A Printer's Choice

by W. L. Patenaude

  “Completely.” The officer then gave a troubled look. “One last thing, Archbishop. We understand from your sister-in-law that you were planning on visiting the island later today—obviously that can’t happen now.”

  “Yes, I understand.”

  “We’ve sent word to Monsignor Harper, too. We know you two like to go . . . fishing.”

  “Yes, and that was right to notify him.”

  “For the record, I’m looking forward to having you back soon. This should be all cleared up in a day or two.”

  Bauer appreciated the sentiment. But he was wondering where he could meet Tommy Harper, who had the connections that McClellan needed. As for Tanglao’s programming codes and story, Bauer had spoken the night before with Father Lee, the head of the Dominican Order. Lee said that he couldn’t accept that Tanglao had been a programmer—and the disbelief seemed genuine. Bauer had all but begged, and eventually the Dominican agreed to search out anything about Tanglao that he could find. No information had come since.

  Now, this morning, as Bauer spoke to Officer Richardson, with the funeral for Father Tanglao already under way, the ruse of providing information about Tanglao was past. He would have to find some other way to get McClellan what he needed.

  Bauer made a quiet plea to St. Thérèse. The attack on his nephews was undoubtedly meant to deter him from helping—a typical Sal move. But Bauer loved his priests, and he loved John Francis McClellan like his own son. No, the attack had not scared him. And it would not frighten the people of Jamestown. Rather, what the Sals had done was to enkindle within Bauer the desire to continue—to coordinate help as fast as he could, wherever he could—from Rome, the Dominicans, Harper, and from the people of Boston—to say nothing of the heavenly demands he would make to the God of Justice.

  “And if you can,” Officer Richardson was saying, “let Father McClellan know that there are people here praying for him. The Big Guy upstairs has got his back on this. I know it.”

  “I will tell him,” Bauer said, impressed that the officer had said those words on an official channel. “I most certainly will. Thank you, Ryan. May God bless you and keep you safe.”

  “And us all,” Richardson said before his image vanished.

  “JUST OVER SIX WEEKS ago,” Father McClellan began his funeral homily, “a man was killed for unknown reasons by an unknown killer—or killers—and in ways that we also do not fully understand. And yet we know this: This man—Father Raphael Tanglao of the Order of Preachers—was hiding his identity because he chose to travel to a world where the expression of faith has been forbidden.

  “And yet, today, through the generosity of the engineers, especially Madame Elaina Jansen, and with the welcome and great support of many builders, and that of a great many others, especially all those in the Security Guild who keep order, we gather for a funeral Mass. We do so not to dispose of the dead or to sentimentalize death. We do this so that the believers here, and you know who you are, can welcome Jesus Christ into our midst, and thank him for the life of Father Tanglao—and indeed for the gift of all life. At the same time we come to pray for mercy for Father Tanglao’s soul, as well as for justice and the truth that leads us to it.

  “From what I have learned of Father Tanglao’s life, I believe he would ask that we reflect for a moment on the quest for those very realities: justice, mercy, and truth. I know that this quest is my chief purpose here among you, as I know it is for many of you in your lives, because this is the common quest of all humanity. But justice, mercy, and truth often seem difficult to find in our lives, no? I know they do in mine. And so to help us along, allow me to call to mind another reality that we have at our disposal—the reality that we call beauty. And we do not need to go far to find it. One need only enter New Athens through its remarkable Wheel, and stare at the landscape of the inner core—adorned with clouds and illuminated by the Sun Crane—to experience how beauty can lead us outside of ourselves.

  “And here in this chapel, we are surrounded by a different type of beauty. This beauty—printed, of course, but still authentic—also comes to us from the creativity of human minds, ones that lived centuries ago. And so I encourage you to look around you, because the art of this chapel can help us understand both Father Raphael Tanglao and, I believe, what he would wish for our common future. We may also learn why someone—or some people—ended his life.

