A Printer's Choice

by W. L. Patenaude

Zhèng sat back and turned to McClellan. “Hence you see why we’re happy that you’re here,” he said. “We will need a programmer after all.”

  “I appreciate your confidence,” McClellan said. “But as I’ve explained from the start, it’s been a while since I’ve been inside a printer. And the last time wasn’t my best effort—let’s leave it at that.”

  “Father McClellan,” Zhèng said, “you are a fully commissioned programmer. None of us has your credentials or experience. If you must do so to prove Tucker’s innocence, then you will go back inside a printer. We may have no other choice.”

  McClellan turned to Clarke, who was again studying the tunneling traffic, sifting the data, making connections.

  “I’ll do what needs to be done,” McClellan said. “You know that. Although I’m not the only programmer here. We do have Clarke.”

  Clarke looked up. He was surprised and delighted, but looked to Zhèng for guidance. The commissioner nodded with a slight smile and motioned back to McClellan.

  Clarke swept aside the tunneling data and leaned onto the table. “Programmer in training,” Clarke said. “I’ve made that clear.”

  “Yes,” McClellan said. “Yes, you have. You trained with the RAF until you came upside. And then the engineers pulled the offer. But none of that matters. You have your programmer-in-training license. I assume you have a key and a coupler?”

  “I do,” Clarke said.

  “And you’re all wired up? You had your neural links implanted?”

  Clarke nodded. “Five years ago.”

  “So if you’re wired, and have a key and coupler, you’re on your way.”

  “I was on my way. But not now. As long as I’m in Security I can’t go farther. You’re the only full programmer we have. You get full access to printers; I don’t.”

  “But that’s the point,” McClellan said. “I once had access. I wouldn’t count on my trust level anymore. And anyway, if you made it to a programmer in training, you can get basic access to the high-defs. You can gain their trust. That’s a big part of being a programmer, even if you can’t go much farther inside.”

  Clarke straightened his shoulders. “Maybe,” he said. “But the engineers will never allow it—even with what we know about Tanglao.”

  “Father McClellan,” Zhèng said, “he’s right. You heard Elaina Jansen on the Aesir.”

  “Commissioner, hear me out. May I suggest that the Security Guild focus on finding Tanglao’s coupler and that clamshell? If so, I’ll take care of the engineers. And then Clarke and I can use Tanglao’s equipment—his key and his coupler—to get inside that printer. Then we can re-create what Tanglao was programming and get some answers.”

  Clarke began rapidly tapping his coffee mug. “But even if we had Tanglao’s coupler, what good is it? I mean, without his personal profiles and his programmer’s story, which only he would know, how could we use it? And he’s not going to be telling us from his casket.”

  “I’ll see what I can do about that. But in the event that Father Tanglao does not rise from the dead anytime soon, I have a few other ideas to access his coupler.” He turned back to Zhèng. “I can’t stress this enough, Commissioner. We need access to that printer and we need Tanglao’s coupler to get the full story.”

  “And we will provide them, Father.”

  “But that may not be soon,” Okayo said. “The longer we look in Red Delta and find nothing, it seems increasingly likely that Tanglao’s coupler was lost when the air lock blew. I’ll work up possible trajectories and we’ll look—but that would be a worst-case scenario.”

  “I can only imagine,” McClellan said. “Actually, I can’t. Which is why I’m hoping it’s still on the relay.”

  “But even if our teams found the coupler at this very moment,” said Zhèng, “it could take weeks, months to intercept with the clamshell, depending on where it has been assigned in the orbits.”

  “There’s good news there,” Lopez said. “The two remaining crew of Red Delta—yes, even Superintendent Rose—are calling in favors to track down that printer.”

  “That is good news,” McClellan said. “I was going to ask about that.”

  “She realizes that it’s in her best interest,” Lopez said. “And I do believe she’s got a soft spot for Tucker. Which is good for us. In any event, Rose has begun quietly contacting her colleagues in the other relays—and relay operators know most everything that’s happening in the orbits.”

  “I’m still surprised that Molly Rose is helping,” Clarke said. “But I guess citizenship credits will do that.”

