The Falken Chronicles

by Piers Platt

  Weaver nodded, and Falken realized he was crying. The bookkeeper took a shuddering breath, and wiped at his eyes, smiling to hide his embarrassment. “What … what are the chances this thing can fly?”

  Ngobe sighed.

  “Don’t sugarcoat it, Ngobe,” Weaver said.

  The astrophysicist shook his head sadly. “Low. Honestly. Very, very low.”

  Weaver bit his lip and nodded. “Okay. I understand.”

  “We’ll need to get inside to find out, right?” Falken asked.

  “Yes,” Ngobe agreed. “We need to find a hatch. And pray we can open it from the outside.”

  “So where would a hatch be?” Weaver asked.

  Ngobe rubbed his chin. “I used to make model spaceships as a boy. If memory serves, the hatch was always near the bow. I think ships usually approach docking stations nose-first, so the pilots can see what they’re doing. That way, then.”

  They split up, staying within sight of one another, and slowly paced the front end of the hill, searching the ground for a clue, anything that might reveal what portion of the ship lay beneath the earth. After an hour they met up again.

  “I didn’t see anything except flat dirt,” Ngobe said. “Falken?”

  “Same,” Falken said.

  “There was nothing in my area,” Weaver said, downcast.

  “What if we just pick a spot and start digging?” Falken asked.

  Saltari shook his head. “We can’t just dig up the whole damn ship.”

  “We’re going to have to dig another hole or two, at least,” Falken said.

  “Yes, okay,” Saltari said. “But we need to be discreet.”

  “Where?” Falken asked.

  The three of them looked at Ngobe. He shrugged his shoulders. “Well, I don’t know,” he said.

  “Well,” Saltari said, “it has been a long time since breakfast, and my stomach is starting to complain. Let’s get some food, and figure out a plan while we eat.”

  “I’ll go back to the worksite,” Falken said. “We’ve still got a few weeks of food supplies on the boat.”

  He set off toward the ocean, side-stepping down the steep slope of the hill. He was still in view of the other three men when he felt the earth under his right foot sink a fraction of an inch. Falken stopped, puzzled, and withdrew his foot.

  “Everything okay?” Weaver called.

  Falken put his foot back on the same spot, and pushed down experimentally. The earth crumbled again, and suddenly, a circle of earth opened up beneath him. With a yell of alarm, he disappeared into the hole.

  Chapter 21

  Ouch.

  Falken rubbed at his left leg, which had twisted awkwardly in the fall. His right foot was covered in a layer of earth – he tugged it free, brushing dirt off of his coveralls. He looked around. Falken found himself in a dim room, lit only by the sunlight spilling through the circle above his head. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he started, shrinking back in alarm – the room was lined with humanoid figures, all staring at him.

  “Fuck me!” he swore.

  He took a deep breath, willing his heart to stop racing. They’re just space suits, he told himself. Empty space suits hanging up in an airlock.

  “Falken!” A head appeared in the circle above him, and then two more. “Are you okay?”

  “A little sore,” he grunted, squinting up at his companions. “But it looks like I found a hatch.”

  “Well done!” Saltari said.

  “There’s a ladder,” Falken said, pointing to one side of the hatch.

  Ngobe joined him first, and then Weaver and Saltari. Ngobe found the airlock’s door, and after a few false starts, they got it open. Its hinges creaked ominously as it swung wide. The corridor beyond was lit by the glow of faint orange panels along the ceiling and floor. Falken couldn’t tell if they were electrical lights or some form of luminescent paint, but they gave off enough light to see by.

  Slumped against the far wall of the corridor, facing the door to the airlock, was a moldy skeleton in a ship’s uniform. Ngobe saw it and gasped.

  “Oh, my,” he said. “We’ve entered a tomb.”

  Saltari stood over the dead crewman and made the sign of the cross. Then he bent over the corpse, examining it.

  “He’s got a gun,” Falken noticed, pointing at the corpse’s withered hand, which was wrapped around the grip of a gray pistol.