  “We begin with what for many of you, I am sure, are gruesome scenes. On your right is a printed duplicate of the famous fresco by Michelangelo of the martyrdom of St. Peter—the first pope, who was killed and buried where the Vatican stands today, nailed to a cross, upside down at his request, as he did not wish to imitate his Lord.

  “And then there is the center of every Catholic church—the crucifix, behind me, which believers raise high, as young Jack just did in our procession moments ago—because we proclaim to the world that God can bring good even out of the evil of death, which he abhors. ‘Mihi vivere Christus est et mori lucrum.’ Those are the words carved over us, high over the altar—as they are in the real Pauline Chapel in Rome. ‘For me, Christ is life and death is gain.’

  “These words and these images may not make sense to us. And yet when anything does not make sense, we do the same thing as we do in a murder investigation. We look for clues.

  “Across from the image of St. Peter’s execution is another fresco by Michelangelo. This is St. Paul’s first encounter with Christ, who offered Paul a new way of living—a new world, as it were. Paul accepted the offer, and his choice changed him from a man who persecuted Christians to a man who built up the Christian family. It is for this reason that this chapel—the Pauline Chapel—is named. Paul reminds us that an encounter with God brings both choices and an offer for a new life.

  “And behind the crucifix is the image of the Transfiguration, the moment on Mount Tabor when Christ allowed his closest followers to see the newness and the life that awaits us all, if we so choose. Father Tanglao would say that this new life of Christ is the true New Creation—the true New World.

  “My dear hosts of New Athens—both builder and engineer alike, and those of you in the Security Guild, or of no particular guild—it is important that we let this art, these images, teach us. Because what they point to is a lesson of hope. Of life. Of goodness. And, yes, of justice.

  “It is no secret that I was invited to live among you to retrieve the body of Father Tanglao and to offer this Mass, and also to work with the Security Guild to expose the light of truth on Father Tanglao’s murderer or murderers.

  “And so, on Father Tanglao’s behalf, allow me to state clearly, especially to those involved in his death, and you know who you are, that we believers in Jesus Christ are certain that death is never victorious. In Christ, death gives way to life, falsehoods always become truth, and injustice always—always—gives way to justice.

  “Allow me to show you how this can work.

  “In a few moments, I will proceed with the public worship of what we believers call the Eucharist—of Christ coming among us in the form of ordinary bread and wine, which you might easily dismiss. But Father Tanglao would tell you that when we receive this spiritual food, we receive Communion. He would say this because in receiving the Eucharist, we publicly acknowledge a choice: that we seek to grow in communion with God—and thus in the community of his Church, in love, and in relationship.

  “What an important goal this is today, for all of us here on New Athens. Builder. Engineer. Security Agent. Young. Old. Healthy. Dying. Believer. Nonbeliever. The lawful. And, perhaps, a murderer. My friends, allow me to suggest that we are more than these labels—especially now, as we come together at this moment of death, because in this moment God’s mercy is transforming the horrors of Father Tanglao’s death into new life, new friendships, new opportunities, new understandings, and new ways for us all to find what we seek in our own lives, and in the promising worlds that circle us.

  “I cannot thank you all enough for your hospitality a
nd help. And I hope that I may help you as well, as we continue to pray for and entrust the soul of Father Tanglao to the loving source of all justice and mercy—and truth. May the God who is love bless and protect us, one and all together.”

  McClellan closed the black folder that held his notes, turned and bowed toward the tabernacle, and returned to his presider’s chair. It was his custom to allow a long period of silence after his preaching, both to calm his own soul and to allow the worshipers to hear the greater voice of God, rather than his own inadequate one.

  And there was silence, but only for a moment. Then came a pair of soft comm chimes from somewhere in the pews, then others, and then a rustle of hands and pockets. And then gasps. McClellan kept his attention straight ahead to face the altar, but he could see Jack and Chrissy watching the people.

  McClellan stood for the Prayers of the Faithful, which returned some order to the chapel, but not as much as he hoped. Soon he stood at the altar saying the prayers of the Mass. Because he faced the altar in the same direction as the people, he did not see Zhèng leave and return, and leave again.

