A Printer's Choice

by W. L. Patenaude

  “my intent . . . but to the one who has taken my life . . . please pray . . . and for my family . . . Father, I ask forgiveness.”

  As the words echoed around them, McClellan pushed himself to the far wall of the air lock, by the outer door. A small window looked out into blackness, and the tip of a communications array lit by the sun. He ran his fingers along the door, feeling for printer patterns but finding nothing unique.

  “You say this outer door was open when you found Nicky,” McClellan said. “But he was tethered. So he was expecting the door to open—”

  “That’s right. Nicky had to test docking operations from the inside.”

  “But Tanglao—I mean, Nicky—didn’t have on his outer gloves. Just the liners. So that tells me he didn’t expect the door to open.”

  “Not really. Working that way makes small jobs easier. We get cited for it all the time, but no one really cares.”

  “Attention, all crew. Prepare for level two transit adjustment in one minute. Main engine fire in sixty-four minutes. Remember: take caution during all orbital adjustments.”

  Using only his inner gloves made sense, McClellan thought—especially if Tanglao was intending to link with the printer, or already had. But the door had to open out of sequence because the docking interior was still pressurized. That’s what Hobart saw—the air released, its moisture crystallizing as it blew into space.

  “How long would it take to decompress a space this size?” McClellan asked. “Ten, twenty seconds?”

  Tucker shrugged. “Probably. Maybe less. Depends on how fast the door was opened.”

  “And you didn’t open the lock?”

  “Hell, no.”

  “So Nicky opened it himself?”

  “He could have. But why would he out of sequence? No, it had to be someone else. Or the printer. Come on, we should go. Those thrusters will be firing.”

  “I understand,” McClellan said, reaching into a pocket and taking out his rosary. “But there’s something here that I’m missing. And God help me, I’m going to find it.”

  Tucker eyed McClellan as he made the sign of the cross. “So you are a man of God, like they said.”

  McClellan nodded. “So was Nicky. His real name was Father Raphael Tanglao.”

  Tucker grabbed a support. “You think I killed him?”

  “Attention, all crew. Prepare for level two transit adjustment in ten seconds. Main engine fire in sixty-three minutes. Remember: take caution during all orbital adjustments. This is a final warning.”

  With his free hand, McClellan gripped an adjacent support. “I once released a guilty man because I mistook grief for innocence. I promised I’d never let that happen again.”

  Tucker looked away. “You’re taking me to New Athens?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And I’ll be safe there?”

  “Of course,” McClellan said, wondering what had prompted that question.

  An alarm sounded from the main spine tunnel, echoing up the access tunnel and into the air lock. Another sounded from the tunnel itself. CAUTION lights flashed, dimmed, and flared again. The massive relay’s main thrusters powered up, fired two bursts, and then roared.

  McClellan and Tucker held on as Red Delta’s orbital momentum transitioned again—as the walls of the air lock rotated and pivoted slowly around them, as access panels that were not secure—whether from the printer’s damage or the investigation—creaked and complained. And as had happened on the transport, the crucifix on McClellan’s rosary maintained its original velocity. It tugged at its chain and drifted silently as the sounds of the engines thundered.

  And then all went quiet. McClellan watched the crucifix spin around his fingers—as would anything else on the relay so tethered. And if his hunch was right—

  Something inside one of the panels made a scratching sound. Then another.

  Tucker began to speak, stammering before distant thrusters groaned again and suddenly stopped.

  The scratching sound grew louder, then went soft. Then came silence. Uncomfortable silence.

  McClellan stowed his rosary and slipped on new examination gloves. He pried open the panel that had been the source of the scratching. Inside, drops of water tumbled from the innards of an auxiliary oxygenator, which used water to make oxygen. He looked closer and found the source—water oozed from the seams in the covering of a small rectangular component. He released its four latches and removed its covering. Inside was a programmer’s key fastened to a neck chain twisted meticulously alongside wet, punctured tubing.

  McClellan looked closer and saw that the key had been engraved with the name Tanglao.

