The Falken Chronicles: The Complete Trilogy: The Falken Chronicles

By Piers Platt

Escape from Oz

Sirio Falken has been a fighter his whole life. But when the government bans professional fighting, his life spirals out of control. Convicted of murder, he's sentenced to life in prison. But all of the felons he's ever known have disappeared from Earth, never to return. He's about to find out firsthand what happened to them. He'll have to stay alive amongst Earth’s most ruthless felons if he wants to survive … and become the first man to escape from Oz.

Escape from Olympus

After his escape from the prison colony Oz, Sirio Falken has found a new life as a safari guide on the planet Olympus. There, he helps tourists navigate the planet's exotic ecosystem, which is dominated by a single apex predator: a long-lived and sightless avian species called dragons. With exceptional hearing, the dragons are feared for hunting down anything that moves, including Falken and his guests, if they’re not careful. But unknown to Falken, criminal elements have plans to use him to plunder the planet's resources, whether he's willing to help them or not. He'll have to keep the lethal dragons at bay long enough to unravel a growing conspiracy … and escape from Olympus.

Return to Oz

Falken survived the ordeal on Olympus, only to be stunned with a shocking revelation: his good friend Weaver is still incarcerated on Oz. The only way to get Weaver out is to volunteer to go back inside the prison himself. But the clock is ticking – Falken will only have a few days to find his friend and help him escape. While he’s back on Oz, he’ll have to follow the rules to the letter. One step out of line, and they’ll both be stuck in jail … forever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Piers Platt
• Release date: Oct 12, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386855866

Book preview

Chapter 1

No windows on this train, Falken noticed. The sharp edge of the manacles bit into his wrists, chafing him. Either they don’t want anyone to know who’s in the train … or they don’t want us to know where we’re going.

I’m scared, man. The prisoner opposite him shifted nervously against the restraint bar across his chest. You’ve done time before, right? he asked. Right, big guy?

Across the maglev car’s center aisle, Falken sighed. Yeah. I’ve been in a few times.

What for?

Falken ignored the question. But the man facing him was undeterred.

A thousand bucks says this here’s the first time you’ve gotten a Class One conviction, his fellow convict guessed.

Falken eyed the man, but stayed silent.

You know how I know? This ain’t my first stint, either, the man said.

Falken could see a bird tattoo on the man’s neck – orange and yellow, it seemed to be bursting out of his collar, wings spreading under his chin. The bird was on fire, Falken realized. What’s that called again? Sphinx? No: phoenix. Reborn from the ashes.

I done a couple years for B and E, the man was saying. But they never pinned a Class One Felony on me before. Not ‘til now.

The prison transport shook slightly, as the maglev track curved around some unseen obstacle. The two rows of restrained prisoners rocked rhythmically along with the transport, their heads bobbing in sync, as if choreographed in some strange dance. At the front of the car, a pair of guards sat watching the criminals impassively – Falken glanced at them briefly, but neither seemed to care enough to silence the conversation.

Major crimes are rare, Falken pointed out. Because of the government surveillance programs. That’s why you never see violent stuff on the newsnets.

"No, you never see the violent stuff on the newsnets ‘cause the government don’t want you to see it. But it still happens. Not a lot, but it happens. We here are living proof of that ain’t we?"

True enough, Falken thought. So what are you trying to say? he asked.

Last time you were in, d’you meet any violent offenders? Phoenix-man replied.

No, Falken said. The Class One felon wards were always empty …

"Uh huh. And have you ever, in your whole life, met any Class One felons? In or out of jail?"

Falken considered this for a moment. No.

I knew a guy once that got busted for attempted murder. Long time ago. You know what happened to him after they sent him away?

What happened? Falken asked.

The man shrugged. Not a clue. Never saw him again, never heard from him again, he said. That’s why I’m scared. I’m telling you, violent offenders just disappear.

Falken frowned. I heard there’s a special rehab program.

Yeah? If they get rehabbed, then why do we never see ‘em again? The tattooed man shook his head. More government propaganda. The rehab program’s a fucking pipe dream.

Well, they’re not gonna just release us, Falken pointed out.

Nope, the man agreed.

Another convict farther down the line spoke up. Cheap labor for the newest colonies. Mining and shit.

Phoenix-man shook his head. Takes months to train to be an asteroid miner. And years to be a terraformer. You need a degree in … I dunno, science and stuff. You got a degree, pal?

The other inmate snorted. Do you?

No, Phoenix-man admitted.

Why not? the other inmate asked. College is free.

"College is boring, Phoenix-man corrected him. And hard. Easier and more fun to be a criminal."

How’s that working out for you? Falken asked him.

I could ask you the same thing, Phoenix-man shot back. What d’you say you were in for?

I didn’t, Falken replied.

Well, what’s your name, then? he asked.

Falken.

I’m Orris, the man said. Anyway, once they give us our sentences, everyone on Earth would be happy to just forget about us. Petty crimes, minor stuff – they can let that slide. Do a couple years, get out on parole and get your second chance. But this little utopian society of ours don’t have room for hardcore criminals anymore, so they just want us gone. Forever.

Falken could feel the maglev transport slowing down.

You know who else had special programs for people they didn’t like? Orris asked. He leaned forward against his chest restraint, whispering. The Nazis.

Falken frowned again, but he felt a shiver of fear run up his spine.

Ah, you don’t know shit, the inmate farther down the transport said.

Maybe. But I know one thing, Orris observed.

What’s that? Falken asked.

We’re all about to find out.

* * *

The maglev transport sat motionless, with its interior lights dimmed. Falken guessed that they had docked at the courthouse, though neither of the guards on the transport made any announcement to that effect. They simply unbuckled the first prisoner at the front of the train, checked his handcuffs, and guided him through the access hatch. Nearly twenty minutes later, he reappeared; they sat him down, and then proceeded to unbuckle the next man in line.

Falken had to wait for close to three hours for his turn – his legs were nearly numb when he finally stood up, and he winced as the blood rushed back into them.

Good luck, Orris told him, grinning nervously.

