by Piers Platt
Falken pulled his mask on, and the guards helped him adjust it. Then they handed him a large canvas bag.
“Towel, soap, bowl, canteen, and spare clothes are in the bag,” the heard guard said. He pulled on his own mask, and Falken saw the other guards following suit.
When everyone had their mask on, the head guard turned and walked to the ramp, beckoning over his shoulder that they should follow. Falken could see the door’s shutters rattling in the wind. The head guard touched his wristpad again, and the door slid upward into the ceiling. Wind rushed into the bay, filling the air with sand and grit. Falken struggled to pull his goggles down over his eyes, his fingers fumbling in the thick gloves. The wind was bitterly cold – Falken guessed it was well below freezing. The cold air and the flying sand stung his face – he held the scarf up, holding it over the exposed portions of his cheeks.
“Barracks,” the head guard said, shouting to be heard through his mask, and over the force of the wind. He pointed out into the red gloom of the storm. “Less than a mile, that way. If you go past it by accident, the drones will find you, and point you in the right direction.”
Falken peered into the dust, but he could barely make out the ground twenty feet outside the bay, much less any buildings or horizon.
“That’s your orientation brief,” the head guard said. “Get going.”
The inmates stared at him for a second, and then Falken slipped the canvas bag over one shoulder and started down the ramp. The sand at the edge of the ramp was soft – his feet sunk several inches in when he stepped off the ramp, and with each subsequent step, he seemed to slip backward, toiling to find purchase in the shifting surface. Between the sand and the gravity, he soon found that he was gasping for air, sucking against the mask. He glanced over his shoulder once, but aside from the vague outlines of the inmates following him, he could see no longer see any sign of the facility or the space elevator above it.
What was the lowest possible “Human Habitable Score” we used to give planets on survey missions? Falken thought. “Suitable for Limited Emergency Use,” or something like that? That seems about right for Kanderi. If I was feeling charitable, maybe.
He walked for nearly half an hour, stopping twice to catch his breath and rest. Then, when he was sure he had missed the barracks area, he tripped and nearly fell over a concrete pathway. He righted himself and stepped onto the pathway, and it was a relief to have solid ground beneath his feet for a change. To his right, he could make out a large, dark blob through the storm – he made his way toward it. The mass resolved itself into a squat, single-story building with a curved roof and a single door.
Suddenly, the door burst open and a pair of inmates tumbled out into the sand. One of the men fell onto his back – the other managed to stand up relatively quickly. As Falken watched, he swung an object over his head, and brought it down on the other man’s skull with a sickening crunch.
Immediately, a pair of armored drones appeared from out of the sandstorm, their metal bodies hovering beneath a bank of miniature rotors. Before the attacker could land another blow, one of the drones delivered a coruscating blue stun blast to the middle of his chest, and he sagged forward onto his knees. The other drone flew in behind the man. It extended two long grasping claws, neatly trapped a hand in each, and pulled them behind his back.
“Prisoner 621,” the drone said, its robotic voice eerily calm. “Your violent behavior warrants punitive measures.”
“Yeah?” the prisoner asked, recovering from the stun blast. “What are you gonna do, sentence me to life here again?” He snorted.
“You will serve six months in solitary confinement,” the drone replied.
“Oh no,” the prisoner said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “What the fuck ever. Solitary’s just a vacation from the rest of this shithole.”
The drone dragged him to his feet, and then half-carried, half-pushed him forward, out into the gloom. Falken looked down and saw that the second drone was examining the victim’s head wound, scanning it with some kind of laser grid. The weapon the first man had used was still lying on the ground – without thinking, Falken stooped and picked it up.
It’s a sock. He turned it over, and a fist-sized piece of rock fell out of the sock into the sand. A sock with a rock in it, turned into a makeshift club. Jesus Christ.
“Drop the weapon.”
Falken looked up and found the drone facing him.
“Sorry,” he said, and dropped the empty sock.
The drone collected it, along with the rock, and then lifted the unconscious man under the shoulders, picking him up into the air. Falken heard its jets whine, and then it accelerated off toward the facility.
