The Falken Chronicles

by Piers Platt

  “When I was out at sea, and the storm came, I was hundreds of miles from land,” Weaver said. “The boat capsized, and I … I gave up. I stopped swimming, and just let myself go under. I was tired of fighting, of sailing … tired of everything. I let myself die. And the next thing I knew, I was back here on the island.”

  “The storm carried you back,” Falken said.

  “While I was unconscious?” Weaver asked. “It makes no sense.”

  “Maybe your survival instinct kicked in. You could have held onto the boat, and been dragged back in. Maybe you just don’t remember,” Falken tried.

  “Even so, the odds that I would find myself back on this island again, out of so many miles of empty ocean …,” Weaver shook his head. “And … it’s not the only time my life has been saved by luck, or an incredible coincidence.”

  His suicide attempts, Falken thought.

  “If you see enough things that can’t be explained, enough miracles, it makes you question everything,” Weaver continued. He bit his lip, and then sighed. “I don’t talk to people because I can’t tell what’s real anymore.”

  Falken’s eyes went wide. Holy shit. Weaver figured Oz out. He wasn’t trying to take his life, he was forcing the simulation to save him, forcing it to tip its hand. He knows the truth about this place already. Or at least, some of the truth.

  Weaver looked up at Falken. “Do you think it’s real?” He swept an arm across the roof, gesturing at the ocean. “All of this?”

  Falken swallowed. “I believe in miracles. When I first came here, I was selfish and immature, a brawler picking fights every chance I got. I’m not that man anymore. And it’s partly thanks to you.”

  “That’s … good,” Weaver said. “But it still doesn’t explain what happened to me.”

  “Not everything in life has a logical explanation,” Falken said. “Maybe there was a higher power watching out for you.”

  “I don’t believe in God,” the bookkeeper said. He looked back down at the ground. “Not anymore. Not in a world where I can’t even choose whether I live or die.”

  “Maybe I can help,” Falken said.

  “I don’t want to die,” Weaver said softly. “Not really. I was just … frustrated. And looking for answers.”

  “I don’t know if I have many answers,” Falken told him. “But maybe I can help restore your faith.”

  “My faith in God?” Weaver asked.

  “In God, in humankind … in your own sanity,” Falken said. “Come on.”

  He stood up. Weaver peered up at him, doubt in his eyes. “Where?”

  “To find out what happened to your family,” Falken said.

  Weaver’s eyes widened. He scrambled to his feet. “You know what happened to them? How?”

  “I’ll show you,” Falken said, bending over. He straightened up, and handed Weaver the photo album. “Try not to lose this again, huh?”

  For the first time since coming back to Oz, Falken saw Weaver smile.

  Chapter 20

  In the reactor room on the UNCS Sydney, the hooting alarms threatened to deafen Captain Peshai.

  “What did you say?” he yelled, leaning in close to Chief Masoud’s ear to be heard.

  “God damn it,” the chief growled. He took a deep breath. “Alarm system: mute!”

  “Alarms may be muted only during a reactor drill,” the computer system announced. “During an actual emergency, their volume may only be lowered.”

  “So lower them, Sydney!” Masoud yelled.

  “Alarm volume lowered,” the computer reported. The alarms continued, but they dropped to a more reasonable level.

  “I’ll be deaf or insane in another five minutes of that. And perhaps both,” Masoud said. He glowered at Peshai. “Give me a minute.”

  Peshai nodded. “Do what you need to do.”

  As Masoud bent over a complex control terminal, Peshai’s wristpad buzzed abruptly – he silenced it, hanging up without looking. Then it rang again.

  Who the hell is calling me in the middle of a reactor emergency?

  He looked down at the wristpad this time, and saw that it was his administrative officer.

  Joneis? He should know better than to bother me right now. Peshai frowned, and placed the device into Do Not Disturb mode. I’ll have to have a word with him when we’re through here.

  Masoud was still in the midst of surveying the numerous gauges and indicators mounted in the control terminal’s face.

  “This god damn analogue monitoring tech … stuff is practically prehistoric. You know this ship is one of the thirty or so oldest craft still in active use?”

  “Really?” Peshai asked.

  “True story,” Masoud said. “I looked it up.”

  He turned several knobs, and then peered through a viewing window into the reactor. He frowned. “That can’t be right,” he muttered. He tapped on the glass face of a dial, and the needle within twitched in response. “Hm. Okay, looks like that’s our problem. Sydney, give me an assessment on rod four.”