Falken shuffled his way through the transport and then out the hatch, led by the two guards, who wore pistols in holsters on their hips. The hatch opened into a narrow corridor, empty save for two doors – one to his right, near the maglev’s hatch, and another door at the end of the corridor. The latter slid open as the guards approached it, and Falken followed them into a small chamber, with worn linoleum floors and harsh white fluorescent bulbs along the ceiling. A battered metal chair and table stood in front of him, arranged in front of a raised wooden bench. Falken sat, and the guards took up stations on either side of the door. A judge in dark robes sat behind the bench: an older man with thinning gray hair, who appeared to be reading from a computer screen. Falken realized he was the same judge that had presided over his trial.

Place your palm on the scanner, please, the judge said.

Falken noticed a scanner mounted in the table – he pressed his manacled hand against it, then withdrew it.

One more time, the judge said. It read your prints, but didn’t take the DNA sample.

Sorry, Falken said. He held his hand on the scanner again.

There it goes. The judge tapped a stylus against his desk absentmindedly, and then his computer beeped at him.

Sirio Falken, the judge announced. At your trial, a jury of your peers found you guilty of murder. This will serve as your sentencing.

Is my lawyer coming? Falken asked. He was at my last sentencing.

No, the judge replied. He submitted his sentencing recommendation to me electronically, as did the prosecutor.

That doesn’t seem fair, Falken said.

I’m not particularly concerned with your opinion at this stage, Mr. Falken, the judge observed. If the judicial process seems unusual in this case, let me remind you that your crime was highly unusual. Mankind has evolved, Mr. Falken. We no longer seek revenge for personal insults by killing one another, no matter how wronged we might feel.

Falken stayed silent.

Now, the judge continued, your lawyer has suggested the minimum sentence, which in this case would be thirty years, eligible for parole in twenty. He points out that prior to the murder, you had been working with your court-appointed counselor on managing your anger more productively. And he argues that in this case, the victim’s actions may have provoked you into a state of temporary insanity.

The judge looked up from his computer, meeting Falken’s eyes. Are you sorry for what you did, Mr. Falken?

Yes, Falken said. I never meant to kill him. I wish I hadn’t.

The judge studied him in silence. I believe that might be true. But is that remorse a product of having been caught, or because you realize that what you did was wrong?

Falken cleared his throat. I know it was wrong to kill him.

Mm. And how would you handle the situation differently, given a second chance?

Falken searched for an answer. I wouldn’t go to his apartment at all.

Indeed. And what would you do instead?

… I don’t know.

The judge narrowed his eyes. "That concerns me, Mr. Falken. It concerns me that a man of your physical strength and professional training has trouble thinking of a course of action that doesn’t involve confrontation and violence. Such a man is a danger to society. You’ve proven it, three times now. Your first two victims are still alive, and presumably healthy now, despite the beating you gave each of them. But your last victim is not. And I have a responsibility to ensure that he is your last victim, Mr. Falken … and not your latest victim."

I’m not going to kill anyone again, Falken assured the judge.

Words are cheap, Mr. Falken. But I wonder how you will react when someone angers you again. Well, we’ll see, the judge mused. Stand.

Falken stood up.

Mr. Falken, given your criminal record and the violent nature of your crime, you are hereby sentenced to life in prison. Parole eligibility in fifty years.

Falken took a step back, shuddering. He tried to swallow, but his throat was too dry. Can … can my lawyer appeal?

Appeal what? Your guilty conviction, or the sentence?

Both, I guess.

The judge nodded. You’ll have a chance to contact your lawyer again once you reach your destination.

Where am I going?

Some place where you can no longer be a danger to your fellow citizens, Mr. Falken. A place where you will have ample opportunity to reflect on your crimes. When you get there, I want you to think about how you can control that anger of yours. Try using your mind to solve your problems for once, the judge said. He held up his fists. Not these.

Yeah, but where’s the prison? Falken asked.

You’ll find out soon enough, the judge said. Now, you’re permitted a final vidcall, before transport and in-processing. Would you like to use it?

Yes, Falken said.

The guards stepped forward, and took Falken back down the entry corridor. He felt hollow and detached somehow, as if he was watching himself from the outside. The judge’s words echoed in his ears.

Life in prison. Parole in fifty years.

The guards stopped before they reached the hatch leading back into the maglev transport, and opened a door to a small booth with a seat and a video terminal.

Ten minutes, one of the guards said, as Falken sat down. There’ll be a timer on the screen. He activated the terminal and then stepped back, shutting the glass door to the booth.

Falken shook his head, forcing himself to push away thoughts of his sentence, and dialed the number from memory. Mallerie picked up on the third ring. She frowned at the screen, and then recognition dawned, and she gasped. She hung up hurriedly before Falken could say a word.

He dialed her number again. It rang ten times, and then an automated voice suggested that he leave her a message. Falken stabbed the Disconnect key, and then redialed. Ten rings, no answer. Falken swore, and felt his hands bunch into fists. He punched the console in frustration, then dialed again. And again.

I don’t want to talk to you, Mallerie said, her sudden appearance on the monitor startling Falken.

Just wait, don’t hang up, Falken pleaded.

I don’t want to talk to you, she repeated.

Why not?

She sniffed. Falken could see that her cheeks were wet, her eyes puffy from crying. There’s nothing left to say, Sirio.

I’m sorry, Mal, he tried. I fucked up real bad.

How many times have I heard you say that? she asked.

Falken bit his lip. I just … I lost control. I got so angry knowing … what he’d done. What you’d done.

If you’re looking for an apology from me … she started.

No, he said. Just trying to explain. I wasn’t thinking straight.

He didn’t deserve to die, Mallerie said.

No, Falken agreed. The jury said I was guilty, he said, changing the subject.

"Well, you are guilty."

They’re giving me life, he told her. Parole in fifty years.

He saw her take a deep, shuddering breath.

I don’t know where they’re sending me, but will you try to visit me? he asked.

She shook her head silently. Falken glanced at the timer onscreen, which showed just over a minute remaining.

They’re gonna cut me off in a few seconds, he warned. So I just wanted to say … I love you.