“Do you need—” Falken began, but the drone was already gone. … help?
The other three inmates from the transport arrived a moment later. They stared at Falken for a moment, catching their breath, then made their way into the building. Falken paused for a second, staring at a dark patch in the sand at his feet – he realized it was a blood stain from the injured man’s head.
… and I thought Oz was bad. He took a deep breath. I hope Weaver figured out a way to convince the Committee he’s innocent. Falken glanced over his shoulder, back toward the facility. I hope I don’t see him come trudging out of the facility in a few days’ time.
Falken opened the door and stepped inside. The building was long and narrow, a single, open room from end to end. A set of tables lined each of the walls, with narrow benches on either side. Large pipes extended down from the ceiling at several points along the tables, and Falken watched as an inmate held his bowl under one of the pipes. A wet, brownish-gray mass slid out of the pipe and landed in the bowl. The man took a seat at the table, and began eating.
Falken pulled off his hat, scarf, and goggles, and tucked his gloves into a pocket in the front of his jacket. The building was heated, but still cold enough that his breath steamed when he exhaled – Falken saw that most of the inmates were still wearing their gloves as they ate. Several looked up at the newcomers, examining them with mild interest, but no one bothered to greet Falken or the others.
At the end of the one of the tables, Falken saw a man stand up, and tuck his empty bowl back into a cargo pocket along the side of his pants. He picked his goggles up off the table and set them in place on his hat. Falken frowned.
Something familiar about him …
Then the man turned toward him, and Falken’s breath caught in his throat.
Shep. Son of a bitch. Shep’s eyes were down, focused on his hands as he pulled his gloves on. Maybe he won’t remember me.
He looked up then, and met Falken’s gaze, and Falken saw his eyebrows shoot up in shocked recognition. Shep’s eyes narrowed, and his hands bunched into fists.
Nope. He remembers me.
Chapter 37
On the bridge of the UNCS Mandolin, the captain slid into the left seat. Through his starboard-side viewport, the dark hull of the UNCS Sydney loomed large, dwarfing his smaller transport ship.
“Transfer team reports the passenger is loaded in the cargo bay,” the first officer said, from his own seat. “We’re ready for transit to Kanderi.”
“Just one?” the captain asked.
“Just one,” the first officer confirmed. “Guy by the name of Weaver.”
“‘Kay,” the captain grunted. He pulled a headset on over one ear, and tapped a button on the control stick between his legs.
“Sydney, this is Mandolin. Prepared for takeoff,” he reported.
“Wait one,” the controller on the Sydney responded.
Come on, the captain thought, tapping his foot on the deck impatiently. I got a schedule to keep, here.
“Stand down, Mandolin. We’re sending a security team on board at this time. All crew remain in place,” the voice told him.
“What?” the captain replied. “Why?”
“Contraband sweep,” the Sydney told him.
“Ah, god damn it,” the captain sa
id. “I’m supposed to be at Kanderi in five days.”
“Take it up with the chief of security,” the controller told him.
“Fuck,” the captain swore, throwing his headset against the control panel. “That’s at least a twenty minute delay.”
* * *
On the transfer hub, Vina followed Captain Peshai through a cavernous maintenance bay, stepping carefully around a dock worker as she welded a thick metal pipe into place on a large piece of machinery. Ahead, Vina saw a wide tunnel at the end of the bay, where a massive spherical object hung suspended from chains. At the end of the tunnel, she spotted the hull of the UNCS Sydney, which had a piece of hull plating removed – beyond, she could see into the bowels of the ship.
They neared the tunnel entrance. A pair of armed guards had been posted outside the hole into the Sydney’s hull – beside them, a large temporary sign was taped to the hull. It read: Crew Only After This Point – Violators Will Be Shot. The dock workers in the bay appeared to be giving the guards a wide berth. Vina eyed their rifles warily, but Peshai walked straight up to them.
“Afternoon, sir,” the nearest guard said.
“Afternoon, Pewitt,” Peshai replied. “How are you?”
