A Printer's Choice

by W. L. Patenaude

They stood together in front of the chapel’s altar railing, facing the sanctuary’s crucifix, both considering what this development meant—and where the investigation would go next. The commissioner’s tall frame seemed frail in his dress uniform, which he had worn in honor of the first Sunday Mass. McClellan had just removed the finery of his vestments and wore only his black clerical pants, loose short-sleeved shirt, and Roman collar. His arms were folded tightly over his chest and he lowered his head in thought.

  “And he gave no explanation?” he said.

  “None,” Zhèng said. “Just that he wished to confess to the murder of Father Tanglao.”

  The chapel was empty—as it had mostly been during Mass. Chrissy and Jack had again helped with readings and serving, and were the only two to come forward for Communion. Zhèng and Okayo had again watched from the back. They had been joined by sixteen of the local builders who may have attended more out of curiosity than piety, although McClellan hoped otherwise. Sitting by himself a few rows forward had been the older builder with white unkempt hair who had watched McClellan when he arrived on New Athens just a few days ago, when little Veronica had welcomed him with daisies.

  “But you’re not accepting his confession, are you?”

  Zhèng took a moment to respond, first with a sound of disgust, then a slow shake of his head. “I would prefer not to, but I have no choice. Tucker claims to have made this confession of his own free will. Something happened to him in there. I called for the detention center’s night commander to join our briefing—we need to figure out what’s going on.”

  “And Clarke and Lopez? I assume they’re joining us.”

  Zhèng said that they would. “They docked as scheduled. They’re in the Wheel as we speak. I’ve instructed them to proceed directly to your offices. But apparently they have little to report from Red Delta, so don’t expect much on that front.”

  McClellan thought about Tucker—about what, or more likely who, could have made him confess to Tanglao’s murder. “So what happens?” he asked.

  “We hold him and wait for his lawyer,” Zhèng said. “It’s a pity. The Security Council was expected to grant your request. Given the relatively minor nature of the original charges—compared to murder, anyway—we were going to release him until formal questioning.”

  “I suppose it wouldn’t help if I made another request.”

  “Not in the slightest. With his confession, we’ll hold him while we wait for his lawyer.”

  Behind them voices echoed through the chapel. Okayo was in the main foyer greeting the detention night commander, and directing her to McClellan’s office. It was good to hear the laughter of friend meeting friend.

  “Well, at least that gives us some time to figure our next move.”

  “I’d prefer no further delays,” Zhèng said. “The pressure to commission Red Delta is ramping up, and I hear my reputation isn’t at its all-time high.”

  McClellan had said nothing about the previous evening’s conversation with Elaina Jansen and the other engineers. But, as planned, Okayo had monitored the whole evening, so Zhèng would know everything that had transpired.

  “Your reputation is solid as far as I’m concerned,” McClellan said, looking up at Zhèng.

  The commissioner nodded thoughtfully. He turned back to study the crucifix, and behind it the grand painting—or rather the replica—of Christ’s Transfiguration. As he spoke, his voice became soft. “When I was a boy in Hong Kong, our church had a window depicting the Transfiguration. It was similar to this. I remember my grandfather explaining its meaning—about how on Mount Tabor Christ briefly showed his closest disciples the glory that he offers us all, and how this brings meaning to the suffering that is to come. This image has always given me hope.”

  McClellan nodded in response.

  “As I grow older,” Zhèng continued, “and as every day I see the results of people’s choices and failures—most especially my own, as you know—and as I deal with so much suffering in a world that was to have outlawed suffering, I’m more certain that the answers we seek do not come from any of us—not our actions or our intellect or our technologies. It comes from something greater. Otherwise it doesn’t exist at all.”

  “And it certainly does exist,” McClellan said. “‘The love that moves the sun and all the other stars.’”

  Zhèng nodded. “Dante, right?”

  “Yes. One of my favorite quotes. I use it in homilies more than I should, but it makes so much sense.”