Mallerie wiped a tear from one eye. She took another deep breath, and then faced him. Goodbye, Sirio. The screen went black, and he realized she had hung up again. The timer clicked down to zero, and then the glass door slid open.

Let’s go, big fella, the guard said.

Falken stood. Where? he asked.

Back to your seat, the guard replied, guiding him back onto the maglev transport. At his seat, the guard turned him by the elbow and, with a firm grip on Falken’s shoulder, encouraged him to sit.

Where am I going? Falken repeated.

The guard ignored him, and merely buckled his restraint, locking it back into place.

Chapter 2

When the last prisoner had received his sentence, the guards closed the transport’s hatch, and took their seats at the front of the vehicle. Falken heard the engines start up again, and the transport continued on its journey. He tried to estimate how far they had traveled, but without windows, he was at a loss, and soon gave up. The mood aboard the transport was noticeably darker – even Orris stayed quiet, lost in his own thoughts. Falken saw the man tapping his toe nervously against the metal floor of the train.

The transport slowed again, and came to a stop. When the outer hatch opened, a warm, humid gust of air rushed inside the cabin. Falken thought he smelled the salty tang of the ocean. The guards stood, and one pulled a switch on the wall, which released all of the prisoners’ chest harnesses at once.

On your feet, he called. Nice and easy, now. And don’t forget your personal items.

Falken stood, and opened the compartment over his seat, taking out a small duffel bag marked with his prisoner number. Inside the duffel bag was a pair of sparring gloves – his lucky gloves, the pair he had worn when he won his first professional match. One of his training partners had brought them to the courthouse during his trial, and when the corrections officers had told him he could bring one personal item to sentencing, he had picked the gloves. Falken held the bag in one hand, stepped into the aisle, and filed toward the front of the transport.

Here comes the gas chamber, Orris muttered, standing in line behind Falken.

Falken ducked through the hatch, and blinked in the sudden sunlight. A set of stairs led down from the maglev transport to a broad cement platform ringing a large, squat building. Falken saw palm trees waving in the breeze around the edges of the platform.

Somewhere tropical, he thought. A long way from home.

More guards – these ones armed with rifles – stood at intervals along the platform, guiding the prisoners around the large building. As Falken rounded the corner of the building, he saw an aircraft resting on the tarmac. Falken recognized it as a long-range aircraft: the base module had wide wings stretching out to either side, while the passenger module mounted atop it had its own, smaller set of wings, with a set of booster engines to boot. Once, early in his professional career, his sponsors had flown him on such an aircraft to a fight in Hong Kong.

Did I win that fight? Can’t remember now.

The aircraft’s engines were already running. Falken followed his fellow convicts up another set of stairs and inside the passenger module. He took a seat near the front, by one of the windows. A guard leaned over him for a minute, attaching a five-point safety harness. The seat cushion felt thicker, more padded than Falken remembered, and there was a head support that wrapped around the base of his skull.

A guard from the maglev train climbed into the aircraft, too, and stood in the craft’s doorway for a minute, filling out transfer documents on a tablet. One of the guards from the aircraft reviewed the form on the screen, and then signed it.

I’m hungry, one of the prisoners complained.

You didn’t feed them, did you? the aircraft guard asked.

No, of course not, the maglev guard replied.

Good. The guard from the aircraft swiped through the paperwork one last time. Okay, we’re all set. I have custody.

Safe trip, the maglev guard replied. He turned and descended the boarding stairs, while the aircraft guard swung the door shut and sealed it from the inside. Falken saw the boarding stairs roll back, and the vehicle taxied away from the hangar building, taking up position at the end of the long runway.

Short flight, the guard announced, shouting to be heard over the growing noise of the engines. No bathroom breaks, no food, so don’t ask. He buckled himself into a rear-facing seat next to his colleague, and then reached behind his back and banged on a metal door twice. Falken assumed it was the door to the cockpit.

The aircraft accelerated down the runway a moment later, and then rotated off the tarmac. Once airborne, the craft banked hard, and remained flying in a tight circle for several minutes. Falken watched as they circled, higher and higher, the ground slipping away below them. After fifteen minutes, the craft leveled off. The sky above was a deep, inky blue, and Falken thought he could almost see a slight curve to the horizon.

There was a loud metallic clank, and several of the inmates gasped in alarm. Through the window, Falken saw the base module break away, dropping below them to begin its return to the airfield. At the front of the aircraft, one of the guards braced himself against his harness. A second later, the passenger module’s booster engines lit, and the sudden acceleration shoved Falken back into his seat. He had been expecting it, but he grunted reflexively all the same.

Short flight, the guard said. That rules out anything too far away. South America? Western Africa, even?

But as Falken watched, the sky outside gradually shifted to black, and he realized with a shock that they were still climbing.

Space. They’re taking us into orbit.

The booster engines cut off a minute later, and Falken’s stomach churned sickeningly for a moment as the weightless sensation of micro-gravity took hold. Across the aisle from him, another inmate groaned, holding his hand over his mouth.

That must be why they didn’t want to feed us.

The passenger module turned, and Falken lost sight of the Earth. He spied an orbital station in the distance, but the craft continued on its own path for several minutes. Then a massive deep-space vessel pulled slowly into view. Falken watched as they matched speeds with the larger craft, and then a docking tube extended toward them. An indicator light flashed above the cockpit door, and the guards unbuckled themselves, floating free of their chairs.

We’re here, one of them announced, as he reached out and swung the craft’s hatch open.

Chapter 3

Falken followed the other prisoners off of the shuttle and onto the deep-space vessel, carrying his duffel bag. Each of the prisoners was matched with a guard waiting on the larger ship; when Falken’s shackles had been removed, his guard led him to a private room with a locker. Next to the locker stood a tall, cylindrical device with a door mounted in the side. Falken, still getting the hang of moving in a zero-g environment, bumped into the locker by accident, and then fumbled for a hand-strap on the ceiling, before steadying himself. The guard merely propped himself against the ship’s bulkhead, wedging himself into a corner with practiced ease.

Strip, the guard instructed him. Put your jumpsuit and duffel bag in the locker, and then step inside the chamber.