  “We’ll leave that there,” Saltari said, sternly. “The colony has no need of weapons, thank you.”

  “How did he die?” Weaver asked.

  “Blood loss, I would imagine,” Saltari said, wrinkling his nose at the musty smell. “The floor is stained here, and his leg bones end just below the knee. He lost both lower legs, and managed to crawl back inside the ship to die.”

  “How did he lose his legs?” Weaver asked.

  “Excellent question,” Saltari said. “I have no idea. An industrial malfunction, trying to repair the ship, perhaps?”

  “Or something else,” Falken said. “He closed the hatch behind him, and he was holding a gun. Maybe he was worried about something following him.”

  “Could be,” Saltari agreed. “I’m not a medical examiner, and given the state of decomposition of the body … I’m sure I couldn’t say.”

  “He’s wearing a captain’s rank insignia on his uniform,” Ngobe said. “He’s the captain of the ship.” He bent closer to the body, inspecting an identification badge attached to the front of his uniform. “Captain Aranui. Rest in peace.” He straightened up again. “Let’s move on,” Ngobe said.

  “Which way?” Weaver asked.

  Ngobe pointed to their right. “The bridge should be this way.”

  They followed the corridor, but after a few paces, it ended abruptly in a tangle of twisted metal and earth. The ceiling appeared to have collapsed – the corridor was filled with dirt, and the roots of a tree snaked along the floor.

  Ngobe surveyed the damage, and then shook his head. “Mr. Weaver, I’m afraid we’ve found the answer to your question.”

  “It can’t fly,” Weaver said, flatly.

  “Even if we could light the engines again, the hull has been breached,” Ngobe said. “The ship wouldn’t withstand the stresses of a launch, or the vacuum of space.”

  “What if we tried to repair it?” Falken asked.

  Ngobe shrugged. “We might try, but …” He trailed off. “Still, let’s see if we can’t find the bridge.”

  They doubled back, stepping around the dead crewman, and then found a cross corridor that led to the other side of the ship. There was no hull breach here – the corridor continued all the way to a wide, open lounge area lined with couches and storage lockers, with a circular table set in the center of the room.

  “Crew quarters,” Ngobe said. “Common area. They likely ate and socialized here.”

  “Where is everybody?” Weaver asked. “There aren’t any other bodies.”

  “I don’t know,” Ngobe said.

  The dusty remains of a meal sat uneaten on the table. Hanging over one of the chairs, Falken found a fleece jacket with several decorative badges sewn onto its sleeves. He picked the jacket up, studying the badges in the dim light.

  “‘UNEV Khonsu,’ ” he read aloud.

  “United Nations Exploratory Vessel,” Ngobe explained. “It’s a surveying ship, as we suspected.”

  “An old one,” Saltari noted. He held up a binder that he had found on one of the couches. “The date stamp on this ventilation system repair manual is over two hundred years old.”

  “They were still using printed manuals back then?” Weaver asked, watching as Saltari paged through the manual.

  “They still do,” Ngobe said. “It’s standard protocol to carry a hard copy of all manuals on ships, in case of catastrophic computer failure.”

  “Bridge?” Falken suggested, setting the jacket back down over the chair.

  “This way,” Ngobe said.

  They passed through two more hat
ches and emerged onto the bridge. It was darker inside the large room – most of the front portion of the room was taken up with a sweeping glass viewport, and from the handful of glowing floor tiles, they could see the glass was buried under the earth, blocking all sunlight. The bridge was arranged in tiers, with a central command station for the captain at the top, and several rows of stations below and forward of it.

  Ngobe turned the captain’s chair and sat in it, then rolled himself forward to the computer terminal in front of it. The screens facing the seat were dark, but when he tapped on a key, the center screen flickered, and after a moment, lit up.

  Ngobe glanced over his shoulder, grinning. “She’s still got power,” he said. He turned back to the computer, and typed in silence. The three other men leaned over his shoulder, watching.

