by Piers Platt
“I was reviewing some old footage of the press conference after we were kidnapped,” Vina said. “And I noticed that my grandfather reacted somewhat strongly when Sheriff Buckniel mentioned that his men were searching the area where my family was being held. I suspected that he knew, from the start, where we were hidden. So I confronted him about it, and I shot this video.”
She hit Play on her datapad, and the video ran. The committee watched it in silence. Vina watched them closely, trying to gauge their reactions.
“It’s a pretty convincing confession,” Huginot commented, when it had finished. “Kudos for keeping your wits in a rather emotional and dangerous situation, Miss Weaver.”
“The video’s authentic?” Ojibwe asked. “No evidence of doctoring or manipulation?”
“None,” Buckniel confirmed. “My technical team went over it very carefully.”
“Were you able to corroborate this version of events?” Arkanian asked.
“After Miss Weaver showed me the video, I took a deputy and went to find Mr. Korhonen, intending to arrest him,” Buckniel replied. “He confirmed that the video was true. But he refused to surrender, and took his own life before we could take him into custody.”
“Earlier, you laid out the case for arresting Mr. Weaver,” Locandez said, speaking for the first time. “What do you believe really happened?”
“I believe Mr. Korhonen struck a deal with Mr. Savanh to kidnap his family, in order to ‘teach his family a lesson,’ as he put it,” Buckniel said. “But when things spiraled out of control, the two argued, and Korhonen killed Savanh. He then drove to his son-in-law’s house, and, while Mr. Weaver was inside, he loaded the tools into Mr. Weaver’s trunk. He used Mr. Savanh’s wristpad to send a message to Weaver requesting a meeting at the murder scene, and when Weaver left the house, he entered and planted the evidence in Mr. Weaver’s trash.” Buckniel shrugged. “From that point on, it was a simple matter of placing the anonymous tip that ensured I would find Weaver at the murder scene.”
“You believe Mr. Weaver is innocent, as he has maintained?” Locandez asked.
“I do,” Buckniel replied. “I’ve spent the last twenty-four hours apologizing to his family for my role in all of this. I’d like the chance to do so to Mr. Weaver himself.”
Locandez rubbed her chin, thinking. Then she looked up at the other committee members. “Thoughts?”
“Acquit,” Arkanian said, without hesitation.
“Concur,” Ojibwe said.
“The evidence is clear,” Huginot agreed, nodding.
Vina could feel tears welling in her eyes. She turned to see Locandez facing her.
The older woman took a deep breath. “Your father’s conviction is hereby overturned. Captain Peshai, I wonder if you would like to escort Miss Weaver down to the Mandolin. I imagine her father would like to hear the good news from her directly.”
Vina covered her mouth and sobbed. On impulse, she leaned forward and hugged Locandez, and then Peshai helped her up. The next few minutes went by in a blur – she followed him down the corridors and stairwells of the ship, scarcely able to breathe. Then at last they came to a docking tube. Peshai led her down the tube, and into the transport’s cargo bay. A guard was standing over a man in white prison clothes, who reclined in a strange-looking gurney on a mount in the floor.
The guard looked up and frowned. “Captain Peshai?” he asked, confused.
“Is he hibernating?” Peshai asked.
“Just went under,” the guard confirmed. “I thought they fired you, sir?”
“I resigned,” Peshai said. “Wake him up, please.”
As the guard turned and fiddled with the medical controls, Vina stepped to the bedside, and looked down at her father. He had aged noticeably – to her eyes, he looked frail and gaunt. But a smile crossed her face, and she touched his hair, brushing it back from his eyes.
After a moment, Weaver’s eyes blinked open. He exhaled softly, and then his eyes focused, and he looked at Peshai. He looked at Vina next.
“Hi Dad,” she said, biting her lip.
“Vina?” he asked. Weaver’s face lit up with surprise and joy.
Vina bent over and hugged him, and for a moment, father and daughter simply held each other.
