by Piers Platt
“Elize?”
“No, it’s Vina, Grandpa,” Vina said, struggling to keep her voice normal while her heart raced. “But I was looking for Mom. I tried calling but she’s not answering. Do you know where she is?”
“She’s at the store,” he replied. “She should be, at least.”
“Okay, I’ll check there. Where are you?” Vina asked.
“Allenville,” he said.
“When are you getting back?” Vina asked.
“I don’t know,” Rauno said. “Depends.”
“Okay, see you at the store. ‘Bye,” Vina said, and hung up. She realized her knuckles were white from gripping the steering wheel, and relaxed them.
Outside of town, she risked a bit more speed, the little car powering down the straight, wide country lanes. Ahead, she saw the entrance to McMurtry State Park, but she kept going past it, and eventually pulled into a suburban development – a cluster of small houses with manicured green lawns and swing sets in their backyards. Vina drove around a wide looping curve in the road, and then parked the car in front of a house with gray siding and white shutters. She got out, closing the door behind her, and then jogged through the house’s yard, crossing over the lawn until she came out onto the street one block over.
Her grandfather’s house stood facing her, its driveway empty. Vina took a deep breath, and then strode up the paving stones of the front walk. At the door, she keyed in the access code, and it unlocked. Vina stepped inside, and closed the door behind her.
Okay: proof. And quickly … you don’t know how long he’s gonna be at the flea market, although he’ll probably go back to the store first.
It had been years since she had visited her grandfather’s house, she realized, but little had changed from her memory of it. To her left, the dining room table held several old books in various stages of restoration – Rauno had attached a desk lamp to the edge of the table, for better light while he worked. Beyond, she could see the kitchen.
She turned to her right, and walked into the sitting room. The walls were lined with books – her grandfather’s personal collection, she knew. A matching set of easy chairs and a couch stood around the room, and one section of the shelves held a number of framed photographs. Vina crossed over to the pictures.
The first picture on the left was of her grandmother, who she had never met. She stood smiling at the camera, wearing a cap and gown. The next was a picture of Vina’s mother as a child. Her grandmother knelt beside her, hugging her, while Rauno stood behind the two of them, arms at his sides. Beside it, Vina recognized a picture of her own family, posing for the holidays in matching sweaters. But an extra wallet-sized picture of her brother, Enzo, had been tucked into the frame – it covered her father’s face in the photo almost exactly. The next photo was from her parents’ wedding, but instead of a picture of the bride and groom, it was a picture of just Elize, with her bridesmaids and her mother.
Vina frowned, and scanned the remaining photos – the rest were of her and her brother, mostly official school photos from different years.
Only one picture of Dad, and he’s covered up in it. And Grandpa told me: “I always found it tough to get to know him, even after he married your mother.”
On the shelf above the pictures sat several plaques from the local Chamber of Commerce, recognizing Rauno’s membership at several milestones – five years, ten years, twenty years. There was an ancient book on display, as well – an early edition of a novel, wrapped in leather. But instead of being set in the special brackets they used at the store, it was propped against something. Vina frowned. She reached out for the book and then hesitated.
How many times did Grandpa yell at me for touching books without gloves? She shook her head, and tugged the end of her sleeve over her fingers, then nudged the book aside. It was leaning against a crystal trophy, fashioned in the semblance of a burst of flame. The crystal flame was mounted into a wooden base, which held a single silver plaque, tarnished with age. Vina stood on her tiptoes to read it.
Independent Bookseller of the Year
Sef Weaver, Proprietor
Rauno Korhonen’s Antique Books
Vina bit her lip, thinking. That’s the award Dad won; he won it the year before we were kidnapped, while Grandpa was in the hospital. Then he must have given it to Grandpa when he got home. What did Mom say? “A lot of booksellers would kill for that award – they spend their lives working toward it.” And Grandpa put it here … gathering dust behind an old book.