  “There,” Saltari said. “Ship’s log.”

  “I see it,” Ngobe answered, testily.

  He pulled up the log, and read the final entry.

  “They were getting ready to leave,” he said. “The survey was nearly complete. The crew was completing final pre-flight checks, and getting ready to collect the sensor nodes from around the planet.”

  “What happened?” Weaver asked. “Where’s the rest of the crew?”

  “It doesn’t say,” Ngobe said. “That’s the final entry. No mention of the ship being damaged or the mission being extended. The log just ends.”

  “Whatever happened, it caught them off guard,” Falken guessed. “No time to take off. Maybe the captain locked the rest of the crew outside.”

  “How long has this ship been here?” Weaver asked.

  “It’s the ship that first explored New Australia,” Ngobe said, skimming early log entries. “This crew found it and surveyed it. It’s been here since then – a hundred and ninety-two years.”

  “They landed here, explored the planet,” Weaver said. “Then something happened, the crew died, the ship was buried, and Earth lost contact with them.”

  “Seems that way,” Ngobe said.

  “But we came back,” Weaver said. “They sent a bunch of ships to build the facility and the space elevator. Why’d they leave this one here, knowing they were going to send inmates here, too?”

  “They saw it was busted, and decided it was easier to just leave it,” Falken guessed.

  “But they knew everyone died. They knew something must have happened to them,” Weaver pressed. “Why would they still send inmates here, and build the facility and the space elevator, without knowing what happened to the exploration crew?”

  “It’s a good question,” Ngobe admitted.

  “We could be part of an extended colonization test,” Saltari suggested. “The authorities didn’t know what killed the crew. So they sent inmates here, assuming that we might figure it out, over time. And once the threat was identified, they could start fully colonizing the planet.”

  Weaver snapped his fingers. “What if whatever killed the crew also destroyed the space elevator?”

  “That can’t be,” Ngobe said. “The space elevator was built years later.”

  “No, I know,” Weaver said. “But what if whatever it was happened again? First it killed the crew here, and then years later, the same cataclysmic event knocks down the space elevator, and kills all of the guards and the original inmates on the island.”

  “Except Archos,” Falken said.

  “Right, except Archos,” Weaver replied.

  “It’s possible,” Ngobe said, rubbing his chin.

  “It’s all very strange,” Saltari remarked. “Perhaps the rest of the log will have more clues.”

  “Mm,” Ngobe said, but he closed the log file, and searched through the desktop interface. “But the mystery of the Khonsu and its crew will have to wait. I’m more interested in making a phone call.”

  “Earth?” Saltari asked.

  “If we can,” Ngobe agreed.

  “Who are you gonna call?” Falken asked.

  Ngobe paused, his fingers poised above the keyboard. “Well, I’m not sure,” he admitted. “Who should we try to reach?”

  “Not the Justice Department,” Saltari said. “They’re fully aware of what’s going on here, and obviously have no interest in rescuing us.”

  “True,” Ngobe agreed. “They’re unlikely to answer a call. So who, then?”

  “Ever since we learned about the sensor node, I’ve been thinking that all we need is a little publicity,” Saltari suggested. “If the people of Earth knew the truth of what was happening here, it might cause a public outcry.”

  “You think people back on Earth really want us back?” Falken asked.

  “I’m not saying they’ll just release us, no,” Saltari said. “But if the right news wire picks up our signal, and the story gets widely broadcast, it could force them to send a parole board here. They should at least offer us the possibility of earning parole. That’s all we deserve.”

  “How long would it take?” Weaver asked. “If they decide to send a parole board and some attorneys, and I’m able to get my case appealed?”

  Saltari shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said. “But I would assume several months, at least.”

  Weaver bit his lip.

  “But if we can get a message out, there’s a chance they’ll reopen the investigation into your family’s disappearance, right?” Falken asked.

  “Yeah,” Weaver said. “There’s a chance.”

  Ngobe was typing again. He swore at the machine.

  “What?” Weaver asked.