  Zhèng gave his young officer a disapproving look. “One final note on this matter. We should be aware that as far as official communications are concerned, Molly Rose is not helping us. We’re keeping her search quiet.”

  McClellan sat back, feeling relieved about the possibilities. He knew the team would be, too. “How long do we have?” he asked. “I’d like to have something on either the printer or Tanglao’s coupler when we question Tucker.”

  Zhèng nodded. “Me, too. But the schedule for Tucker’s lawyer has yet to be provided. I’m told that he won’t be able to leave Earth for a few more days, maybe even a week. I don’t think even the builders know.”

  The team went silent. After a moment the dampener chirped its cancellation alarm. With the field about to collapse, Clarke recorded the last of the tunneling position data.

  Agent Bukowski suddenly stirred. She looked at Zhèng and asked a question that McClellan had been wondering himself.

  “Commissioner,” she said, “I’ve been thinking about something since Tucker’s confession last night. What do we know about this lawyer coming upside?”

  TOMMY RYAN STOOD IN the cathedral’s center aisle, waiting for his archbishop. A hydraulic lift hissed behind him, idling. It had been a busy Tuesday—a day of progress on both the roof and on helping out Father McClellan.

  “Archbishop,” he said with a firm handshake, “thank you for coming on short notice. How are you with heights?”

  “I can do without them.”

  “Well, it’s best for you to go up and hear our news firsthand. It’s quieter up there, if you know what I mean.”

  Ryan guided the archbishop onto the lift’s platform, took the controls, and aimed for the highest levels. The workers above were closing the hole from the attack in 2073, when the Sals were making for the printers in the universities across the Charles River. Bauer’s predecessor had condemned the offensive, and his archdiocese paid the usual price. A day after, a fiery Sal drone had pierced the cathedral as two families celebrated the wedding of a Navy pilot and his bride.

  The lift’s hydraulics whined as they rose steadily toward the sunlight coming through the jagged opening.

  “This thing is safe, right?” Bauer asked.

  “Very. It’s man-made. Not that printed crap.”

  Bauer spotted Hector Romero above them, stretched upward on a narrow section of scaffolding, helping to position a support being lowered by a crane outside. Romero radioed a confirmation when the section was locked in place, then looked down and spotted the coming lift. He made a circular motion with his arm, which told the workers to move on to other tasks farther away. Now alone, Romero removed his dust mask and turned off his autohammer. He took a tablet from his worn tool belt and consulted its readings.

  “Howdy, Hector,” Ryan said, waving as the lift rose the last few feet, coming to the scaffolding where Romero stood. “You know Archbishop Bauer?”

  “Not formally,” Romero said. “Your Excellency, we met briefly at St. Benedict’s at my nephews’ Christmas play. Juan and Miguel. About so high. They were two of the shepherds.”

  “Of course I remember,” Bauer said, making sure he didn’t look down as he reached out to shake the worker’s hand. Romero took the hand and kissed Bauer’s episcopal ring.

  “Your pastor told me you had built their crèche,” Bauer continued. “Beautiful craftsmanship, as is this work you’re doing her
e.”

  Romero gave a soft thank you. He waved his tablet, and told Ryan that there were no signs of tunneling or spy drones, but that he was sending off interference anyway.

  “Then let’s talk,” Ryan said, his big hand guiding Bauer closer to the scaffolding. “Tell the archbishop your news.”

  Bauer grasped the railing. “I assume it’s not about the roof.”

  “No, but that’s going well, as you can see.” Romero came closer. “Excuse my bluntness, Your Excellency, but you can tell Rome—and especially tell Father McClellan, if you can—that the Sals are getting a man upside. And soon.”

  Bauer wasn’t surprised. Romero’s report matched what Monsignor Harper had said at dinner the night before. Something big had happened. Not only was there increased chatter in the Sal intelligence network, but also on Sunday Solorzano himself had appeared in Morelos at his family’s old church. He had demanded that the priest condemn the engineers from the pulpit—which the old cleric refused to do. The story went that Solorzano left quietly just before the Creed. Moments later one of his men fired a single bullet into the cleric’s head. This was the first sighting in years, Harper said. It was also first time since Solorzano’s excommunication that he had entered a Catholic church—at least that anyone knew of. What it meant, and where Solorzano had disappeared to, were anyone’s guesses. But the guesses were equally alarming.