Vina pushed the book back into place, and then stepped through the door at the back of the room and into her grandfather’s study. The room had two entrances – one led to the hallway and the kitchen beyond, the other was the door she had just come through, which led back into the sitting room. Like the sitting room, the study was cluttered with books – several stacks sat on her grandfather’s desk, and more were piled on a rocking chair in one corner. Vina crossed to the desk and tapped on the computer screen to wake it up. A password prompt appeared. She tried several combinations of his birthday and obvious words like books, and then gave up.
Next, Vina squatted down and pulled open each of the drawers in the desk. The top drawer held office supplies – envelopes, pens, some binder clips, and tape. The next drawer down was full of spiral-bound notebooks, but when Vina thumbed through them, they were all empty. The bottom drawer held more blank notebooks. Vina was about to close the drawer when she spotted a datapad under the stack of books.
That’s not the one he usually uses, Vina thought.
She slid it out. It was an old model – it reminded Vina of the one she had had back in middle school – bulky, with a plastic back and glass screen. Vina touched the Power button, and to her surprise, it turned on, with no password screen. There were almost no apps installed on the device, just the ones it had shipped with, plus an encrypted messaging app. Vina tapped on it, but the app was empty, with no messages in the inbox. She opened the app’s Sent Messages folder, but that was empty, too.
Why would Grandpa have an old datapad like this lying around? And why is the only thing he installed on it an encrypted chat program?
“Vina,” a deep voice rumbled.
She shrieked, startled. Vina stood up and spun around, and found her grandfather standing in the entrance to the hall, watching her.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
Chapter 29
Falken climbed down the ladder into the Khonsu, wincing with each shift of his weight, each movement of his arms from rung to rung.
“You’re sure you’re okay?” Weaver asked, noticing his discomfort.
“Just a little sore,” Falken said.
Weaver moved out of the way, letting Saltari descend next, and then Ngobe. The astrophysicist stepped off the ladder and looked around in mute amazement at the spacesuits hanging along the walls. Then he caught sight of the captain’s body.
“Oh, my,” Ngobe said. “We’ve entered a tomb.”
Saltari made the sign of the cross.
“I took the pistol off of him,” Falken said. “And it’s his keycard, too. He is – was – the captain of the ship.”
Saltari bent over the corpse, examining it. “His legs are missing. I wonder what happened?”
“Sea monsters,” Falken said.
Saltari snorted. “Don’t be foolish. Perhaps it was some industrial accident on board the ship, a malfunctioning machine?”
Nope, Falken thought. It was sea monsters. “Come on. Bridge is this way.”
He led them down the corridor and through the lounge, and then stopped in the antechamber before the bridge. He had been looking forward to this moment since arriving back on Oz – the grand reveal, showing his friends that hope remained for their future. But now that the moment had come, it felt anticlimactic.
I’m tired. And none of this is going the way I planned.
Without fanfare, Falken pulled the keycard out of his pocket and slid it into the scanner mounted in the wall. O
n cue, the wall panels folded into the floor, revealing the escape pod.
“Express trip to Earth,” Falken said. “One way only, one passenger only.”
Ngobe leaned over to peer inside the pod, touching the seat and harness, and inspecting the vehicle’s control panel.
“Amazing,” he said. “It all appears to be in working order, but we’d be wise to run some diagnostic checks before attempting a launch.”
“Mm,” Saltari grunted. “Will it fly, after all these years? And if so, we have to decide who to send.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Whoever goes back must tell people about Oz, and the reality of the criminal justice system. They need to expose this whole scheme, and put an end to it. Deciding who to send will be no easy task.”
“No,” Falken said. “I found it, I should decide.”
“That’s hardly fair, Falken,” Saltari said. “I’ll give you a lot of credit for this discovery, but we need to consider other factors. And I’m not sure you’re the right man for the job.”
“I’m not trying to go back,” Falken said. “Weaver is.”
The two older men turned to look at Weaver, who shrugged. “It was Falken’s idea. And as much as I want to get out of here, I’m not sure I’m comfortable with it, honestly.”