  “Rod four is overheating at an exponential rate.”

  “Leaks or damage?”

  “None,” the computer said. “The reactor has full integrity. However, it has passed the point at which our cooling system has the capacity to stop it. In less than thirty minutes, it will cause a meltdown.”

  “The hell it will,” the engineer said. “How much power can we generate on only seven rods?”

  “Eighty-seventy point five percent,” the computer replied. “Life support systems will not be affected, but any high speed maneuvers could cause another overheat situation.”

  “I can live with that. Prepare to eject rod four, Sydney. Standard rod disposal protocol.”

  “I have notified high orbit traffic control to clear an exit envelope,” the computer said.

  “Eject,” the engineer ordered.

  Peshai felt a shiver through the soles of his shoes, and heard a distant thunk, as the offending rod was fired out of the reactor and into space. The alarm klaxons stopped suddenly, their after effects ringing in the two men’s ears.

  “All clear?” Peshai asked.

  “All clear,” Masoud confirmed. “Cancel the evacuation, crisis averted.”

  Peshai lifted his wristpad to his mouth. “This is the captain. All clear, I repeat, all clear. Chief Masoud has repaired the reactor. All crew return to your normal duty stations.” He tapped on the wristpad, and then let out a long sigh. “So you just toss the rod out?” he asked.

  “Just toss it out, and launch it into the sun,” Masoud said. “It’ll take a couple months to get there, but it’s a pretty good way to get rid of radioactive material. Beats leaving it hanging out in interstellar space waiting to smash into someone’s ship.”

  “… but we’re on reduced power,” Peshai said.

  “Yes,” Masoud said. “Like Sydney said, we shouldn’t try any crazy flying – in fact, if you can get a couple of tugs to take us into the dry dock, I would say the safest thing is just to keep the engines off completely.”

  Peshai made a note on his wristpad. “Tugs. Got it.”

  “And I’m moving a cot down here for the foreseeable future, and keeping someone from my department in here at all times until we get this reactor fully offline,” Masoud said.

  “Next week,” Peshai promised. “They’re clearing out one of the dry docks now.”

  “Can’t happen soon enough,” Masoud said. “I checked with my supplier, and the new reactor is already in orbit waiting for us. If it’s okay with you, I’m going to start disassembling non-essential components, and cut through a few of the bulkheads to start making a path for the new reactor. Might as well be ready the minute we get in the dock.”

  “That’s not dangerous?” Peshai asked.

  “Not the way I plan to do it,” Masoud said. “You want to see my full plan?”

  “Later,” Peshai said. “Let me go see about those tugs.”

  Peshai made his way out of the reactor room
and climbed two flights of stairs, then crossed a long corridor back into the administrative area of the ship. The hatch to his office slid open at his approach – he walked inside and took a seat at the desk. He spent nearly ten minutes arranging for a pair of tugs to haul the Sydney into dry dock the following week, then thought to call the dry dock facilities again just to ensure that their space would indeed be open, as promised. He sent a quick note to Masoud letting him know that the tugs were laid on, and another memo to the crew to expect construction work in the reactor area for the remainder of the week, and to please stay clear unless their duties required them on that deck. Finally, he leaned back in the chair and stretched.

  Crazy morning. Who knew keeping a virtual planet running smoothly would be so much work? He frowned. That reminds me: I wonder how Falken is getting along …

  He typed on his keypad, and the view on his screen changed. As Peshai watched, Falken strode out onto the roof of the facility, then took a seat next to a smaller man who was tinkering with some electronics. The name Weaver appeared over the smaller man’s head, along with his prisoner identification number. Peshai rubbed at his chin.

  He found his friend, at least. Now we’re getting somewhere.

  Peshai saw Weaver pick up an object from the ground and open it up. It looked to Peshai like a digital album of some kind. He tapped on Weaver on the screen, and the other half of the screen switched over, showing him Weaver’s unconscious form in a separate hibernation chair. The view inside the simulation changed, too, switching to be from Weaver’s perspective. Peshai saw him flip through the album – at the bottom of the screen, a biometric readout indicated that Weaver was experiencing a very strong reaction to the album.

  Joy, some sadness … more raw emotion than he’s felt in some time. Falken knew exactly how to get through to him.

  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-powere
d, 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.”