“They’re setting you free, Dad,” Vina said, straightening up again. “They know you’re innocent.”
A shadow crossed Weaver’s face then, and he shrank back, eyes flicking between Vina and Peshai. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “No, go away, please. Don’t torture me like this!”
“What’s wrong?” Vina asked, looking at Peshai.
“This is real, Weaver,” Peshai said gently. “This isn’t a simulation.”
“It’s me, Dad,” Vina said, frowning.
“Prove it,” Weaver whispered, a tear rolling down his cheek.
“Tell him … tell him a story from your childhood. Something that no one else would know,” Peshai told her.
Vina shook her head. “I …” She looked up. “Mom was away at a conference, and you were making us breakfast. Enzo and me, down in the kitchen. But we ran out of milk, do you remember?”
Weaver nodded slowly.
“So you gave us ice cream,” Vina said, smiling through her tears. “And you made us promise not to tell Mom when she got back.”
“Ice cream for breakfast,” Weaver breathed, and a massive weight seemed to lift off his shoulders. “Vina!”
She leaned down again, and they hugged again, and Vina did not want to let go.
Chapter 39
Locandez stepped back into the conference room on the UNCS Sydney, and shut the door behind her. On the screens, the other committee members watched her take her seat in the middle of the table.
“I escorted Captain Peshai off the ship,” she told them. “He was quite adamant that we not pursue any disciplinary actions against the crewmembers who helped him infiltrate the Sydney.”
“In the circumstances, I don’t see how we could, without inciting a mutiny,” Huginot said.
“I also took the liberty of reinstating Peshai’s pension and benefits,” Locandez said.
“I thought you might offer him his job back,” Arkanian said.
“We discussed it,” Locandez said. “But we both agreed it was no longer feasible. And candidly, I think he’s ready to move on. He’s certainly earned it.”
“What about Mr. Weaver and his daughter?” Huginot asked.
“They’re in the recovery wing,” Locandez said. “Mr. Weaver will be getting started on his physical rehabilitation, and Miss Weaver has asked to stay aboard for a few more hours. They were quick to ask me – as was Captain Peshai – about Mr. Falken’s disposition. I think we had better revisit that subject.”
“Falken disobeyed us, and he put the entire program at risk,” Ojibwe said.
“And he was right,” Arkanian pointed out, frowning at her vidscreen.
“I know his motives were pure, but … he did break the rules,” Ojibwe replied. “We’re entrusted with representing the entire Justice Department. And one of our cardinal rules has always been that the ends don’t justify the means. The means matter just as much as the ends.”
Arkanian exhaled noisily. “The Justice Department incarcerated an innocent man for close to ten years. We have to hold ourselves accountable for that.”
“We are,” Huginot argued. “As we discussed before Ms. Locandez stepped out. From now on, all Class One felony cases destined for Oz will be eligible for at least one round of appeal before the subject is incarcerated.”
Locandez stayed silent, resting her chin on one hand, thinking.
“That will hopefully prevent us from making more mistakes in the future,” Arkanian said. “But it’s small consolation to the man who was wrongfully convicted and still served a sentence on Oz, or the man who is back in prison just for helping him. What are we doing for them, gentlemen?”
“We agreed to release Mr. Weaver, along with a substantial settleme
nt to make up for the error,” Ojibwe said. “Not to mention allowing him to return to Earth. He’ll be the first Oz resident who has ever been permitted to do so.”
“It’s scant consolation. We’re lucky Mr. Weaver has more capacity for forgiveness than we do, apparently,” Arkanian commented.
“And Falken?” Locandez asked. “What do we do about him?”
“I don’t know,” Ojibwe said. “It’s a complex problem.”
“No,” Locandez said, shaking her head. “I don’t believe it is. You said it yourself: we’re here to ensure justice is served. But Mr. Falken is the one who actually achieved it. He saw an injustice, and he righted it. While we were blindly defending the system, he was the one who saw the flaw.”
“True. I vote for immediate release,” Arkanian said.