What is it? Falken asked, eyeing the door uneasily.

A decontamination unit, the guard explained. For parasites, bacteria from Earth. Won’t hurt.

Falken complied, peeling off his coveralls while spinning slowly through space. He pulled himself hand over hand toward the chamber, and then hunched awkwardly to fit his large frame through its entry. Once inside, the guard closed the door on him.

If they’re gonna kill me, this would be the moment.

A bright, red light flashed on, and the chamber began to vibrate with a deep humming noise. Heat radiated from the walls, and Falken’s hair stood on end. Then a cooling mist sprayed over him, and the light went out. Falken sighed with relief. The door opened, and the guard handed him a new, white jumpsuit. To Falken, it looked more like a patient’s garb than a prisoner’s.

Put this on, the guard said.

Falken dressed, and then followed the guard through a hatch, and down a narrow tube with rungs mounted along one side. They wound their way through several more corridors, deeper into the heart of the ship. Falken had never been on a deep-space vessel before, indeed, had never been in orbit before – he was awed at the size of the spacecraft.

Such a huge ship – all for a dozen or so convicts?

Finally, they stopped in front of a metal door. Above the door, Falken noticed that someone had etched a sign into the bulkhead’s metal in stenciled letters: All truths are easy to understand once they are discovered; the point is to discover them. – Galileo Galilei.

Falken frowned at the sign. Kind of a strange quote to put in a prisoner transport.

Then the door opened, revealing a pair of technicians in medical scrubs, and beyond them, a number of padded, reclining chairs arranged in semi-circular tiers, almost like a theater.

Those look like hibernation seats, Falken guessed. For long-distance space travel.

The majority of seats were full already: other inmates from the transport were strapped in most of them, while various technicians floated next to them, adjusting intravenous tubing and medical sensors. In silence, Falken’s orderlies pulled him to his own seat, and then placed him in it. They secured his ankles and wrists, and then placed a broad strap across his chest, too.

Are we going to be asleep for a long time? Falken asked.

That depends, one of the techs replied. His colleague shot him a look of disapproval.

Where are we going?

The tech flipped on a monitor, which showed Falken’s heartbeat and several other graphs that he did not recognize. Another planet, in the colonies. The warden will be here in a minute, he said. He’ll tell you more then.

The door to the room slid open again, and Falken saw the man with the phoenix tattoo, along with a guard. Orris took in the room and the hibernation seats, and then turned to his guard.

No, man. Fuck, no. I ain’t going in there.

You have to, the guard told him.

So you can inject me with some poison? I don’t think so.

Two orderlies approached, but Orris pulled his legs up and kicked out at them, yelling incoherently. His momentum carried him backward into the hallway, where he collided with his escort. The guard, grimacing, wrapped one burly arm around the man, his other arm held out to one side. He was wearing some kind of glove, Falken saw: a metal band encircled his wrist, and connected to a set of thin wires ending in a black disk at each fingertip. As Falken watched, electricity arced between the disks at the guard’s fingertips. The guard slammed the glove’s open palm into Orris’ chest, and the prisoner screamed, arching his back involuntarily, before going limp.

The orderlies, recovered from the sudden attack, took him by the arm-pits, and maneuvered him into the room.

Fuck you guys, Orris slurred, still unable to move his arms and legs. Fucking bastards.

They set him in his chair, still protesting weakly, and then proceeded to strap him in. One of Falken’s technicians shook his head and snorted. There’s always one crazy.

The door opened again a few minutes later, and a man wearing a correctional officer’s uniform glided in, coming to rest in the center of the tiers of seats, where all of the prisoners could see him.

My name is Captain Peshai. I’m the warden of this ship, he told them. And for the time being at least, you are all in my care. You’re hungry, and confused. I can’t do anything about the hunger – hibernation is best on an empty stomach. But I can give you a little bit more information.

The warden spoke hurriedly, with a hint of exasperation. It gave Falken the distinct impression that he was rattling off an oft-repeated script.

You are all here because you are Class One felons. You chose to commit violent crimes. Years ago, criminals like you were incarcerated as a form of punishment. But today, that is no longer the case. Your incarceration is not a punishment. The goal of the Corrections Department is to determine whether any of you are capable of reforming, and if you are, to give you the tools you need to avoid offending again. In short, our job is to rehabilitate you – each and every single one of you. But even if we do our job to the best of our ability, I can’t guarantee you will get a second chance. The only person who can determine that … is you. Your actions in the months and years ahead will decide that. We can’t do it for you.

He turned and gestured to a blank wall behind him, and a screen sprang to life, showing an animated representation of the vessel in orbit over Earth. In a few minutes, each of you will be sedated for a period of several months. During that time, this ship will transport you to the colony of New Australia.

On the screen, the ship left Earth, flew through space, and then arrived at a new planet. From the video, it appeared to be covered in water, but Falken thought he spotted several small islands, too.

You’re probably wondering why you’ve never heard of it. That is by design. New Australia is a planet reserved for the exclusive use of the Multi-National Corrections Department. It is a prison planet, and its only inhabitants are Class One felons like you.

The computer-generated ship docked at a space station, and the view zoomed in to show inmates transferring to the station, and then boarding a space elevator that descended to the surface. The warden checked his watch distractedly, then cleared his throat.

The New Australia colony allows us to safely isolate you from the citizens of Earth and the other colonies, while keeping incarceration costs minimal and evaluating your potential for rehabilitation. You will find that the planet is similar to Earth in most respects, and the colony has everything you will need to survive.

The cartoon inmates on screen walked out of a building at the base of the space elevator, under the smiling gaze of guards patrolling along a rampart above them. Other inmates handed them hoes and shovels, and they set to work in a field of crops, beside a set of plain wooden buildings. Several small blimps hung over the field – their fabric was painted in red and white stripes, and they hovered slowly around in lazy circles, observing the work below through cameras and sensor suites.

This is not a penal colony. Think of New Australia as a trial run for reintegration, for life as a free man again. You will be under observation at all times, but corrections officers rarely intervene unless absolutely necessary. Join the community there, contribute to the common good, and in time, you may earn your way back to society.