“Why should it be Weaver?” Ngobe asked Falken.
“Because he’s the right man for the job, like Salty said,” Falken said. “He’s got a family, so people can relate to him. He’s well-spoken. And his crime is one that I think people can understand, if not forgive. He murdered a man who kidnapped his family.”
Weaver frowned and opened his mouth, but said nothing. Ngobe looked over at Saltari, an eyebrow raised.
“He has a point,” Ngobe said.
“I’m not sure it’s fair to the other inmates at the colony,” Saltari said, shaking his head.
“What’s more fair?” Falken asked. “Letting them have a say in this decision just to be democratic, or ensuring the right decision is made, and all of them are more likely to be freed from this place?”
Saltari rubbed his chin. “Hmm. There’s certainly a risk that if we try to involve them, and turn this into a vote or some kind of lottery, all hell will break loose, and the whole plan will fall apart.”
“It could lead to anarchy,” Ngobe agreed. “Or at least, some very bitter fighting, and likely some dead inmates as a result.” The physicist ran his hand over his bald head, thinking. “Very well, I think I’m on board. We send Weaver.”
Saltari nodded slowly. “We send Weaver.”
Weaver shook his head. “I don’t … I don’t know if I deserve this.”
“‘Deserve’ isn’t part of the equation,” Saltari said. “The only question is: when you get to Earth, will you turn yourself in, and fight to get the rest of us released?”
“Yes, I would,” Weaver said, without hesitation. “But both of you have been here longer. You’re just as articulate as I am, if not more so. For that matter, Falken’s injured – maybe we should send him back, to make sure he gets treatment.”
“Do you want to go back?” Falken asked Weaver.
“Of course,” Weaver said. “More than anything.”
“Then it’s unanimous,” Falken said. “Quit arguing.”
Saltari extended a hand, and Weaver took it. “Congratulations, Mr. Weaver. It appears you’ll be going on one more voyage. Let’s hope it’s more successful than your previous ones.”
Weaver shook his hand, and then Ngobe’s, too. “I envy you,” the physicist said. “It should be quite the ride. A rocket-powered ascent … thrilling. You’ll get a fantastic view of the planet during lift-off.”
“Weaver,” Falken said. “When you turn yourself in, they’re going to ask you about why you were sent to Oz. What are you going to tell them?”
“The truth,” Weaver said.
“Which is …?” Falken asked. He held his breath, heart pounding in his chest.
“That I was sent here for a crime I didn’t commit,” Weaver said, simply.
Falken hung his head. Damn it.
“If you tell them that, you’ll destroy your credibility,” Falken said. “They’ll know you’re lying.”
“But I’m not,” Weaver protested.
Falken sighed. “Weaver, the minute you deny your guilt, you ruin any hope of the rest of us getting out of here.”
Saltari cleared his throat. “Falken is right. If you won’t tell the truth about what you did on Earth, how can you expect them to believe you about Oz?”
Weaver threw his hands in the air. “Everyone keeps saying it’s not the truth. But you weren’t there. None of you were.”
“So convince us,” Falken said.
“I’m trying to! Why don’t you believe me?”
“Because it’s a lot easier to believe that you had a momentary lapse in judgment and killed a man, instead of your version of events. Because I think you’ve spent the last nine years trying to convince yourself you’re innocent, instead of coming to terms with what you did.”
“No,” Weaver said, shaking his head. “I don’t have anything to come to terms with.”
“Really?” Falken asked. “Yesterday you told me you weren’t sure what was real and what wasn’t.”
Weaver took a step back, as if slapped. “That’s not fair,” he said. “Don’t try to use that against me.”
“No? Let me try this, then,” Falken said, his voice rising. “Where did the shovel and the bleach come from? Why were they in your trunk?”
“I don’t know!”
“Why was Tevka’s blood on a towel back at your house?”
“I don’t know!” Weaver repeated.
