A Printer's Choice

by W. L. Patenaude

  “Is this a lesson in theology or police work?”

  “Both. I’m just saying that a statement may be an option to shake up the killer or killers. And it may give us the upper hand with Rudi Draeger before he docks, before he comes down that Wheel and takes the narrative.”

  Zhèng did not seem convinced.

  “But I also understand your point,” McClellan said. “And either way I support your decision one hundred percent. You know the people of New Athens better than I do.”

  “Which is why I would prefer not to issue a statement. Not until I have something to share.”

  Into the crime scene came Elaina Jansen, Andrew Pavić, and Hanna Ward—the three engineers who were in attendance at the funeral and who had received the Sal threats, along with the Sasakis. They did not look at the illuminated bodies as they hurried through the dusty, unused furnaces. They made their way to Zhèng and McClellan, who stood a few meters outside the investigation zone.

  “Commissioner,” Jansen began, “please tell me this matter is under control. This . . . this,” she said, pointing to the carnage a few meters away, “is unconscionable. What are your plans to deal with the builders? And what of the statement I requested? We need swift action—the people must be assured.”

  Zhèng gave his best diplomatic answer.

  Jansen was not appeased.

  Zhèng reminded her that McClellan had significant experience with the Sals, and because of that, the team would make fast progress.

  “I wonder,” Jansen said. “It seems to me that the builders have become emboldened since your arrival, Father McClellan. You dine with them frequently. You cannot deny that.”

  Zhèng began to protest. McClellan stopped him.

  “I wouldn’t deny that,” McClellan said, watching her expression and those of the other two engineers. “I also dine with engineers. But you’re correct to look at every angle at such times. This is an unconscionable situation. I agree. Please know of my sympathies for the death of a colleague and close friend. I know you may not appreciate this, but I will pray for him daily.”

  Pavić gave a hesitant laugh, his light skin becoming red. “I think we’ve had enough of your prayers,” he said, allowing himself a glance at the two dead men. “I was there at the funeral, and I listened with respect. Very nice sentiments. Death and life, mercy and justice, and unity, yes, unity. Well, where is this unity now?”

  “Your words do seem to have fallen on deaf ears,” Hannah Ward said, prompting Jansen and Pavić to nod in unison.

  “Quite so,” Pavić said. “More than that, your presence seems to have awakened some . . . primitive desires that we have gone to great pains to snuff out. Frankly, McClellan, I do not see how your presence is helping. Perhaps you should return to Earth with Tanglao’s body.”

  McClellan thought it unlikely that Pavić had ever dealt with a United States Marine. “Mr. Pavić,” he said, with a serenity and command that prompted Pavić’s eyes to open widely, “I’ll leave the engineering to you. You leave this matter to Commissioner Zhèng and to me. And if your superior wants me off the station, she has only to say so.”

  Jansen did not suggest that this was her wish, and Pavić had no response.

  “And we need to remember,” the priest continued, “that not every builder has committed a murder today—if it is verified that it was a builder.”

  “Verified?” Hanna Ward said. “Look around you!”

  “I have looked, very closely. As I have in other murders—and in murder-suicides—that involved the Sals, to say nothing of what I have seen and done on the battlefield. I will only say that everything is not always what it appears at first. Especially when emotions are high.”

  The main scanner passed nearby, flashing and mumbling as it swept the area with more wide-spectrum illumination. Something prompted Lopez to shout orders to her assistants, using words that engineers or priests do not use.

  McClellan read the growing terror in the faces of his three hosts, and took a different approach. “May I ask how Yoshiharu’s sister is doing?” he said.

  “About as you would expect,” Jansen said, almost relieved with the new topic.

  “May I go talk to her?”

  “She wouldn’t wish that,” Hannah Ward said. “And even if she did, at the moment she has induced a coma.”

  “Why?”

  “Why would she not?” Jansen said. “It is better than facing this.”

  “But eventually she will have to face this.”

  The three engineers gave a displeased look, which McClellan figured was better than terror.