  He did not touch the key—he’d leave that to the forensics team. Instead he made the sign of the cross to give thanks to God. He also said a silent prayer to St. Anthony—the patron saint of finding lost posessions—for a little more help finding Father Tanglao’s other programmer’s tool, his coupler, which had to be somewhere on the station.

  Then he looked over at Tucker, who stared back despairingly.

  Finally McClellan radioed Zhèng.

  ARCHBISHOP BAUER PUSHED THROUGH the rainy Saturday afternoon to visit the Cathedral of the Holy Cross. The construction foreman had sent word that he’d like to show the archbishop the recent progress. The request was unusual, since Bauer was there almost every day. But it was appreciated. It had given him the opportunity for a walk, to take a detour through the nearby neighborhoods—the lively ones and those still abandoned and overgrown—and to stop at the mass graves just down Washington Street. He stood for a time to pray, and to think about what to report during his next conversation with Cardinal Kwalia.

  His friend Monsignor Harper had sent word that morning about worries in the intelligence community. Sal operatives were moving, but they didn’t know why or where. There was no confirmation that any of this had anything to do with McClellan—but the timing was too coincidental to be anything else.

  It was just past noon when Bauer entered the side entrance of his archdiocese’s mother church. The rain had darkened its brown, Roxbury puddingstone exterior, yet when a burst of sunlight made its way through a break in the low, racing clouds, it glowed.

  The interior was a tumble of scaffolding and stacks of pews that had been removed for repair. Above, laborers were concentrated on a section of ceiling at the rear. The old damage had been secured by a collection of tarps during the years since the attack, and with repairs finally under way, new ones protected the cathedral from the rain.

  Bauer had always counted it as a miracle that the Sal drone had penetrated the cathedral where it did—on the roofing far from the altar and the artwork of its sanctuary—and that the blast did little damage to the pipe organ. He said his usual prayer of thanks as he made his way up the main aisle. Workers were sitting in groups, silently devouring fish sandwiches and potato soup made that morning by cathedral parish volunteers.

  He was halfway up the aisle when he heard Tommy Ryan’s voice. Tommy was the project foreman and union shop steward. He was loyal to his family, the workers of Boston, and the Church. He had resisted the terrors of the dark years, and worked with his archbishop to protect and feed thousands. Today, it was because of Ryan’s stubborn will that the cathedral was being rebuilt, which gave the workers something to do and to earn a small living.

  “Archbishop, can I have a word?”

  “Of course, of course. How’s it all coming? Looks like that roof is moving fast.”

  Even without his hard hat, Ryan was about a head’s height taller than the archbishop. Ryan’s red hair, thinning and cut low, was wet and held flecks of stone and wood shavings. Some of the shavings fell off when he looked up to where the archbishop pointed.

  “We’d be farther ahead if we were having better weather,” Ryan said. “That nor’easter set us way back. And now this rain. But the crew is eager to get it done for Holy Week. We promised that and we meant it. It’s a thank you for hiring us and not trusting some printer.�
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  “Don’t thank me,” Bauer said. “It was mostly selfishness. Anywhere the engineers bring their printers, trouble seems not far behind.” He studied the stained glass windows for a moment and said, “Truthfully, Tommy, houses of God should be built by human hands. Like the hands of St. Joseph. As for being in here for Holy Week? Well, that will be up to God, and up to the mayor to give us the permit, if she’s in a good mood. But you didn’t call me for a discussion on construction schedules, Tommy. What can I do for you?”

  Ryan put his vast hand just below Bauer’s shoulders and they took a few steps away from the lunch crowd. “It’s more like what I—or we—can do for you.”

  Bauer pushed his hands deeper into his overcoat pockets. “Go on.”

  “It’s like this,” Ryan said. “See Hector over there? Hector Romero?”

  “Yes. Good man, and doing some fine work on that roof. Didn’t he just have his boy baptized?”

  “Yes,” Ryan said. “Samuel. Tough little guy. And, Archbishop, you’re right about Romero. He’s a helluva high-wire worker—he’s the man you want for a roofing job. But then, he’s good with heights. Did you know that he was a builder upside? Or I guess he still is, technically by the guild’s rules.”

