The Falken Chronicles

by Piers Platt

  “I know,” Peshai said. Vina watched, staying quiet.

  They heard a grunt from the other man. “Just so we’re on the same page. That’s the UNCS Mandolin. Her flight plan says she’s bound for Kanderi, departs in twenty minutes, or as soon as loading is complete.”

  What’s Kanderi? Vina mouthed.

  The ex-warden shook his head, holding up a hand. “Passenger manifest?” Peshai asked.

  “Aside from crew, the Mandolin is carrying just one passenger. Weaver, Sef,” Masoud told him. “Inmate.”

  “Shit,” Peshai said. “Masoud, I need two more favors.”

  “Well, I figured you might,” Masoud said. “What did you have in mind?”

  Peshai told him. Vina, listening, felt her jaw drop open.

  “You can’t,” she said, speaking up. “You’ll all go back to jail for that.”

  “Who’s that?” Masoud asked sharply, over the call.

  “Mr. Weaver’s daughter,” Peshai explained.

  “Ah,” Masoud said. They heard him exhale loudly. “But she’s right, Peshai. I thought you said you wanted a few ‘favors,’ not ‘felonies.’ ”

  “Weaver’s innocent,” Peshai said, simply.

  The line was silent for several long seconds.

  “Give me ten minutes,” Masoud said.

  Chapter 36

  Falken felt his arm being lifted, and the sound of Velcro tearing open. A weight was removed from his wrist, and he felt cool air on his arm, where the cuff had been. He opened his eyes, blinking in the harsh light. A guard stood to his right, wrapping intravenous tubes into a coil, before tucking them away inside a monitoring device. To his left, a second guard unstrapped Falken’s left hand, and then took hold of both hands. Falken heard a metallic click, and looked down to see that he was wearing a set of handcuffs, which were attached to manacles around his ankles via a short chain. Across from him in the ship’s bay, the other three inmates were all being attended to by their own sets of guards.

  “Where are we?” Falken asked.

  “Kanderi,” the guard on his right replied, undoing Falken’s chest strap. “I got my eye on you, big guy. Don’t try anything stupid.” He held up a hand warningly, showing Falken the stun-glove he wore.

  “Okay,” Falken said.

  Another guard appeared and surveyed the men in the hold. “Ready?” he asked.

  “Ready,” one of Falken’s guards reported. He was echoed by two other guards.

  “Just a minute,” a final guard said, from the man to Falken’s left. He finished buckling the cuffs around the inmate’s wrists, and then gave the chain between the man’s legs a rough shake, checking it. “Okay, good to go.”

  “Listen up!” the head guard said. “We’re docking in two minutes. And unlike you, I don’t have to stay here, so I don’t want to stay here a minute longer than I have to. When I say so – and only when I say so – you will all stand up and follow me. Follow all instructions from me and the other guards to the letter. Play nice, and we won’t have to use the gloves. Clear?”

  Falken nodded.

  “On your feet!”

  Falken stood. His legs tingled, protesting as the blood rushed back into them. How long were we in hibernation for? He ran his tongue over his lower lip, feeling the stubble. Not much of a beard. We can’t have been under for more than a week, then. I flew a lot farther on a couple of my planetary survey missions, when I first got out of Oz.

  The head guard surveyed them briefly, as each pair of guards took up positions on either side of one of the inmates. Falken felt his guards take hold of him firmly by the elbows.

  They must have put us under just to make us easier to transport – no chance of us escaping or rioting if we’re asleep the whole time.

  “Twitch one muscle out of line, and we stun you,” the head guard reminded them sternly. “Let’s go.”

  He turned and started off, and Falken’s guards moved to follow. They marched along the ship’s hallway, and back to the same docking tube through which Falken had entered the ship. This time, the docking tube opened into another metal corridor which led directly to a low-ceilinged, circular room with no windows.

  Another ship? Falken guessed. That will take us down and land on this Kanderi planet?

  The last pair of guards passed into the room with their charge, and as the group of men gathered in the center of the room, the head guard lifted his arm and tapped a command on his wristpad. The entryway closed, sealing the circular room shut. The room lurched downward, and sections of the walls appeared to be moving, metal sliding past metal. Abruptly, the metal hull disappeared from view, and Falken found himself staring out a narrow set of portholes ringing the compartment. Beyond, the inky black of space was dotted with unfamiliar constellations. Below – but approaching rapidly – lay the atmosphere of a strange planet.

