez is not one for bending the rules. You’re going to need my help.”
“Won’t that get you in even more trouble?” Vina asked.
“Quite possibly,” Peshai said. “But it’s the only way you’ll get onto the ship.”
“If you’re okay taking that risk, I’m not going to turn down your help,” Vina said. “Are you going to call her, to ask for a meeting? Or do you want to just show up?”
Peshai pursed his lips, thinking. “I don’t have a way to contact her directly, not anymore,” he said. “And I think we’ll be more successful if we argue your case in front of the entire Corrections Committee, not just Locandez. That means getting on board without her knowing, and calling for a Committee meeting.”
“That sounds like it could get you in a lot of trouble,” Vina commented.
“Let’s focus on your father for now. We can worry about me later.”
“Okay. Should we leave now?” Vina asked, picking up her bag by the carrying strap.
“I think we’d better,” Peshai said. “Something tells me we’re working against the clock on this.”
Vina nodded and stood. “Come to think of it,” she said. “I’m not sure I remember where the Sydney was in orbit, either. I’ll need you to tell the pilot where to go.”
Peshai stood and pointed past her, out the windows, into space. “We won’t need a shuttle,” he said. “That’s the Sydney right there.”
Surprised, Vina turned and looked – as she studied it more closely, the first ship in the dry dock began to look familiar to her, and she recognized its pointed bow, and the cannons mounted along the hull.
“It’s in for repairs,” Peshai said. Then he frowned, watching as a long-range transport eased carefully into the dry dock, and began to nestle against the side of the larger prison ship.
“What?” Vina asked, noticing his expression.
Peshai ignored her, and held his wristpad up. He typed on it for a second, and Vina heard a dial tone.
“You haven’
t left for the colonies yet?” a voice asked. “What are you waiting—”
“Masoud, there’s a ship docking with the Sydney right now,” Peshai said, interrupted. “I need its flight plan.”
There was no response for several seconds. “You were fired, my friend,” Masoud reminded him.
“I resigned,” Peshai said.
“Same difference,” the chief engineer said. “Either way, you know I’m not supposed to share flight plan information with civilians,” Masoud continued. “That could get me in some serious hot water. And everyone’s just a bit on edge these days.”
“I know,” Peshai said. Vina watched, staying quiet.
They heard a grunt from the other man. “Just so we’re on the same page. That’s the UNCS Mandolin. Her flight plan says she’s bound for Kanderi, departs in twenty minutes, or as soon as loading is complete.”
What’s Kanderi? Vina mouthed.
The ex-warden shook his head, holding up a hand. “Passenger manifest?” Peshai asked.
“Aside from crew, the Mandolin is carrying just one passenger. Weaver, Sef,” Masoud told him. “Inmate.”
“Shit,” Peshai said. “Masoud, I need two more favors.”
“Well, I figured you might,” Masoud said. “What did you have in mind?”
Peshai told him. Vina, listening, felt her jaw drop open.
“You can’t,” she said, speaking up. “You’ll all go back to jail for that.”
“Who’s that?” Masoud asked sharply, over the call.
“Mr. Weaver’s daughter,” Peshai explained.
“Ah,” Masoud said. They heard him exhale loudly. “But she’s right, Peshai. I thought you said you wanted a few ‘favors,’ not ‘felonies.’ ”
“Weaver’s innocent,” Peshai said, simply.
The line was silent for several long seconds.
“Give me ten minutes,” Masoud said.
Chapter 36
Falken felt his arm being lifted, and the sound of Velcro tearing open. A weight was removed from his wrist, and he felt cool air on his arm, where the cuff had been. He opened his eyes, blinking in the harsh light. A guard stood to his right, wrapping intravenous tubes into a coil, before tucking them away inside a monitoring device. To his left, a second guard unstrapped Falken’s left hand, and then took hold of both hands. Falken heard a metallic click, and looked down to see that he was wearing a set of handcuffs, which were attached to manacles around his ankles via a short chain. Across from him in the ship’s bay, the other three inmates were all being attended to by their own sets of guards.
“Where are we?” Falken asked.
“Kanderi,” the guard on his right replied, undoing Falken’s chest strap. “I got my eye on you, big guy. Don’t try anything stupid.” He held up a hand warningly, showing Falken the stun-glove he wore.
“Okay,” Falken said.
Another guard appeared and surveyed the men in the hold. “Ready?” he asked.
“Ready,” one of Falken’s guards reported. He was echoed by two other guards.
“Just a minute,” a final guard said, from the man to Falken’s left. He finished buckling the cuffs around the inmate’s wrists, and then gave the chain between the man’s legs a rough shake, checking it. “Okay, good to go.”
“Listen up!” the head guard said. “We’re docking in two minutes. And unlike you, I don’t have to stay here, so I don’t want to stay here a minute longer than I have to. When I say so – and only when I say so – you will all stand up and follow me. Follow all instructions from me and the other guards to the letter. Play nice, and we won’t have to use the gloves. Clear?”
Falken nodded.
“On your feet!”
Falken stood. His legs tingled, protesting as the blood rushed back into them. How long were we in hibernation for? He ran his tongue over his lower lip, feeling the stubble. Not much of a beard. We can’t have been under for more than a week, then. I flew a lot farther on a couple of my planetary survey missions, when I first got out of Oz.