  They stood a moment longer. Then Zhèng turned abruptly toward the small door that led to McClellan’s apartments and the attached Security office. McClellan followed. He knelt first on his right knee in reverence to the Eucharist reposed in the tabernacle. As he rose to stand, McClellan thought of Raphael Tanglao, and the trials he must have faced as a priest upside without his order’s approval, or the support of Rome, or the protection of the three guilds.

  Agent Margaret Bukowski gratefully accepted a second mug of coffee. She had just come from her shift in the detention center in Philippi, half of New Athens’s circumference from Troas City.

  Clarke and Lopez arrived soon after. McClellan made a second pot of coffee, and they sat at the working table under the holographic displays of the orbital traffic around New Athens. Zhèng inserted a dampener into the controls nearest him. He took his seat as the familiar blue glow of a dampening field appeared, first faintly, then strongly across the walls, ceiling, and floor.

  As they had two days ago when Zhèng had offered his confession, the monitors overhead went dark. Okayo synced the data ports of the conference table to the displays, which gave the security team their own dedicated data analysis and holodisplay systems.

  “How long do we have?” she asked.

  “We agreed to twenty minutes,” Zhèng said.

  “Agreed?” McClellan asked. “Who with?”

  “Per the Engineering-Security Treaty,” Zhèng said, “the use of dampener technologies by either party must be agreed to beforehand. It’s a bit of a constraint, but at least we know of any unauthorized use, which can be helpful.”

  “I see,” McClellan said. “I didn’t realize dampeners were this necessary. Can’t we keep our conversations secure without them?” McClellan looked at Clarke. “You didn’t need a dampener to block Tucker on Red Delta.”

  Zhèng typed commands on the console in front of him. The holographic displays shifted from the traffic around New Athens to something less focused. An image of New Athens still revolved over the table, but now yellow and green haze seemed to pulsate through and around it, reminding McClellan of the northern lights.

  “This is the most recent probability analysis of the tunneling taking place,” Zhèng said. “As you know, Father, spatial tunneling was developed by the printers years ago to better transfer energy. Only later was it used to help shield communication signals, and then it was discovered that one could tunnel into a space and detect waves of energy—even physical ones such as sound. So it was a perfect spying tool. But yes, such tunneling can be blocked if you know what you’re doing. Usually the engineers just update their comm software to keep hackers away from the antennae, but a few weeks ago we asked them to hold off. Let the hackers have at it. And track them.”

  “The trick in all this,” said Clarke, making adjustments to the display, “is to be able to differentiate its legitimate use from those that aren’t. It’s almost impossible to pinpoint a single tunneling attempt, let alone to do so in a structure this large, with so much of it taking place at once, and with so much standard comm traffic. That’s why I’m using dampeners.”

  McClellan shrugged. “I’m just a simple parish priest. Not a comm expert.”

  “Tracking,” Okayo said, “which is what Agent Clarke did on Red Delta when he left the morgue. We’re using dampeners to track who’s tunneling, where they’re tunneling from, and where they’re listening.”

  Zhèng explained that dampeners act like smoke in a room with lasers. Wit
hout the smoke, laser light is invisible. In the presence of smoke or any other contaminate, their paths become visible as the laser light illuminates particles in their way. Dampeners perform a similar function, just using a different form of energy. When tunneling streams hit a dampener field, or pull on them from a distance, the effect can determine the origin and destination of the tunneling attempt—and do so quietly, under the guise of increased security.

  Zhèng ended his communications lecture with a gulp of his coffee and looked at Agent Bukowski. “We’re at seventeen minutes ten,” he said. “Let’s begin. How is Tucker?”

  “Scared,” Bukowski said, sitting up. “He had only one outside guest since you brought him in, a builder named Jianjun Jade, goes by Jimmy. Jimmy Jade.”

  “I’m not familiar with him,” Zhèng said. “And I’d remember a name like that. What do we know about Mr. Jade?”