“Doing well, sir,” Pewitt replied. He reached into a pocket, and handed Peshai a keycard. “Chief sends his regards, says you forgot this, sir.”
“Thank you,” Peshai said, taking the card. “Let’s go, Miss Weaver.”
Vina glanced at the guards nervously, but they were staring straight ahead, appearing not to see her. She followed Peshai through the hull.
“That’s it?” she asked, glancing back at the guards once more, before she turned a corner in the ship’s hallway.
“Were you hoping for something a bit more dramatic?” Peshai asked, smiling. “I suppose we could have snuck in through an escape pod or something, but … much easier to just walk on board.”
“I guess so,” Vina replied.
“If things don’t go well for us, I expect you’ll have trouble remembering which guards were on duty just now,” Peshai warned her, leading her up a set of narrow metal stairs.
“I’m sure I couldn’t say,” Vina told him.
At the top of the staircase, Peshai’s access card opened a hatch, and they passed through into what looked to be a laundry room. The compartment was hot and humid, and Vina could barely hear amid the sounds of humming machinery.
“We’re taking the back way,” Peshai called, over his shoulder. “Just stay close.”
After three more rooms and a set of stairs, Peshai led her out into a hallway. She recognized it, after a moment – doors along both walls led into various offices, and a conference room stood on one side. At the end of the hall, a closed hatch was labeled Warden.
“That’s your old office,” Vina whispered.
Peshai nodded, and walked into the conference room, where he activated the vidscreens.
“Emergency Corrections Committee session,” Peshai said. “Notify members and connect.”
“Unable to process request,” a robotic voice replied. “Voiceprint authentication failed.”
Peshai frowned, and bent over the keypad on the conference room table, typing.
“Connecting,” the robotic voice said, after a moment. “Conference will begin when attendees have been located and logged in.”
Peshai straightened up, smiling. “Lucky for us, Ms. Locandez didn’t change the password yet.” He turned to Vina. “Are you ready?”
Vina took a deep breath. “I think so.”
A white-haired woman appeared on one of the screens. She looked up, and then frowned. “Captain? What …?”
“I’ll explain in a moment, Ms. Arkanian,” Peshai told her. “Let me go find Ms. Locandez.”
He disappeared back into the hallway, leaving Vina alone in the conference room. She turned and found the older woman staring at her, one eyebrow raised.
“Uh, hi,” Vina said, to cover her nervousness.
Two men joined the conference before Arkanian could reply, appearing on their own screens – the names Huginot and Ojibwe popped up at the bottom of their screens. Huginot was wiping his mouth with a napkin as he entered the frame – he appeared to have been caught in the midst of a meal.
“Altogether too many emergency meetings these days,” he said, sitting down with a sigh. He caught sight of Vina and stopped. “Can I help you?” Huginot asked, confused.
“I hope so,” Vina said.
To her relief, Peshai appeared a moment later, with another woman in tow. Locandez wore a scowl on her face, and her mood did not improve when she spied Vina and the committee members already gathered.
“For your service, this committee has turned a blind eye to your past transgressions, Captain,” Locandez said. “But no more leniency. Not after breaking back into this facility, and with a civilian in tow.”
“Sit, please,” Peshai said, pulling out a chair for her. “I’m willing to accept whatever punishment the committee decides is appropriate. But please, hear us out first.”
Locandez paused for a moment, and then sat in the proffered chair. Vina and Peshai sat, too.
“This is Miss Vina Weaver,” Peshai explained. “Daughter of Sef Weaver.”
“Captain, the committee has already rendered judgment on Mr. Weaver’s case,” Locandez said, crossing her arms over her chest. “Trotting out his daughter in a misguided attempt to appeal to our sympathies will not change our minds.”
“We’re not here to plead for mercy, ma’am,” Peshai said. “When the committee rendered its judgment, it did so without all of the facts.”
“Isn’t Mr. Weaver already en route to the permanent facility?” Ojibwe asked.
Locandez checked her wristpad. “Momentarily,” she said.