I wanna talk to my lawyer, an inmate called out, interrupting. I’m not gonna go work on a farm on some shithole planet.

The warden frowned in annoyance. Your lawyer can initiate an appeal on your behalf once you reach the colony, if you choose. You may not talk to him or her at this time.

Well, how do I call him when I get there?

The facility at the base of the space elevator handles all communications and transport needs, the warden replied. The corrections officers there can put you in touch with your lawyer, if needed.

On the screen, Falken watched as the inmates picked the crops, then carried them to a kitchen, where other inmates cooked and prepared them. They smiled, peaceful and content, as they sat down to eat.

Officers will be watching you, and the choices you make, in order to evaluate your level of rehabilitation, the warden continued. In the video, a blimp descended and presented a comically large envelope to one of the inmates, who followed the drone back to the facility. When you have served your allotted time, you will be eligible for parole board review, and if your behavior warrants it, release. The cartoon inmate sat at a table in front of a group of corrections officers, and then stood up and shook hands with the corrections officers. He walked back to the space elevator, which took him back up to the ship in orbit.

If you have any other questions, the staff on New Australia can answer them for you, the warden said. We’ll be initiating hibernation in the next few minutes, in order to begin our journey.

The screen went blank, and the warden pushed himself off the floor, floating back toward the exit. A medical technician appeared next to Falken again, and attached a pouch to Falken’s chest strap.

What’s that? Falken asked.

Hm? Oh, supply kit. Just for when you wake up, the technician replied. Falken saw other orderlies attaching similar pouches to the inmates around him. The orderly unzipped the pouch quickly, showing Falken the contents. A couple bottles of water, an energy bar … and your personal item. We decontaminated it, and brought it from your locker. What kind of gloves are these?

Sparring gloves, Falken said.

The orderly shrugged. Okay. Hibernation drugs should be kicking in momentarily, he warned Falken.

Falken felt a cold liquid pass into his arm through the intravenous tube, and almost immediately a sense of heaviness and exhaustion washed over him. It was followed by a wave of nausea. He groaned.

There it is, the technician said. Sweet dreams.

Falken fought to keep his eyelids open, his stomach churning in protest at the drugs. His eyes closed, fluttered open, then closed again.

He slept.

Chapter 4

Wind. It was all Falken could hear. Harsh, insistent wind, like a storm shaking the branches of a tree. He had been falling in his dream, and the sudden dropping sensation in his gut had startled him awake. The falling sensation was gone, replaced by a slight, unsteady swaying. He opened his eyes, but the room was dark, lit only by thin strips of light at odd intervals along the far wall. The view reminded Falken of the slats in a fence.

The wind was cold – he could feel it rushing through the cracks in the wall behind him, too. His eyes started to adjust to the dark, and slowly he began to make out the shadowy forms of other inmates, strapped into makeshift seats along the outer wall of the room.

Where are we?

The entire room jerked, as if something massive had smashed into it at speed. He tried to call out in alarm, but his throat was inexplicably dry, and the sound came out an unintelligible croak. The room seemed to move again, tilting drunkenly. Falken noticed that his arms and ankles were free, no longer strapped to the hibernation seat. He reached across and felt for the IV drip, but it was gone.

We’re not on the ship anymore, Falken realized, holding his hand up in front of him. That’s gravity I feel.

And we’re falling.

Panic set in. Falken fumbled with his chest strap, searching for a buckle. He yanked on it, and it came free. He stood awkwardly, bracing himself against the chair as the room lurched to one side. He felt a heavy weight against his chest – the supply kit, still clipped to his jumpsuit, where the orderly had left it. He considered opening it – was there a flashlight inside? – then, with a splintering, thunderous CRACK, they crashed into the ground, and Falken was thrown to the floor.

What the fuck, another inmate groaned.

Falken pushed himself to his knees, and then stood. He crossed to the closest wall – it was rough to the touch.

Feels like wood that hasn’t been sanded.

Someone get me out of this goddamn seat? another voice asked.

Falken pushed on the wall, and felt the board creak and bend. He pushed harder, straining against it, and the board cracked, and then fell off. He ducked down to look through the opening. A thick layer of fog covered the ground, but in the distance, he could make out a cluster of trunks reaching toward the sky.

Trees …? Not like any tree on Earth.

The branches on the trees grew upward and out from the ram-rod straight trunks, twisting around each trunk in an intricate, repeated pattern, like a spiral staircase. Green needles lined the branches, which shivered in a light breeze. A breath of wind tugged at the fog, and five men emerged from the tree line, wearing faded yellow jumpsuits, stained and dirty from hard use. They jogged purposefully toward Falken and the other inmates.

Shit.

Someone’s coming, Falken said aloud.

Who? a voice replied.

Other inmates, Falken said. He turned to the nearest chair, and saw that it was the man with the phoenix tattoo. Falken helped him undo his chest strap.

Where the fuck are we? Orris asked him, his voice hoarse.

Not Earth, Falken said.

More light pierced the room – the inmates outside had begun tearing slats from the walls. One man stopped and peered inside, looking over the huddled prisoners. He wore a thick, gray beard, and underneath it his face was sunburned and lined.

Full load this month, he observed. He eyed Falken appraisingly. Welcome to Oz, boys. Give me a hand with these slats.

Falken kicked at the lower part of the wall, and in another minute, there was enough space to climb out. He ducked through the gap. The five inmates outside were busy stripping wood off of the walls, piling the slats onto a handmade sledge with a harness. Falken turned to get a better look at the room, and realized it was just a giant wooden crate, lined with seats for the inmates. A set of large silk parachutes lay draped over one side of the crate.

They dropped us in by parachute? Falken asked. He brushed sawdust off his hands onto his bright yellow jumpsuit.

The fuck happened to the space elevator? one of the other inmates asked.

The old man with the beard chuckled. They’re still showing that fucking orientation video, huh? He shook his head. Lying assholes. He tossed another board onto the sled. Anyone that wants to join the colony better get ready to come with us.

What’s the colony? an inmate asked.