  Bukowski looked down at her tablet and began reading. “Jianjun Jade is thirty-eight years old. He was born in Nanjing and came upside March 11, 2084. Hasn’t left New Athens since, other than a few service jobs on the Blue Alpha relay. He is a level five builder—that’s a shipping specialist—but has had no assignment anywhere for more than a year. He’s a steward for the guild and is a certified martial arts instructor. He’s also a poet, too, if any of you go for that sort of thing. No prior record here or on Earth. No surviving relatives. That’s all we have on Jade. In the official records, that is.”

  “Anything unofficial?” Zhèng said.

  Okayo leaned forward. “I did some checking on the flight decks. Jade has had a number of associations recently with less upstanding members of the Builders Guild. I’m looking into that—but I don’t want to push my sources too fast.”

  When no one else volunteered information, Zhèng turned back to Bukowski. “Then let us proceed. What happened when Mr. Jade visited Tucker last night?”

  Bukowski shifted in her seat for a better view of Zhèng. “Jade arrived just before midnight. Nothing unusual there. It’s part of the life of a guild steward—checking on and providing legal counseling to builders in detainment. Jade was making the rounds, checking on the other builders—most of them in for drunk and disorderly. Typical Saturday night. Jade went to Tucker last. He acted decent enough. He introduced himself when he signed in, joked about the night shift, and went about his business. He spent just under five minutes with Tucker. And then he left, giving me a smile and a wave. It was all routine.”

  “And then?” Zhèng said.

  “Then I checked on Tucker and found him . . . well, like I said, scared. I asked how he was, and all he said was that he was waiting for his lawyer. Then he asked for a tablet to make his confession. And he wanted me to witness it. I called my contacts in the Builders Guild, just to cover my ass. They came, Tucker recorded his confession, and that’s when I contacted you, Commissioner.”

  “How’s Tucker been since?” McClellan asked.

  “Unresponsive. He sits with his back against the wall and says nothing.”

  Zhèng made some notes in his tablet. “Then we’ll give him his time alone,” he said. “Time to think about what he’s done.”

  McClellan leaned forward and folded his arms on the table. “Commissioner, I’d like to talk to him.”

  Zhèng looked up from his typing. “I don’t think that’s wise.”

  “I understand,” McClellan said. “But I wouldn’t go as your investigator. I’m asking as a priest.”

  “I doubt a lawyer would make that distinction.”

  “Understood,” McClellan said, leaning back to make his case to everyone. “You can record the whole thing. I just want to make sure he’s okay. I want to—”

  “Make him recant his confession,” Zhèng said.

  “Well,” McClellan said, “someone once said the truth will set you free.”

  Zhèng gave a look that was both impatient and supportive. “What would be the purpose of such a visit—one that I could share with the Builders Guild?”

  “My faith instructs me to visit the imprisoned. It’s a work of mercy.”

  Zhèng looked away, focusing on the tunneling imagery floating before them. Clarke was adjusting the dampener to allow data to flow inward, which returned the imagery to a real-time analysis.

  “I see no reason not to consider your request,” he finally said. “But no promises. For now, I want to know more about what we’re dealing with. Bukowski, play back Tucker’s confession.”

  Bukowski’s eyes typed commands on her tablet. Tucker’s face appeared on their individual displays, and his voice came low from their console speakers. He spoke unsteadily at first, showing little emotion. His words came slowly, not at all like McClellan had heard the energetic young man talk since they had met.

  “My name is Max Tucker. Maximillian Tucker, that is. My builder identification is RE-770-Delta. I am confessing that I murdered my friend Nicholas Pratt, or I guess his real name is Tanglao. I was monitoring his location and the printer outside the lock. I hacked the station’s systems to open the outer hatch when the printer was working outside. I knew it would kill Nicky. And I am glad I did. And now I’m making this confession under my own free will. I’m sorry for what I did . . . I didn’t know he was a man of God. And that’s all I will say until I speak with my lawyer.”

  The recording ended, and there was silence. As Zhèng’s staff weighed Tucker’s words, their expressions were grave. McClellan’s showed only irritation. “That’s not how Tucker talks,” he said.