The head guard surveyed them briefly, as each pair of guards took up positions on either side of one of the inmates. Falken felt his guards take hold of him firmly by the elbows.
They must have put us under just to make us easier to transport – no chance of us escaping or rioting if we’re asleep the whole time.
“Twitch one muscle out of line, and we stun you,” the head guard reminded them sternly. “Let’s go.”
He turned and started off, and Falken’s guards moved to follow. They marched along the ship’s hallway, and back to the same docking tube through which Falken had entered the ship. This time, the docking tube opened into another metal corridor which led directly to a low-ceilinged, circular room with no windows.
Another ship? Falken guessed. That will take us down and land on this Kanderi planet?
The last pair of guards passed into the room with their charge, and as the group of men gathered in the center of the room, the head guard lifted his arm and tapped a command on his wristpad. The entryway closed, sealing the circular room shut. The room lurched downward, and sections of the walls appeared to be moving, metal sliding past metal. Abruptly, the metal hull disappeared from view, and Falken found himself staring out a narrow set of portholes ringing the compartment. Beyond, the inky black of space was dotted with unfamiliar constellations. Below – but approaching rapidly – lay the atmosphere of a strange planet.
Kanderi.
The planet was rust-red, and appeared relatively featureless – Falken saw no evidence of mountains or valleys on the surface below.
No clouds or bodies of water, either. And nothing green – no native plant life. It looks … barren.
“Place looks like a real shit-hole,” one of the other inmates observed.
“Shut it,” the heard guard barked, frowning. “I didn’t say you could talk.”
As the rate of their descent increased, Falken realized they were not in a ship, but a space elevator. He shook his head ruefully.
So they do have a space elevator for convicts, like the orientation video shows. It’s just not on Oz.
They passed rapidly through the upper atmosphere, and Falken felt a slight jolt as the elevator’s artificial gravity shut off, letting the planet’s natural gravity take over. The ground rushed up to meet them, and as the elevator began to slow, the view became obscured by a fine, red haze – sand particles from the planet’s surface were being blown against the windows. The sun faded behind the dust storm, and the room took on a reddish hue, as gusts of wind buffeted the elevator. Then at last, the compartment slid inside the elevator’s base station, coming to rest inside a larger room ringed by a steel balcony. A heavy weight seemed to settle on Falken’s shoulders.
Something familiar about this room, how it’s laid out. Falken turned his head slowly, studying the circular balcony, and then he had it. … it’s the facility, before it fell apart. A replica of the facility on Oz … or, the other way around, I guess.
One of the other convicts snorted, coming to the same conclusion. “Where’s Archos? I feel like fighting.”
“Anyone else talks,” the head guard warned, pointing at each of them, “and all of you are getting stunned.”
The compartment’s hatch opened, and a gantry extended from the balcony. The head guard stepped out of the room, and the inmates shuffled out after him, each flanked by a pair of guards. Falken and his guards brought up the rear. When Falken took his first step, he stumbled slightly – lifting his leg took far more effort than he had expected. He took another halting step.
Significantly more gravity here than on Earth, Falken thought. Just moving around is going to be exhausting.
“Come on,” one of his guards told Falken, pushing him firmly in the middle of his back. “You’ll get used to it.”
They passed through a doorway and stepped into a room with lockers around the walls, and plain metal benches facing the lockers. At the far end of the room, a steel ramp led down to
a large bay door that stood closed. Falken’s guards led him to an open locker. Without a word, they unbuckled his chains, and then handed him an outer garment from inside the locker.
“Dress,” one guard told him.
Falken started to pull his uniform shirt off.
“No, just put it on over your uniform.”
Falken did as he was told – the one-piece outfit was heavily padded. He stopped briefly to wipe at the sweat forming on his brow, his cheeks flushed from the exertion of putting the suit on, and the material’s thickness. They took away his slip-on shoes and helped him pull on socks and heavy boots. Falken donned a hat next, and wrapped a scarf loosely around his neck, while one of the guards tucked a set of clear plastic goggles down over his hat. Then he stood up again, and they handed him a pair of gloves and some kind of face mask with a canister attached.
“Eyes on me,” the heard guard said, and Falken and the other inmates turned to look at him. He held one of the strange-looking masks aloft in one hand. “Kanderi’s atmosphere has enough oxygen for you to breathe, but it also has a near-lethal amount of carbon dioxide. This mask filters that gas out. You’ll wear it at all times. I repeat – one hundred percent of the time, you will wear this mask. Take it off, and within about five minutes, you will begin to hyperventilate. Wait another few minutes, and you will begin vomiting, convulsing, and eventually die. So you wear it at all times – sleeping, shitting, in the showers, while you eat. At all times. Are we clear?”
“Yes,” they said.
“How do we eat with a mask on?” another inmate asked.
“You breathe,” the head guard said, holding the mask over his face, “then you move the mask and take a bite.” He slipped the mask to one side, and mimed putting a fork to his mouth. “Then you put the mask back while you chew. Your body can handle the carbon dioxide in small amounts, and you’ll be given supplements to counteract the effects, too. But too much of it, over a sustained period of minutes, and there’s nothing the patrol drones can do for you. Mask up.”