Home, the bearded man said. It’s not much, but we got food and shelter, if you’re willing to work. The stuff they gave you in the supply kits ain’t gonna last you more than a day. Listen, the warden and his boys will be along in a minute, and I wouldn’t recommend sticking around to meet them.

The warden from the ship is coming? Falken asked.

No, the bearded man replied. Not that warden.

Where’s the facility? Falken asked.

About three miles that way, the bearded man said, pointing. But I wouldn’t go there, if I were you.

A slight man was the last to emerge from the crate – short and unassuming, with a kind face and slight paunch, he looked completely out of place among the other hardened convicts, like a librarian who had gotten lost and wandered into the gym’s locker room by accident. He stood, blinking and confused, surveying the foggy alien landscape around him. The man set off after a second, wandering over toward the tree line, and then Falken saw him drop to his knees, his shoulders shaking silently.

He’s crying.

Fucking give me your water! Falken turned and saw that a brief shoving match had broken out among the new arrivals – one of the larger inmates was trying to steal another man’s supply kit, along with its water and energy bars.

Get the fuck off, the other man told him, and after a short scuffle, the aggressor backed off. Discouraged, he turned away, but caught sight of the kneeling librarian a moment later. He prised a long wooden board off the side of the crate, and then winked at Falken.

You want in on this? he asked Falken, nodding toward the librarian.

In on what? Falken asked.

You wanna split his supplies?

No. Just leave him alone, Falken said.

You gonna try and stop me? the inmate asked.

Falken frowned, but said nothing. The inmate snorted, and then jogged over to the kneeling man. He planted himself firmly, then swung the wooden board like a baseball bat, smashing the smaller man in the head. The librarian toppled over, unconscious.

The inmate tossed the board aside, and grabbed the smaller man’s supply kit, rifling through it and removing the water and energy bar. Then he discarded the kit. Falken walked over and knelt beside the fallen man. He was bleeding from a gash above his left ear, but Falken had seen worse cuts in the ring. A quick check of his pupils told Falken the man was concussed. Falken picked up the man’s supply kit, and saw that a small leather-bound booklet had fallen out of it. Falken lifted it from the dusty ground – it was not a wallet, as he had first believed, but rather a miniature digital photo album. The screen was cracked, but it turned on when Falken touched it, and he saw an image of the librarian, hugging a wife, with two young children in front of them.

Falken heard a loud whistle, and another inmate emerged from the tree line at a trot. They’re coming! he called.

Falken stood, pocketing the digital album by reflex. The older inmates stopped stripping the parachute crate of wood, and hurried over to their supply sleds, picking up handmade harnesses. Anyone coming to the colony, we leave now, the bearded man said.

About half of the inmates walked over to the sleds. The bearded man frowned at the unconscious form of the librarian, and then pointed at Falken. Hey, big guy – mind grabbing him and bringing him over here?

Falken hefted the librarian under the armpits and then dragged him over to the sleds, placing him on top of the wooden slats.

What are you going to do with him? Falken asked.

Get him to the doc, the bearded man replied, eyeing the inmate who had attacked the librarian warily. Wouldn’t be right to just leave him here, anyway. He peered up at Falken, who stood a solid head taller than him. You coming with us? he asked.

Falken wavered for a minute, then shook his head. No.

Suit yourself, the man replied, and the group set off at a jog toward the tree line, heading away from the facility. They disappeared into the fog amidst the trees a moment later.

Falken turned and started off toward the forest in the opposite direction.

Where are you going? one of the remaining inmates asked.

To call my lawyer, Falken said.

Chapter 5

Falken walked at a steady pace, heading in roughly the direction the old inmate had indicated. His stomach growled at him, so he unwrapped the energy bar from his supply kit and ate it, downing one of the bottles of water at the same time. The bar was dry and left an aftertaste of slightly rancid peanut butter in his mouth, but it took some of the edge off of his hunger.

As the sun rose higher, the fog burned off, revealing more of the landscape around him. The ground was relatively flat, the earth packed and dry, dusted with pine needles from the trees. Those oddly-shaped trees stretched away as far as he could see on either side, and though they varied in height and thickness, all of their trunks were completely bare of branches and needles from the ground up to chest height. For that first stretch of their growth, each tree’s bark was smooth and white, and when Falken rapped his knuckles experimentally on a lower tree trunk, it was hardened, like polished stone. Then, abruptly, at the same exact height on every tree, the softer greenish-brown bark started, and grew for the rest of the height of the tree.

After a few minutes of walking, Falken heard rustling noises ahead of him. He stopped, listening, but could see nothing moving amongst the white trunks. Then, when the noise persisted, he thought to look up, and spied a number of small, rounded forms in the tops of the trees ahead.

Some kind of animal?

As he watched, one of the forms moved, swinging below a branch from what looked like a feathered tail, before dropping to the row of branches below, next to one of its companions. The creatures looked to be about the size of house cats, but plumper – the way they swung among the branches reminded Falken of monkeys he had seen in a zoo as a boy. They were covered in some sort of fur, which had a bluish-gray tinge to it.

Aliens, Falken thought, with a sudden shock. Whatever those things are, you’re on another planet right now, so those are aliens.

Falken had seen videos of alien species discovered in the colonies, of course, and once, had even held a juvenile space angel at a friend’s party – one of the guests had managed to acquire an import license from Customs to keep one as a pet. The strange little creature had wrapped its lithe form around Falken’s forearm and squeezed, before flapping its wings, nearly deafening him. So he was no stranger to alien lifeforms. But somehow, sighting the new creatures in the trees above him brought the full weight of Falken’s sentence home to him.

You’re a long way from Earth. And you’re probably never going to get back there.

Falken took a deep breath, and wiped at a tear in one eye. Then he cleared his throat, and shook his head angrily.

Cut it out. Man up. Go find your lawyer.

Despite their small size, Falken decided it was best to give the creatures a wide berth – he’d seen enough horror movies to have a deep distrust of any alien life forms, no matter how harmless they appeared.

They’re probably all carnivorous little bastards with razor-sharp teeth and acid blood or something.