Angry, Falken pulled the keycard out of the wall, and the panels folded up, hiding the escape pod. He gripped the card between his hands and held it up, bending it slightly.
“Last chance, Weaver,” Falken said. “Confess, or I break this card in half. And then none of us get out of here.”
“Falken, no!” Ngobe said, but Falken ignored him, watching Weaver.
The bookkeeper looked at the keycard, then up at Falken’s face.
“Why are you doing this?” Weaver asked.
“I’m trying to help you,” Falken pleaded.
“I’ll go back, and I’ll tell them I did it, if that’s what you want,” Weaver said. “If that’s what you think I need to do to help everyone on Oz, I’ll do it.”
“Tell me you did it. Now,” Falken ordered.
“I …,” Weaver looked over their faces, searching for the right words. “I killed him. I killed Tevka.”
Falken studied Weaver’s face. After a moment, he shook his head. “No. I don’t believe you.”
Weaver glanced at the card again, flexed to the breaking point between Falken’s fingers. He licked his lips, and when he spoke, his voice was barely a whisper. “I’m sorry, Falken. I’ve never been a good liar.”
That much is true, Falken thought. Weaver always wears his heart on his sleeve. It’s partly why I liked him immediately – in this planet full of coldhearted liars, Weaver always told the truth. A knot settled in Falken’s gut, as realization washed over him. And he’s telling the truth now. My god, it’s all true.
Weaver’s innocent.
Chapter 30
“What are you doing?” Rauno asked Vina, his voice eerily calm.
She stood facing him in the study, holding his old datapad in one hand.
“I was looking for this,” she said, her heart racing.
Rauno’s eyes fell on the datapad in her hand.
“I lent it to you a long time ago, remember, Grandpa?” Vina lied.
He looked back into her eyes. “No, you didn’t,” he said, evenly. “What are you doing here, Vina?”
Vina eased her thumb up onto the datapad’s screen. She took a deep breath, steeling herself.
“I came here for the truth,” she said.
“The truth about what?” he asked, his eyes narrowing.
“The truth about my father,” Vina said. She held the datapad up. “And I found it, right here. I have proof, Grandpa.”
“Proof? Proof of what?” Rauno replied. He held a large book in one hand, at his side. Vina could see his fingers flexing against the book’s cover, gripping it tight.
“I know what you did,” Vina said. “You can’t lie to us anymore.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” her grandfather said, but his words rang hollow in Vina’s ears.
Vina lifted the datapad, nodding at it. “You remembered to delete the messages from Tevka. But you forgot to delete the last message you sent to him,” she lied.
His eyes flickered to the datapad, and then back up to Vina’s face. He seemed to relax, then, and she saw his mouth twist into a half-smile. As she watched, her gruff old grandfather transformed into someone she barely recognized, a cold glint in his eye. “It’s only fitting. After all the trouble that fool caused me – to be caught because of a message I sent him.”
Vina’s eyes went wide. “Why, Grandpa? Why did you have him kidnap your own family?”
“To teach your father a god damn lesson,” Rauno growled. “I wanted him to know exactly what it felt like to lose the one thing he cared about most in this life. Just like he did to me.”
“What did he do to you? What did you lose?” Vina asked. “The award?”
“Yes, the award!” Rauno thundered, gesturing angrily toward the sitting room with his free hand. “I spent my life working toward that award. Years watching lesser booksellers win it because they had a friend on the committee, or spent millions on advertising dollars. But I put in the work, I did it right, I wanted to earn it honestly. And what happens? After I’ve spent literally years laying the groundwork, building the foundation? I go to the hospital for a few months, and your father swoops in and wins it in my place!”
“But … he didn’t want it,” Vina said, shaking her head. “He didn’t care about it.”
“That’s the worst part,” her grandfather seethed, gritting his teeth. “He didn’t even care. He had the gall to just leave it on my table, so that it was sitting here staring at me when I got home from the hospital. Mocking me.”