  “Do we know how the Sals are getting someone up there?” Bauer asked.

  “No, at least not with confidence. What I am told is that whoever it is will have free rein in New Athens, getting access to Engineering Guild data, records, construction plans, and maybe even access to the printers. And, if he wants, he can get to McClellan. I’m not sure how, but that’s what I hear.”

  “Do we have a name?”

  “Yes,” Romero said. “Rudi Draeger. His real name is Rudolphus, or something like that. But he goes by Rudi. He’s a lawyer based in California. He’s got a reputation for helping the Sals.”

  Ryan took a step closer, which made the lift wobble. “Tell Archbiship Bauer how we know about the connection,” he said.

  “Here’s where it gets interesting,” Romero said. “Draeger was a leader in the trade unions in Bosnia-Herzegovina, his homeland. He supported the Sals during the wars, after his country broke away from the Global Union, and for that he was exiled—not imprisoned, not shot, as so many were. Exiled. Of course, he was connected and very wealthy. For some time Draeger remained a force in the global trade coalitions, quietly brokering deals between Sals and other cartels, all while publicly doing the same between labor and the Global Union.”

  “I’m sure he profited well,” Bauer said.

  “Immensely,” Romero said. “But Draeger isn’t just a profiteer. He’s an ideologue. He believes that Juan Carlos Solorzano had his visions. He believes God is ushering in a new age and that anyone, including the Church, must be crushed unless they accept Solorzano’s words.”

  Bauer did not say what he wished to say—that would require the use of words that archbishops do not speak among their flock. Rather he asked how Rudi Draeger ended up in California.

  “His sister,” Romero said. “She lived in the hills outside Los Angeles and was getting rich from trafficking the starving to Sal camps. Draeger joined her work, and the Sals paid them handsomely. Because of these two, many tens of thousands were displaced and went to the camps. But I will not speak of such things in this holy place.”

  Bauer detested the Sals for countless reasons—the camps most especially. Whenever Solorzano’s armies had even a little influence in a region—which in the 2060s included much of the southern United States—they would bring relief from the famines and social collapse that had overwhelmed the Global Union. Then the armies would build the camps. The soldiers were generous and the refugees came by the thousands, and then the tens of thousands. Those arriving rarely had any interest in Sal ideology or their beliefs in Christ’s imminent Second Coming. They were there for the food, water, medicine, and order. The camps—there were seventeen of them in the United States alone—offered all this at no charge, and the numbers grew within their walls. Then came that sweltering day in July 2069 when the armies in every camp closed and locked the gates. The Sals executed the weak—it didn’t matter if you were old or young, a Muslim, Christian, Jew, or atheist—and among the survivors they demanded oaths of loyalty. This was fair compensation, the armies said, for the mercy that had been offered by the great Solorzano.

  The smoke from the bodies could be seen for miles, and rose from the camps for days. Weeks later the gates reopened. Those who had taken the oath swelled the ranks of the armies of the Soldados de Salvación. They believed in Solorzano’s visions and his promise to build a new world, and they vowed to slaughter anyone who opposed them.

  “We need to get word to Father McClellan,” Romero said.

  Bauer agreed. And the timing for that was right. If all went as planned, he would be speaking to McClellan in a day or so, when the engineers granted permission.

  “Is there anything else about this Rudi Draeger?” Bauer asked. “Anything about his relation with Solorzano?”

  “Nothing specific,” Romero said. “Only the camps and defending Solorzano’s operatives in courts—and it is always at no charge, under the guise of some charitable endowment.”

  Through the roof, Bauer watched as upwelling clouds drifted over Boston. He prayed a brief prayer to St. Jacques Hamel for strength against any coming persecutions and for the protection of John McClellan.