“This committee – and this ship – is the final step in our criminal justice system,” Peshai said. “We’re the last gatekeepers of justice in the galaxy. And I believe you have an opportunity to right a long-standing injustice, here and now. An opportunity, and a responsibility.”
“Please,” Vina said. “I just want a chance to prove his innocence.”
“Your father had that chance already, Miss Weaver,” Locandez said. “During his trial.”
“My father’s innocent,” Vina shot back. “I can prove it. And I’ll shout it to every newsnet agency in the galaxy if I have to.”
Chapter 38
Locandez studied Vina for a moment. Then she sighed. “There’ll be no need to go causing a scene with the media, Miss Weaver. We’ll hear your evidence. I won’t have it be said that I didn’t give your father every possible chance at earning his freedom.”
“Thank you,” Vina said, nodding.
Locandez touched a button on her wristpad. “Signal to the Mandolin,” she said. “Have them return to the dry dock, and await further instructions.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the controller replied. “The Mandolin is still docked, but I’ll relay your message.”
“Why are they still docked?” Locandez asked, frowning.
“Uh, I believe there was an unscheduled contraband inspection, ma’am,” the controller replied.
Locandez glared at Peshai. “I suppose that shouldn’t surprise me,” she said, and hung up.
“Sorry,” Peshai said, chagrined.
“Save it, Captain,” Locandez said. “Miss Weaver, say your piece.”
She nodded, and turned to Peshai. “Can you dial in the sheriff?”
Peshai bent over the keypad. After a moment, Buckniel’s face appeared on the fourth screen in the conference room – Vina could see that he was seated at the desk in his office.
“Ms. Locandez, this is Sheriff Paulson Buckniel. He arrested my father after the murder,” Vina said.
Buckniel inclined his head at the screen. “Ma’am, gentlemen.”
“You’re addressing the members of the Corrections Committee, Sheriff,” Vina told him. “Would you mind telling them your version of events?”
<
br /> “Absolutely,” Buckniel said. “I’ve been the sheriff of Lawson County for close to twenty-five years now. Ten years ago, Mr. Weaver’s family was abducted by a man named Tevka Savanh – he sent Mr. Weaver a ransom note soon after the kidnapping. My assumption was that Mr. Savanh wanted to extort money from Mr. Weaver, and use it to purchase Drift. Mr. Weaver brought that note to me, and we spent the next few days searching for his family. We were not successful.”
Buckniel shifted in his chair.
“On the evening of the fourth day, I responded to an anonymous tip about some missing cattle, and happened upon Mr. Weaver’s car, parked next to another car, out in the woods. I stopped to investigate, and Mr. Weaver showed me a message from Mr. Savanh, to meet him there, and then he showed me Mr. Savanh’s body. Mr. Weaver claimed to have found him that way.”
“What way, Sheriff?” Arkanian asked.
“Uh, dead, ma’am,” Buckniel said. “Of multiple stab wounds. I found a knife near the body, which had been wiped down. I asked Mr. Weaver for permission to search his car, which he granted. In his trunk, I found a jug of bleach, some trash bags, and a shovel. Mr. Weaver claimed that he did not put those items in his car, and he claimed he did not murder Mr. Savanh. He said he received the message, had a brief discussion with his father-in-law, Rauno Korhonen, at his home, and then drove straight to the murder scene, where he found Mr. Savanh dead. I arrested him on suspicion of the murder. We later found a bloody hat, and Mr. Savanh’s wristpad, in the kitchen garbage at Mr. Weaver’s house. He was tried and convicted.”
“We – my mother and brother and I – were still missing throughout the trial,” Vina said.
“That’s true,” Buckniel echoed. “We continued to search for them, without any luck. A few days after Mr. Weaver was sentenced and incarcerated, Mr. Korhonen—”
“Remind me: Korhonen is …?” Ojibwe asked.
“My grandfather,” Vina reminded him, setting her datapad on the table and linking it to the conference line.
“… Mr. Korhonen located Miss Weaver and her family, to everyone’s relief,” Sheriff Buckniel said. “I believed the matter to be concluded at that point. But I was wrong. Vina?”