He detoured around the stand of trees that held the creatures, and continued toward the facility. He had been walking for several minutes when he spotted something on the ground off to his left. The forest floor was littered with pine needles, but no undergrowth or grass – apart from the trees and the occasional smooth, rounded stone, the forest was quite empty. On instinct, Falken diverted toward the object – its irregular shape gave him the impression that it was man-made.

Whatever it was, it appeared to be covered in fabric – gingerly, Falken used the toe of his boot to move the fabric aside. Underneath was a rusted metal device of some kind. When Falken tipped it over, he found broken pieces of glass, and stray wires sticking out. The fabric was faded and torn, but he could just make out the hint of stripes.

This is one of those surveillance blimps they showed us in the orientation video. The ones that are supposed to be observing and monitoring all of the inmates here.

Falken glanced up through the trees, searching the sky for signs of any other blimps. He saw nothing but the occasional wisp of cloud.

Maybe they’re all at the colony.

Falken continued on. He passed two more groups of the creatures as he walked; one group was chittering loudly at each other, in a noise that reminded him of crickets back home on Earth. And he spotted another crashed surveillance drone, this one hung up in the high branches of a tree. Then, at last, the trees thinned. Falken stepped onto a narrow beach, and gazed out at the planet’s ocean.

The water was a deep blue-black, dark and opaque – even where the shallow water lapped the shore, he could barely see the sand through the water. It was also eerily still – no waves, no signs of current, just a faint ripple in places where the breeze ruffled the surface. Falken had never learned to swim as a child, so he had never been comfortable around water, and deep water in particular made him nervous.

But there’s something extra strange about this ocean. It gives me the creeps.

To his right, the beach stretched for miles, curving inland around a wide bay. Falken saw nothing but trees and sand. To his left, a thick stand of trees blocked his view.

Falken paused, uncertain, looking up into the sky.

I’ve gotta be getting close to the facility now. And it was around the base of the space elevator, which looked huge in the video. I should be able to see it from miles away. So … where the hell is it?

He turned in a circle, and then stepped on something flat and hard, under the sand. He jumped back in surprise, heart racing. An object was sticking out of the sand: thin, with a straight edge. Falken walked in a wide circle, trying to get a better angle on it, and then tapped it with a boot. More sand slid off, revealing a metal sign. He stooped and tugged it free of the sand, brushing it off with one hand. The metal was pitted and worn, rusted with age, and whatever pole it had been attached to was long since gone. The paint had worn off, but Falken could still read the raised lettering, stamped in the metal above an arrow symbol.

Corrections Facility and Space Elevator.

Falken stood, and held the sign up, frowning at the arrow.

Okay. But which way was the arrow pointing before it got knocked down?

He spun slowly, and eventually decided it would have been set up facing the trees – no inmates would have been approaching the shore from the ocean. He held it up with the ocean behind it, and the arrow pointed left.

Space elevator’s gotta be that way, then.

Falken set the sign back on the sand, and then headed toward the thick clump of trees to his left. He found himself hurrying, jogging as he climbed a small dune. Then he heard a high-pitched whine, and a blur of movement in the forest caught his eye. A wheeled vehicle burst out of the trees, slewing to a stop on the beach directly ahead of him, throwing off a spray of sand. Falken drew up short. A man in the passenger seat stood up through the open roof, leaning forward over the vehicle’s roll bar.

Found another one!

Chapter 6

The man in the passenger seat wore an inmate’s coveralls, though the shirt had been rolled down to his waist and tied in place, revealing a well-muscled chest covered in scar tissue. The scars were clustered in groups around his chest – each was composed of four vertical lines with a fifth horizontal bar across them.

Painful way to keep count of something, Falken thought. One for each year on the planet, maybe?

Where are you headed, pal? the man asked.

The facility, Falken answered, warily.

You’re in luck, the man said, grinning. He slid easily down to the ground through the vehicle’s open side – if it had had doors in the past, they were no longer attached. That’s where we’re headed.

I’ll walk, Falken told him. The man was tall, almost as tall as Falken.

It’s no trouble, he said. You’re almost there, might as well hop in the back and come with us.

Falken eyed the back of the truck – a large metal cargo container sat, box-like, on the truck’s bed.

What if I say ‘no’? Falken asked.

The man’s smile widened, but no hint of it touched his eyes. Well, that’d be rude, he said. The warden just wants to welcome you in person. Falken noticed he was wearing a kind of glove, with thin metal wires running along each finger.

Where have I seen a glove like that before?

The man walked slowly toward him, and Falken saw the driver climb out of the truck, too. His coveralls had been cut off at the sleeves, and Falken noted the same counting scars along each bicep, just like the first man.

I don’t want any trouble, Falken said. He checked over his shoulder quickly, confirming that there was no one behind him. He glanced at the trees, and for a moment, considered running. He looked back at the two men.

You already got trouble, fucker, the first man told him. His smile had disappeared.

Fine, asshole. We’ll do it your way.

With a flash of anger, Falken widened his legs, squaring off against the approaching man. His fists balled up and settled into place in front of his chest, assuming the long-familiar stance almost without conscious thought.

Oh, you want to fight? The man smiled again. You’re going to fit right in around here.

He closed with Falken, and hurled a heavy right hook at Falken’s jaw. But he had telegraphed it plainly, and Falken stepped aside with ease, tagging his attacker’s chin with two sharp jabs in quick succession as he danced away.

The man rubbed at his jaw. Motherfucker.

The driver laughed. Watch out, the big guy can move.

Angered, the bare-chested man rushed at Falken, swinging another punch, but Falken turned it aside with a forearm and stepped past the man, planting a foot behind him and then neatly tripping him over it. The scarred man landed on his butt on the sand.

Falken felt a pair of arms wrap around him from behind – the driver had seized the opportunity to join the fight. Falken elbowed him hard in the gut, broke free of the man’s hold, and then gripped him by the shoulder, tossing him to the sand next to the first man. Falken stepped back and raised an eyebrow, surveying them. The driver grunted.

Enough of this shit, he said. He pushed himself to his feet and touched his forearm, and Falken saw that he wore the same glove-like device that his companion did. A blue-white arc of electricity crackled between the man’s fingers, and suddenly Falken remembered.