  The archbishop was eager to talk to his priest. He had not been able to speak live with McClellan since the morning he had arrived at New Athens, four days ago. The engineers cited some issue with orbital communications—bandwidth security, or some such excuse. Cardinal Kwalia himself sent official protests, but they were ignored. All that the engineers had allowed were written communications, and in them McClellan was asking strange questions about Father Tanglao’s upcoming funeral. McClellan seemed unusually eager for information about Tanglao—childhood stories, favorite Scripture passages—which he said he would need for a funeral homily he had not expected to deliver. These requests were telling. Rather than sentimental stories of the deceased, McClellan always made a point of focusing his funeral homilies on Jesus Christ, without whom the dead cannot be saved.

  Bauer had a suspicion about what McClellan was getting at—but he’d need more than hints buried in letters, letters that could very well have been censored or doctored by someone upside.

  Ryan and Romero were watching their archbishop, waiting for some response.

  “There has to be a trial taking place,” Bauer said. “Likely to do with the death of Father Tanglao. In any event, Hector, you’re right. Draeger could legally request records of all sorts—at the least. And depose whomever he chooses. I will report this to Rome immediately, and to Father McClellan as soon as I can. Thank you, Hector. Thank you very much.”

  “It’s my honor,” Romero said. “And may I ask, Archbishop, for your blessing?”

  “Of course,” Bauer said, raising his right hand, then making a slow sign of the cross. As he did, the archbishop prayed for Romero and his loved ones, entrusting him to the intercession of St. Joseph the Worker.

  Romero signed himself and quietly said, “Amen.”

  MCCLELLAN FELT THE STARE before he saw its source.

  Clarke sat next to him at the bar of the Spinside, still chewing as he placed his corned beef sandwich back on his plate. The agent turned and looked behind him.

  Nearby, builders went quiet, which allowed McClellan to hear the footsteps.

  “I do apologize for interrupting,” a man said, “but I would so very much like to introduce myself.”

  Clarke glared, and said that McClellan wanted to be left alone.

  “At the Spinside?” the voice said. “No, Brandon, he is here to socialize. To get to know the locals—to get to know people like me. You should try it sometime. It does wonders for o
ne’s police work.”

  McClellan turned away from his chicken pot pie to meet the outstretched hand of Ira Wagner, the builder who had been watching the priest from that first arrival. He had come to a few Masses, but never stayed long enough to introduce himself. As always, Wagner wore a blue jumpsuit with excessive pockets filled with small tools. His boots were scuffed and loose. His white hair, thinning and long, framed a strong but aged face. His eyes were inquisitive but not unfriendly, and they narrowed as he smiled when McClellan grasped his calloused hand.

  “Please, join us,” McClellan said, waving to the bar stool at his left. “And don’t mind Agent Clarke. It’s been a busy day, and he has to get me back soon for a call with my archbishop. He’s a good bodyguard.”

  There was some awkward introductory chatter, which led to a brief discussion about the Johnny Cash tune that competed with the Manchester United soccer game, which took up all three holodisplays behind the bar. The builders of Troas City went back to their conversations, or to watching the athletes, or both. The men quickly became forgotten in a dinner crowd that ate and drank in the dim, low-ceilinged pub, which had not benefited from the creativity of the printers or their programmers.

  Shirley was the heavy and cheerful bartender who had been waiting on McClellan, or “Blue Eyes,” as she called him. She came quickly to check on his chicken pot pie and Clarke’s corned beef sandwich, then lingered to ask Wagner—“Deary,” she called him—what he’d be having.

  “The Wednesday special,” Wagner said. “A stout and a burger. Medium. And a whiskey for our guest. Ah, but Shirley, do you not have anything from Earth? Then whatever is your best, please. Agent Clarke is on duty, so he will not drink. Although he ought to.”

  When the stout and the whiskey came, along with utensils and a Spinside placemat for Wagner, there was a toast, then two sips and a question.

  “Is it true,” Wagner said, “that you have taken an elderly builder woman from our city’s hospital and have her sleeping in your bed?”

  McClellan laughed. Clarke pushed his plate away and leaned forward on his arms. He watched Wagner with disbelief.