  “It’s telling me the long-range transmitter is missing.”

  “Missing?” Saltari asked. “Not just broken?”

  “No, missing,” Ngobe said. “According to the computer, the transmitter was destroyed seven hours after the final log entry was submitted.”

  “… around the same time the crew was killed,” Falken finished.

  Chapter 22

  Falken found Weaver sitting on one of the couches in the ship’s lounge, with his head in his hands. The bookkeeper was crying, his shoulders shaking in silent grief. Falken sat down next to him. Eventually, Weaver stopped, and rubbed at his nose.

  “It’s not fair,” he said.

  “No,” Falken agreed.

  “Every time we get closer and closer, and every time I get my hopes up. Bearnes is dead, but we find the sensor node. It can’t call Earth … then we find Lookout Hill, and it’s a ship. A spaceship! Then we find a way in, but it’s broken. Then the ship’s got power—”

  “I know,” Falken said.

  “—and then it all comes crashing down. Again.” Weaver sobbed. “I just want to find my family.”

  Falken patted him on the back.

  “I’m sorry,” Weaver said, sniffing again. “I know you want to get out of here, too.”

  “Yeah,” Falken agreed. “I do.”

  “What would you do, if you got out of here?” Weaver asked, wiping his nose.

  “I’d try to find your family,” Falken said. “And raise hell until they reopened your case, and then shut this damn colony down.”

  “No, I mean – for you. What would you do with yourself, after that?”

  Falken frowned. “I … I’m not sure.”

  “Your old job?”

  “No,” Falken said. I’m not sure I would, even if I could. “I guess … I’d try to find something worthwhile to do with myself.”

  “Like what?” Weaver asked.

  “I don’t know. Something that helps people. Something like the work Salty has had me doing with the blue-balls.”

  “Something meaningful,” Weaver said. He took a deep, ragged breath, then shook his head. “We’re going to be stuck here forever, aren’t we?”

  “I don’t know,” Falken said. “But I’m not done trying yet.”

  “No?” Weaver asked, wiping tears from his eyes.

  “No,” Falken said. “Not yet.”

  “What are Salty and Ngobe doing?”

  “Reading through the computer s
ome more. Ngobe was trying to see what systems are still online. He thought there could be a backup communications system,” Falken said.

  “Did he find one?”

  “Not yet,” Falken said. “He suggested I take a look around the rest of the ship. Could be there are spare parts lying around that we could use to build a new transmitter. You want to tag along?”

  “Okay,” Weaver agreed.

  They retraced their steps to the airlock, and then continued down the corridor in the opposite direction, toward the stern of the ship. Several doors lined the inside wall of the corridor, but when Falken tried to open them, they did not respond to repeated button presses.

  “Not enough power to open the doors, I guess,” Weaver said, when the third door stayed stubbornly shut.

  “You think there’s another way to open them?” Falken asked.

  “Manually? I don’t know,” Weaver said. “This is my first time on a spaceship. Other than the flight here, I guess.”

  They continued on. Another side corridor branched off to their right – it ended at a set of double doors with a control panel mounted to one side.

  “Elevator,” Weaver guessed, pointing up at a display panel above the doors. “For traveling between levels in the ship.”

  But nothing happened when they pressed the button, so they continued down the first corridor. The next bulkhead opened into a wide room that seemed to span the entire width of the ship. Trellises filled the room, reaching from floor to ceiling. Falken could see crumbling, dead vines winding around the metal frames. The air was thicker here, pungent with the aroma of earth and decay. The orange glow panels on the floor were covered in a spider web of roots and dirt.

  “Looks like some kind of garden,” Falken observed.

  “Hydroponics,” Weaver said. “They probably grew fresh fruit and vegetables here. Looks like it grew out of control for a bit after the crew died. Then the lights went out, or the water stopped, and everything died.”

  “Salty will be excited,” Falken said. “Maybe he can salvage some seeds, grow some new crops.”

  “Mm,” Weaver said, nonplussed. “Let’s keep going.”