  Agent Lopez turned to him quickly. “And how would you know how he talks when he confesses?”

  “I’ve heard a few confessions,” McClellan said. “Real ones. Including murder. And I spent time with Tucker, on Red Delta and on the way back.”

  Zhèng agreed. “I must say that this is the least authentic confession I’ve heard. It did sound scripted, except for his last words about Tanglao being a man of God. Although I’ve never heard a confession for murder. Lopez, I assume we’re running tests?”

  “We are,” she said. “I authorized them on the way here. Stress analysis. Neural linguistics. A few others. I doubt they’ll tell us much that we could bring to court, but we’ll have results, and we’ll have them by the afternoon.”

  Zhèng complimented Lopez and the rest of his team. “But I want more information,” he said. “I want more on Jianjun ‘Jimmy’ Jade and his activity within the Builders Guild. More on Tucker. And Bukowski, it would be wise to record the circumstances under which the confession was given. The last thing we need is the perception that the confession was coerced.”

  He tossed down his tablet and asked about a new topic—the threats by Juan Carlos Solorzano.

  McClellan only half listened. Zhèng and the others spoke of the basic and the obvious, while he was more concerned with what he didn’t know—especially what the builder steward could have said to Tucker. Of all the uncertainties in this case, Tucker’s involvement in Tanglao’s death had troubled McClellan the most. But with this so-called confession—and after hearing that voice—McClellan was confident that Tucker had not killed Tanglao, or even assisted with it. He was guilty of other things—lying and bad decisions—but not murder.

  McClellan returned his attention to Okayo, who was comparing past Sal attempts to gain footholds in the new world with the strategies they had used in eastern Africa. She said that, with the threats to the engineers, they had no choice but to determine if the Sals were seeking alliances with radical elements within the Builders Guild—as they had tried before.

  “We should listen to Okayo,” Zhèng said. “There’s a trend here. Just last week, Solorzano himself sent threatening correspondence to the Catholic Church as a direct result of Father McClellan assisting us.”

  Lopez made an unhappy sound. “What kind of threats?” she asked.

  “Subtle ones,” Zhèng said. “Solorzano believes that it’s not wise to have McClellan here. He’s offering the Church and the good father his protection.”
r />   Okayo turned to Lopez. “And if you know Sal history—”

  “I’m familiar with Sal history,” Lopez said, her eyes fixed on Zhèng. “When did McClellan’s people get these threats?”

  “This past Wednesday,” Zhèng said. “The day before we brought McClellan up.”

  “And when was I going to get this information, Commissioner?” Lopez said, her tone pushing protocol. “I’d like access to that. It will be helpful to compare and trend all the Sal correspondence we have.”

  Zhèng spoke coolly, saying he would share the reports from Rome with the team.

  McClellan spoke up, more to lessen tensions than to get any new information. “So our primary question isn’t if, but how the Sals plan to use the death of Father Tanglao to get to the printers.”

  “Which leads to an uncomfortable question,” Okayo said. “Did they orchestrate Father Tanglao’s death as part of some strategy?”

  “And that raises another possibility,” Lopez said. “What if Tanglao had been working with the Sals all along?”

  Zhèng said that all these questions were necessary for them to examine, and to do so exhaustively. “But we can’t forget one other possibility,” he said. “What if the entire investigation as it stands is off track? What if we’re missing something?”

  His staff did not seem inclined to discuss that possibility.

  Zhèng shifted in his chair and typed commands to add to the display above them. Superimposed over the holoimagery were the locations of active printers working repairs within and along the hull of New Athens.

  “The engineers are nervous,” he said. “They’re giving us freer rein than usual. And I intend to use it—to demand that they grant access to the printers, especially the clamshell involved in the death of Father Tanglao.”

  “If we can find it,” Okayo said.

  “We’d better,” Clarke said. “Given what we know about Tanglao—that he was a programmer—it looks like answers about his death will be found in the history of that printer. I wish I knew that when I was checking its telemetry.”