  Bauer looked over at Romero, who was sitting on a toolbox chewing a thick sandwich. He was a young man with dark hair and a thin beard. He straightened his posture and stretched his long legs as he returned the archbishop’s stare, then gave a half smile and a nod.

  “Builder, huh?” Bauer said to Ryan.

  “Yes. About three years up there. He got kicked down two years ago for not passing some licensing test. Or at least that’s what the engineers told him. Either way, Hector is a big fan of McClellan. Pretty much all of Boston is. You know that, right?”

  “Yes. And I know he appreciates it very much. As do I.”

  “I mean, like Romero says, in a way Father McClellan is up there for us. He’s up there doing what the engineers and the security people can’t do—he’s showing ’em that they can’t forget the people down here. That we have lots to offer.”

  Bauer nodded. The situation was more complicated than that, of course. Which is why he enjoyed listening to men such as Tommy Ryan.

  “I knew when I met him that McClellan was going places,” Ryan continued. “He helped out two summers ago at Christ the King, my sister’s parish in Brockton. He was great—McClellan was—he was so good to my sister and her kids when she got sick. I’ll never forget that.”

  Ryan looked over toward the altar. Bauer followed the foreman’s gaze and asked how long it had been since they buried his sister Elaine.

  “Four months yesterday,” he said. “I can still see her casket right there. My sister would have been so happy to know you opened Holy Cross for her. The fact it was illegal to use the building would have made her laugh—laugh hard, like she did before she got sick.”

  Bauer let his eyes speak for him. He rested a hand on the foreman’s shoulder and finally said, “Tommy, I suppose people tell you all the time that Elaine would say she wants you to keep moving forward, not to look back. But that’s not always possible for mere mortals like us, huh? We never stop hurting when the people we love suffer and die, especially so young, like your sister. So when people say those things—and I know that they do, because they always do—you tell them they don’t know what they’re talking about. And you tell them Archbishop Alfred Bauer said so. Okay? I’m going to have a public Mass said for Elaine as soon as we get our occupancy permit—and I’ll be the one saying it.”

  Ryan sniffled and managed a thank you. He straightened himself and ran his hand over his face and hair, shedding more wood shavings and stone. “Anyway, Archbishop, like I said, we’ve got news. Well, Hector has it, but I’m delivering it.”

  Bauer returned his hands into his overcoat pockets.

  Ryan leaned in. “We got ties upside. Hector had a girlfriend up in New Athens and now she’s one of the area stewards in the Builders Guild. Guess Hector and her are still friends, even though the engineers keep communications limited. But the builders maintain the communications systems, so . . . bottom line is that we’re able to get news.”

  “Is that so?” Bauer said, not bothering to hide his delight.

  “Absolutely,” Ryan said. “And we’ve already gotten some. The way Hector heard it, some of the builders are in talks with the Sals, offering them a deal in New Athens, but no one is saying why.”

  “What kind of deal?”

  “Don’t know,” Ryan said. “But we’re going to find out.”

  Ryan took a step back, as if returning to work. “So tell your people in Rome—yeah, we know all about that, Archbishop—you tell them you’ve got ties upside. And we’re on it. And we’re gonna find out about any sons of bitches that want to hurt Father McClellan. You tell ’em that Tommy Ryan said so.”

  IT WAS EARLY THAT SATURDAY morning when the security transport returned to New Athens with Maximillian Tucker. Clarke and Lopez had remained on Red Delta to coordinate the arriving forensics team.

  Zhèng had agents waiting in the Centerwell concourse. Five would escort Raphael Tanglao’s body to the Security Guild morgue. Six would take Tucker to protective holdings in the City of Philippi.

  McClellan accompanied Tucker through the Wheel. Neither stopped to admire the core’s twelve cities and farms. McClellan also ignored the urgent messages from Elaina Jansen, as well as Jansen’s messengers who followed up asking for a response. His focus was on the well-being of the young man. The priest would not speak with anyone until he was certain that Tucker was safe and attended to. And when that had occurred, he told Tucker to notify him if he needed anything, and that he would return regularly to check in.