  After Communion—received only by himself, Jack, and Chrissy—when the vessels had been washed and the altar stripped, McClellan went again to his presider’s chair. At that moment, Commissioner Zhèng returned to the chapel and strode up the main aisle, his sharp footfalls echoing across the marble. He stepped past the casket respectfully, stopped at the edge of the sanctuary, bowed, gave a worried look to McClellan, and then went to the pulpit.

  “Father McClellan, I apologize for this interruption. At the conclusion of this Mass, the body of Father Raphael Tanglao will remain here, in this chapel, until it can be safely returned to the Troas City morgue. This change in plans is necessary, as I have canceled all traffic onto and off New Athens until further notice, with the exception of any transports that currently have incoming orbital commitments.

  “A terrible event has taken place. About the time this funeral Mass began, a man was killed aboard this station. His name was Yoshiharu Sasaki—he was an engineer. His murderer, or at least one of them, has taken his own life. We’re investigating the matter, and we ask for all of your cooperation. We know of no other immediate, credible threats at this time, but we ask everyone to be cautious and watchful.

  “Father McClellan, again I apologize for this interruption. But I must ask that you adjust your service to maintain the body of Father Tanglao under your care, and to join Security as soon as possible. As you suggested, we must all cooperate to bring justice and peace to the people of this world.

  “And Father, please pray for us.”

  AGENT LOPEZ KNELT NEXT to the body of Yoshiharu Sasaki. She tilted her head to determine the correct angle for her scalpel, before scraping samples of the blood-crusted opening over the engineer’s left ear.

  Just under five meters away lay the corpse of the builder who, the evidence suggested, had killed Sasaki.

  The sign of the Sals—a circle topped with two intersecting lightning bolts that formed a cross—had been hastily drawn between the two bodies with blood. According to Lopez, the men’s blood had been blended to make the sign.

  Two forensic assistants were nearby, scanning and categorizing organics along the line of attack. Two others monitored the reconnaissance data from microdrones that hovered around the bodies. Another was synced to the main scanner that flashed wide spectrum illumination along the unused factory space where the drama had played out.

  Robbers were powering on floodlights to supplement the old and often failed lighting that stretched in long rows overhead. The space was, to the meter, directly opposite from McClellan’s quarters and chapel—six kilometers overhead in the geography of a cylindrical world.

  The area was called the Millwrights Sector, which took up most of the empty City of Heraclea. The sector and the city had been designed for the builders back before the orbital world was built—before the evolution of the new printers. And while the printers had made substantial technical improvements to the engineers’ designs of New Athens, they had made no changes to the look or the function of its cities. Heraclea and its Millwrights Sector were printed with massive spaces for manual nuclear furnacing and fashioning, and physical construction, even if these functions were now obsolete.

  There would occasionally be negotiations about what to do with the property. The engineers wanted a research university. The builders wanted more housing. The positions of both parties were entrenched. And so the Millwrights Sector remained mothballed among the farms and fields and cities of New Athens, which spun in political stalemate—as long as the opposing ends of Heraclea and Troas City stayed as they were.

  But within a week after the printing of the massive replica of the Pauline Chapel, structural sensors in the hull of New Athens had begun to worry. Even in this twenty-kilometer-long, six-kilometer-diameter world, the chapel, without a counterbalance in Heraclea, seemed to pose some threat to stability. And the longer the chapel was in place, the greater the concern.

  Since the dinner at Elaina Jansen’s home just five days ago, when she had treated McClellan to Grand Traverse Distillery whiskey and informed him about the Sal threats, the New Athens structural engineering heads—the siblings Mizuki and Yoshiharu Sasaki—had set up new monitoring stations to corroborate these concerns. This was the very task that Yoshiharu was overseeing when he’d been beaten and murdered that morning.