The guard on the spaceship. He used that same kind of glove to stun Orris.

Both men were on their feet now, and they bracketed Falken, standing between him and the trees. They advanced slowly, glove hands poised, forcing him back toward the water’s edge.

Now, the driver said, and the two men leapt forward. Falken managed to dodge the driver’s gloved hand, but the other man caught him on the arm, and a white-hot jolt of pain seared through him. Falken heard himself scream, and felt all of his muscles contract involuntarily. He toppled stiffly to the sand, twitching.

They picked him up, swearing at how heavy he was, and carried him to the back of the truck, where they dumped him unceremoniously on the sand, face-first. Falken heard a bolt being slid back, and then a metal door creaked open on rusty hinges. A second later, they lifted him again, and heaved him onto the floor of the cargo container. Falken caught a glimpse of several other prisoners in the hold with him, and then the doors slammed shut, enveloping him in darkness.

The truck started up a moment later, and Falken felt himself slide toward the back of the container. He tried to lift his arms to grab onto something or protect himself, but he still couldn’t move them at all. Limp as a rag-doll, he crashed into the back of the container, wincing at the pain.

Ouch.

The truck bounced along for several minutes, and slowly, Falken regained control of his limbs. Jerkily, after several false starts, he managed to push himself into a seated position, and then the truck slammed to a halt again, and he bumped into another inmate toward the front of the vehicle. The doors opened again.

Everybody out, the driver barked.

Falken crawled to the exit and tumbled out, then pulled himself shakily to his feet. Along with five other new inmates, he was standing inside a cement-walled garage. He could see other trucks parked around the expansive vehicle bay, but most of them stood on cement chocks, their hoods open, with parts and tools strewn haphazardly around them. The room was unevenly lit by a bank of LEDs along the ceiling, but many of the bulbs were broken or dark, and Falken saw wiring hanging from several sockets. A vehicle ramp led up and out of the bay at one end; at the other end, a large metal door sat open.

Move, the driver ordered, indicating the metal door with his stun-gloved hand.

They complied. Falken found himself at the back of the line, shuffling hurriedly to keep up, his legs still weak from the stun device. His sense of balance seemed off – as they walked, he stumbled several times, barely catching himself. They passed along a dark corridor, down a set of metal stairs, and then through another doorway, and emerged into a massive, circular room, bright with sunlight. Falken squinted and looked up. The building’s roof appeared to have caved in – he could see blue sky above him.

He and the other inmates stood on a raised balcony that curved around the outside of the room. In the center of the room lay an immense metal disk, dozens of feet across. Its top was bare, and its smooth, polished sides rose straight up from the floor several stories below. Though the balcony encircled it, it was not centered within the space – as a result, it looked strangely out of place, as if it had been thrust up from under the ground by some tectonic force, and by chance had come to rest in the midst of this building. Where it stood closest to the balcony, a single wooden plank connected the top of the disk to a gap that had been cut out of the balcony fence. Around the base of the metal disk, Falken saw a dozen other inmates sitting or sleeping on the floor. Most looked thin, their coveralls baggy over gaunt frames, but he recognized several faces from the prison transport and the spaceship – new arrivals, just like him. The sound of heavy boots ringing on the balcony’s metal grating made him turn.

Welcome!

Three men were approaching the group along the balcony. All three were bulky, imposing figures, and bore the counting scars Falken had seen on his captors. But the man in the middle, the one who had called out, demanded his full attention.

He was old – in his late fifties, Falken guessed – his gray hair gathered in a wild tangle over a sun-weathered face. But despite his age, he moved quickly and confidently, and he had the solid, wiry look of a man accustomed to physical exertions. His eyes were a piercing blue, and they flitted with alarming speed from inmate to inmate as he inspected the newcomers. And unlike anyone else Falken had seen on the planet so far, he was clothed not in the standard yellow prison coveralls, but in a threadbare, faded blue guard uniform.

Welcome to Oz, men, he said, smiling. This grand palace, he gestured expansively around the room, is now your home. And I am your benefactor, your audience, and your ruler. My name is Archos, and I am the warden of this planet.

The fuck you are, a man next to Falken muttered. You’re a goddamn nutjob in a stolen uniform.

Archos stopped and smiled at the man. Our first volunteer, and before I’ve even finished welcoming you all. Outstanding.

The two men next to the warden stepped forward and took the protesting inmate by the arm, guiding him to the wooden plank that led out to the disk. With a shove, they pushed him forward, and he stumbled, nearly losing his balance, before catching himself.

Get on the disk, one of the men ordered him.

No, the inmate said, teetering in middle of the plank.

Get on the disk or we knock you off the plank, the man repeated.

The inmate took a quick look at the hard ground several floors below and hurried across the plank.

Now, Archos said, steepling his fingers together and inspecting Falken and the remaining new inmates. I will continue. I have just a few rules, if you’re going to live under my roof. He looked meaningfully up at the open sky above, smiling at his joke.

First: you will follow the orders of my men without question. Any refusal to comply – and any attempt at escape – will be punished swiftly and severely.

The warden clasped his hands behind his back. Second rule: until you prove yourselves, you are all probationary members of this … community. And probationary members have no rights whatsoever. You do not leave the pit, you do not talk … and you do not eat.

Falken eyed the pit, frowning. That’s why those men look thin. He’s starving them.

How do you prove yourself? Simple. You fight. He pointed out at the man on the disk. Right out there, on the disk. Win one fight, and you get a meal. Win three fights, and you may become a full member of the community, with all the privileges that entails.

Like what? another inmate asked.

All the food you can eat, Archos replied. Entertainment, in the form of fights, on a regular schedule. A room to call your own, with a bed, if you’re lucky. And the protection of your fellow brothers-in-arms. And we always stick up for each other, is that clear? Archos pointed at each of them in turn. Separately, we are nothing. Together, we rule everything. And that brings us to our final rule: everybody must fight.

What if we lose? the inmate asked.

Then you go back down in the pit until your next fight, the warden said, shaking his head with feigned concern. And you go hungry.

"What if