  Kanderi.

  The planet was rust-red, and appeared relatively featureless – Falken saw no evidence of mountains or valleys on the surface below.

  No clouds or bodies of water, either. And nothing green – no native plant life. It looks … barren.

  “Place looks like a real shithole,” one of the other inmates observed.

  “Shut it,” the heard guard barked, frowning. “I didn’t say you could talk.”

  As the rate of their descent increased, Falken realized they were not in a ship, but a space elevator. He shook his head ruefully.

  So they do have a space elevator for convicts, like the orientation video shows. It’s just not on Oz.

  They passed rapidly through the upper atmosphere, and Falken felt a slight jolt as the elevator’s artificial gravity shut off, letting the planet’s natural gravity take over. The ground rushed up to meet them, and as the elevator began to slow, the view became obscured by a fine, red haze – sand particles from the planet’s surface were being blown against the windows. The sun faded behind the dust storm, and the room took on a reddish hue, as gusts of wind buffeted the elevator. Then at last, the compartment slid inside the elevator’s base station, coming to rest inside a larger room ringed by a steel balcony. A heavy weight seemed to settle on Falken’s shoulders.

  Something familiar about this room, how it’s laid out. Falken turned his head slowly, studying the circular balcony, and then he had it. … it’s the facility, before it fell apart. A replica of the facility on Oz … or, the other way around, I guess.

  One of the other convicts snorted, coming to the same conclusion. “Where’s Archos? I feel like fighting.”

  “Anyone else talks,” the head guard warned, pointing at each of them, “and all of you are getting stunned.”

  The compartment’s hatch opened, and a gantry extended from the balcony. The head guard stepped out of the room, and the inmates shuffled out after him, each flanked by a pair of guards. Falken and his guards brought up the rear. When Falken took his first step, he stumbled slightly – lifting his leg took far more effort than he had expected. He took another halting step.

  Significantly more gravity here than on Earth, Falken thought. Just moving around is going to be exhausting.

  “Come on,” one of his guards told Falken, pushing him firmly in the middle of his back. “You’ll get used to it.”

  They passed through a doorway and stepped into a room with lockers around the walls, and plain metal benches facing the lockers. At the far end of the room, a steel ramp led down to a large bay door that stood closed. Falken’s guards led him to an open locker. Without a word, they unbuckled his chains, and then handed him an outer garment from inside the locker.

  “Dress,” one guard told him.

  Falken started to pull his uniform shirt off.

  “No, just put it on over your uniform.”

  Falken did as he was told – the one-piece outfit was heavily padded. He stopped briefly to wipe at the sweat forming on his brow, his cheeks flushed from the exertion of putting the suit on, and the material’s thickness. They took away his slip-on shoes and helped him pull o
n socks and heavy boots. Falken donned a hat next, and wrapped a scarf loosely around his neck, while one of the guards tucked a set of clear plastic goggles down over his hat. Then he stood up again, and they handed him a pair of gloves and some kind of face mask with a canister attached.

  “Eyes on me,” the heard guard said, and Falken and the other inmates turned to look at him. He held one of the strange-looking masks aloft in one hand. “Kanderi’s atmosphere has enough oxygen for you to breathe, but it also has a near-lethal amount of carbon dioxide. This mask filters that gas out. You’ll wear it at all times. I repeat – one hundred percent of the time, you will wear this mask. Take it off, and within about five minutes, you will begin to hyperventilate. Wait another few minutes, and you will begin vomiting, convulsing, and eventually die. So you wear it at all times – sleeping, shitting, in the showers, while you eat. At all times. Are we clear?”

  “Yes,” they said.

  “How do we eat with a mask on?” another inmate asked.

  “You breathe,” the head guard said, holding the mask over his face, “then you move the mask and take a bite.” He slipped the mask to one side, and mimed putting a fork to his mouth. “Then you put the mask back while you chew. Your body can handle the carbon dioxide in small amounts, and you’ll be given supplements to counteract the effects, too. But too much of it, over a sustained period of minutes, and there’s nothing the patrol drones can do for you. Mask up.”

  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 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 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 said. “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.