  McClellan stood over the apparent killer’s corpse. He had been a handsome young man, but his fair skin was ashen and bruised, his wrists and throat slashed open, and his thick blond hair matted with blood. The recovered medical chip identified him as Lawrence Walker, originally from Port Glasgow, Scotland. Some of the data found in his decaying comm implants seemed to indicate communications with Sal operatives—but there was no confirmation. Nor would the Sals have been in close contact with Walker for very long. It would have been flagged during the residency application process, and for his work assignments.

  But none of that mattered until the med chip could be confirmed as authentic.

  “What do you make of it?” Zhèng said as he came alongside McClellan, pointing to the Sal sign formed in the blood trail, long dried after the few hours since the murder.

  “Whoever drew it didn’t have much experience,” McClellan said, tilting his head as he walked between the bodies. “They got the jags in the lightning wrong.”

  “That’s what I thought. But you’ve seen many of these blood signs in person.”

  McClellan studied the finger and hand marks that formed the sign. Then he looked to Zhèng. “So Draeger’s transport was already en route when you suspended flights?”

  “Yes, unfortunately. With a committed orbit. I couldn’t deny docking privileges without putting lives in danger—or without delaying Tucker’s counsel. But I suppose I was more concerned about departing traffic. And yet, standing here, I’m wondering if I’m making a mistake.”

  The pair stepped cautiously through the crime scene toward Lopez, who was peering through a mircoscanner inserted into Sasaki’s swollen and hardening left eye.

  “Sloppy, huh?” McClellan said as she leaned back.

  Lopez nodded. “Very. We’re not talking a career criminal. But the killer was strong, and that’s all someone needs if they’re intent on murder.”

  “I’m not sure he was,” McClellan said. “Intent on murder, that is. Those bruises don’t look like they were meant to be fatal, and the killer is pretty bloodied himself. Sasaki put up a fight. The question is: is this a murder-suicide, or a double murder?”

  Lopez began to respond but stopped. A nervous patrol agent jogged up to Zhèng with a tablet and a curious glance at McClellan. “Commissioner,” the young agent said, “we’ve confirmed the killer’s identification.”

  “Alleged killer,” McClellan said.

  The agent gave another inquisitive stare, then looked back at her tablet. “The subject’s med chip checks with DNA and surveillance tracking,” she sai
d. “Walker had been assigned to Red Delta, but that was delayed, so he was prioritized for temp jobs. No priors. No anything. We’ve gotten a warrant from the Council to search his personals. We may have something in an hour.”

  “Thank you, Andrews.”

  “Yes, sir. And sir?”

  “Yes, Andrews?”

  “The chief engineer and a few others are outside. They’re requesting—”

  “Yes, yes, send them in. Why fight the inevitable?”

  “Not near me!” Lopez shouted, waving her hands over Sasaki’s body. “Talk to them somewhere else.”

  McClellan accompanied Zhèng to the edge of the crime scene. “I was wondering when Elaina would demand a viewing,” he said. “Whether or not the Sals are behind this, it fits their profile. These deaths are meant to cut to the heart of the engineers.”

  “These deaths will cut to the heart of everyone in the orbits,” Zhèng said. “A murder on a far-off relay is one thing,” he continued softly as they walked past a group of conferring agents. “But here in New Athens, of all places?” He slowed his pace and stopped, gazing briefly at the growing crowds beyond the factory’s doors. “Were you aware that Madame Jansen wants me to release a statement? She wants me to say that we have a lead on the murderer.”

  “Sounds like a good idea,” McClellan said.

  “Really? I’m surprised you think that.”

  “Why not? Who says we don’t have a lead?”

  “I don’t. Do you?”

  “I have my suspicions, yes.”

  “Suspicions are not leads. Saying so would be a lie.”

  “Yes, but lies can be helpful in police work.”

  Zhèng stared with disbelief. Words came to his lips but he did not respond.

  “Look, Commissioner, if we lived in a perfect world we wouldn’t have to resort to a trick like that. But if we lived in a perfect world Max Tucker wouldn’t be in a holding cell, and you and I wouldn’t be standing next to two dead men.”