“I could be convinced,” Huginot said. “Is that what you’re recommending, Ms. Locandez? What would you have us do with him?”
“I think I know exactly what to do with him,” Locandez said.
* * *
It was late morning, as best as Falken could tell by the height of Kanderi’s sun, but the temperature was still bitterly cold, and the planet’s perpetual wind storm showed no sign of letting up. Falken tucked his scarf into the bottom of his goggles to keep the sand spray off of his cheeks, and sighed.
I’m tired. Haven’t really slept since I got here … what? Three days ago now? Falken shook his head. Tough trying to sleep with one eye open, watching for Shep. Falken looked around warily, but the ever-present dust was all he could see in every direction. He dug his shovel into the sandy ground and then lifted it up, dumping the heavy sand out of the hole with a grunt. And I’m getting real tired of this gravity …
The old man next to him lifted another shovel-full of sand out of the hole, and tossed it onto the pile. Falken pushed his shovel back into the earth, but it smacked into something hard, the shock traveling up the wooden handle, jarring his hands.
He stopped, shaking a hand in pain. “I hit something,” he said.
The old man knelt, and brushed aside the sand. “Bedrock,” he said. “This is where we switch to picks.”
He stepped out of the hole and stuck his shovel in the pile of sand they had made, and then handed Falken a pick-axe. Next to the hole, the corpse they had carried from the facility lay wrapped in a simple bed sheet, the stark white of the linen looking curiously out of place on Kanderi’s rust-colored sand.
“If the drones handle medical care, why don’t they take care of burying the bodies, too?” Falken asked.
“They used to,” the old man said. He swung his pick, and a gouged a small chunk of rock out of the stony ground with a loud clank. “I volunteered to do it for them.”
“You volunteered?” Falken asked.
“Sure,” the man said.
“Why?” Falken asked.
“Why’d you offer to help me do it?” the man countered, pausing and looking up at Falken.
“I … I was bored,” Falken said.
“Exactly,” the man said. “Now at least I have something to do, every few days.” He swung the pick-axe again. “That’s the worst part about Kanderi, the real punishment of being sent here. It’s not the cold, or the sand, or wearing a damn mask all day long. The worst part is, there ain’t a god damn thing for us to do with ourselves.”
Falken considered this for a moment, then swung his own pick into the ground. They worked side by side for another twenty minutes, and then the old man straightened up, rubbing his lower back with a groan.
“Let’s take a break,” he said. “We’re nearly there, anyway.”
Falken climbed out of the hole, and then helped the old man do the same. To the right of them, a mound of rocks marked the grave of another inmate, and more mounds stretched into the murky gloom beyond.
“How many people are buried here?” Falken asked.
“Shit, I dunno,” the old man said. “Hundreds, thousands maybe – I never bothered counting. All of us, eventually.” He sat down on the pile of sand, took his canteen out of a pocket, slid his mask to one side, and drank. Falken took a seat next to him.
“What’d you say you were in for?” the old man asked, replacing his mask.
“Murder,” Falken said. It’s partially true. And easier than telling the full truth.
“Yup, same,” the old man agreed. He took another drink, and Falken noticed that his canteen was empty.
“I’ll refill them for us,” Falken offered, standing up.
“Thanks,” the man said, handing Falken the canteen. He pointed along the row of graves. “Follow this row back to the side of the building, and about thirty paces past that you’ll see a large tank, with a spigot. Might have to knock the ice off it, first.”
Falken nodded and took the canteen, then set off down the row of graves. He counted as he walked, out of curiosity. He reached fifty-three by the time the building appeared out of the swirling dust storm. He saw the tank in the distance and walked to it, stopping to lean against it and catch his breath.
This gravity … is a real ass-kicker.