  “Would you mind if I pray for you?” he asked Tucker. “In a few hours I’m saying the first Mass up here. I’d like to add you to the intentions.”

  Tucker leaned against the clear walls of his cell and simply said, “If you want.” But as McClellan turned to leave, Tucker added, “Thanks.”

  As he stepped to the pulpit to proclaim the gospel, McClellan heard the words of his archbishop: “Remember, Johnny, you’ll be preaching to the people in front of you. Not to the history books.”

  He had slept only an hour on the transport back to New Athens—in part because of his attention to detail in writing after-action reports, in part because of the time he spent with their detainee, and because he’d been inspired to rewrite his homily for this first public Mass in the new world.

  When he did get to his apartments, McClellan managed a few hours of sleep, then finally met the young couple who would be helping him with the chapel. Jack was nineteen and Chrissy was twenty. They had come to New Athens together to study climate engineering, but had had second thoughts about signing the New World Agreement. This had gotten the attention of the engineers just when they needed help for a visiting priest.

  McClellan already treasured the couple, and was impressed that while Jack and Chrissy lived together by the arrangements made for them, they would not sleep together until they could be married in a church on Earth—or, perhaps, in the very chapel on New Athens in which they had been asked to serve.

  And now, at twenty minutes past noon, after Chrissy had read the readings and sang the psalm, Jack stood next to the pulpit holding the thurible with its smoldering incense. McClellan took it and lifted it over the words of Luke’s gospel. As he did, one of the recording drones descended off to the side, then backed away reverentially. McClellan understood why the Mass was being recorded, but part of him wished that Rome hadn’t demanded it. Thankfully, the engineers had counterdemanded that the holodata be embargoed for fifty years.

  Smoke rushed out of the thurible’s holes as he swung it over the Book of the Gospels. Wisps rose and swirled over the pulpit with a familiar and comforting sweetness. McClellan breathed in, bowed, returned the thurible to Jack with another bow, turned to face the people, and focused.

  “After this he
went out and saw a tax collector named Levi sitting at the customs post,” McClellan proclaimed. “He said to him, ‘Follow me.’ And leaving everything behind, he got up and followed him. Then Levi gave a great banquet for him in his house, and a large crowd of tax collectors and others were at table with them. The Pharisees and their scribes complained to his disciples, saying, ‘Why do you eat and drink with tax collectors and sinners?’ Jesus said to them in reply, ‘Those who are healthy do not need a physician, but the sick do. I have not come to call the righteous to repentance but sinners.’

  “The Gospel of the Lord.”

  Chrissy and Jack replied, “Thanks be to God.” The eight builders in the back pew—the only people in attendance—remained attentive but silent, as did Zhèng and Okayo, who stood at the main doors, they said, for security purposes.

  As the people sat for the homily, which they did after the priest instructed them, McClellan waited for the return of silence. Then he gripped the pulpit and began.

  “My friends, if you knew me, you’d know that when I preach I don’t like to speak about myself. But in this case, what I am about to say may help us get to know each other, and, more importantly, help us better understand what it means to say that Christ has come among us, as he will at this Mass.

  “I was raised an atheist. My story of conversion is too long to share now, but in light of today’s gospel, one element deserves attention. I embraced this faith and I entered this priesthood because, like Levi, I was called. Every time this gospel is proclaimed—as it happened to be at every Mass today, everywhere in the universal Church—I remember the very moment when Christ spoke those words ‘follow me’ to me.

  “And now, I am here with you on this Saturday afternoon because of the deaths of two men, and because of what these deaths call us to.

  “First, the death of Father Raphael Tanglao—and the mystery that surrounds it—has brought me to New Athens as an investigator. And second, the mystery of God entering into human history—of his death, and his resurrection—has brought me to this pulpit and, in a few moments, will bring me to that altar as a priest.