Falken reached down and held his canteen under the spigot, but when he pushed down on the spigot’s handle, nothing happened. He frowned and leaned over, and noticed that a thick chunk of ice had formed around the base of the spigot. He punched at it with a fist, and it broke off. He held the canteen out again, but a flicker of movement in his peripheral vision made him look to the side. He ducked instinctively, but something brutally hard and heavy crashed into his head, slamming him into the side of the tank. The gas mask slid off his face and tumbled to the ground.
Falken fell onto his back on the sand, reeling. He’d shrugged off many punches in his life, laughing off even hard-hitting opponents with fists like iron. But he’d never been hit this hard. His vision was blurry, and he could feel himself slipping toward unconsciousness. Through the goggles he made out a figure standing over him in the storm, legs wide. The man held a pick-axe in both hands, and as Falken watched, he raised it up for another strike. Falken saw the fury in his eyes.
Shep.
Falken tried to hold his hands up to protect himself, but the world seemed to spin, and his vision went dark.
Chapter 40
Falken’s head felt strangely heavy, and his first thoughts were muddled and confused, a jumble of vague impressions and forgotten dreams. He felt as though he were trying to swim through a tangled cloud of cobwebs. His eyes fluttered open.
He was in a hospital bed, he saw – an intravenous tube ran from his right wrist over to a bag of fluid hanging above the bed. Several monitoring devices beeped softly at him, the glow of their monitors illuminating the dimly-lit room. There was a window beyond the monitors, and Falken could see a black field of stars.
Back up in orbit over Kanderi …? I figured the infirmary was in the facility, at the base of the space elevator.
Falken lifted his left hand and touched his head – he could feel thick bandages wrapping it in several layers. He turned his head, gingerly, wincing at the hot ache along the back of his skull. There was a chair next to the bed, and past it, a single door.
The door opened then, and a young man in medical scrubs entered.
“Welcome back,” the doctor said. “How do you feel?”
“Head hurts,” Falken said.
“I would think so,” the doctor said, picking up a datapad hanging over the foot of Falken’s bed, and making several annotations on it. “You got quite the bump on the noggin. Surgery went smoothly, but it’ll be a few more days before your skull finishes fusing back together.”
The doctor pulled a pen-sized flashlight out of his chest pocket, and pointed it at Falken’s eyes.
“Hm,” he grunted. “Pupils look decent. Follow the light as I move it, please.”
Falken did so. The man turned the light off and put it away.
“Your head’s gonna be sore for a while longer, but the good news is you’ve got a nice, thick skull, otherwise there cou
ld have been permanent brain damage.”
“It’s a good thing I’m thick-headed?” Falken asked.
“Right,” the doctor chuckled. He stood and crossed back over to the door. “Ma’am? You can see him now.”
The doctor stepped outside, and held the door open. Falken saw an older woman walk through the door frame.
“Mr. Falken,” she said, nodding at him.
“Ms. Locandez,” Falken said, frowning.
“You weren’t expecting me,” she said.
“No,” Falken said. “I’m surprised you came all this way to see me.”
“We have things to discuss,” she said, taking a seat in the chair beside the bed. The doctor closed the door, leaving them alone.
“You were right about him,” Locandez said, simply.
“About Weaver?” Falken asked, sitting up.
“Yes. With the help of his daughter, we were able to verify his innocence. We’re in the process of releasing him now.”
Falken sagged back onto the pillows, sighing with relief. “Thank god.”
“I thought you would like to know,” Locandez said. “Though it doesn’t change the fact that what you did to get him released was a clear breach of Corrections Department policy, and your parole.”
“I can live with that,” Falken said. “Though I’m not sure how much longer I will live ….”
“You’re worried about the inmate who attacked you,” Locandez said.
“Shep,” Falken said. “He blames me for his brother’s death.”
“I’ve read the report from Olympus,” Locandez said. “You didn’t kill his brother, though your actions led to his death.”
“I don’t think I had much of a choice,” Falken said. “He was intent on killing me, and the other survivors of the wreck.”
“I don’t disagree with you,” Locandez said.
Falken pointed at his bandages. “The drones saved me? I thought I was dead for sure.”