  Pavić had composed himself. He still spoke with a lecturing tone, but it was not unkind. “We do not relish pain. And we see no gain in death. Mizuki will remain in this coma until she can be treated in the morning with an emotional memory wipe. We’ll remove any recollection of her attachment to her brother, but no other memories, of course, per the commissioner’s orders.”

  “And then she will feel no pain,” Ward said.

  “I see,” McClellan said, but he did not see at all.

  Zhèng stepped forward and turned to McClellan. “We had better continue if we’re considering releasing a statement, as Madame Jansen has requested. Now, if you three will excuse us.”

  The commissioner turned away from the group. McClellan did not. He said, “Commissioner, there’s one last question I have for my hosts. If I may?”

  Zhèng shrugged. “I’m sure the engineers won’t mind.”

  McClellan thanked the commissioner and asked the engineers for the name of the second builder.

  “Second builder?” Jansen said.

  “Yes. By now Commissioner Zhèng’s team will have reviewed station surveillance and the markings and materials on the floor, and they should be finding evidence of a third person who was here, either just before the murder or when it occurred. After all, I would imagine Sasaki needed more than one person to position those sensors—they are quite heavy, at least the one was that I tried to lift. And such work is, by your treaty with the Builders Guild, the work of builders, no? Unless Yoshiharu had a robber helping him, which not only would have violated the treaty, but also may have instigated a disagreement—and if so, that news would not be helpful to spread through the builder community at the moment.”

  Jansen looked at one of the portable structural monitors and then to Zhèng, who looked at McClellan. “Yes,” she said slowly. “That would not be helpful. But I would have no way of knowing at the moment who Yoshiharu had assigned to assist him. If anyone.”

  “Would any of you know?” McClellan said, staring at the other engineers.

  There was no response.

  “Well, when you find out, please tell our Commissioner. For now, we’ll go on what evidence we have, and on what we find. Because if the Sals are responsible, I have a personal stake in that. And if it wasn’t them, I’d like to know that, too. So, until we learn more, I suggest that we follow the commissioner’s instincts and issue no statement until we have information. And last, I’d ask that you let us get back to the one thing we all agree on—getting to the truth.”

  FOUR HOURS LATER, MCCLELLAN was in his offices finishing a tuna sandwich and his report to Zhèng. He and Lopez had spent two hours cataloging the evidence from Heraclea with the help of half a dozen junior agents. Lopez had left to return to the crime scene, but she stood again in McClellan’s doorway.

  “I was calling you,” she said, annoyed. “You have guests.”

  McClellan picked up his tablet and realized he had silenced it. “Sorry,” he said. “What guests?”

  “A builder and his daughter. I told them you were busy, but the kid insisted.”

  McClellan pulled up the entryway surveillance cams. There, next to the baptismal font, was a builder holding the hand of a young girl in a blue dress. “That’s Veronica,” he said, smiling. “She brought me flowers when I first arrived to Troas City. Tell them I’ll meet them in my sitting room in five minutes. Mind let
ting them in?”

  Lopez gave a look of protest but said “All right, since I’m going that way. But don’t spend too much time on them. In a half hour you have your meeting with Wagner. I’m dying to hear what that old fool has to say.”

  McClellan thanked her, and turned to wrap up his report. Then he stopped, thinking it was best to first meet his unexpected guests.

  Father and daughter were standing in the small sitting room of his apartments. Veronica smiled when she saw the priest. Still holding her father’s hand, she attempted a wave with her other, which held a small pink tablet decorated with stickers of red roses.

  “Well, isn’t this a nice surprise,” McClellan said.

  “I hope we didn’t disturb you,” Veronica’s father said. The name on his jumpsuit was Robert, but he had introduced himself on the night of McClellan’s arrival as Bobby. Bobby Parker. He was lean, about McClellan’s age, with darker skin than his daughter but with the same expressive eyes.

  “This certainly is not a disturbance,” McClellan said, grasping the builder’s hand, feeling in it both strength and apprehension. “It’s a pleasure to have guests, especially pretty young ladies like Veronica.”

  The girl looked at her father with a grin.

  “Please,” McClellan said, waving to the sitting room’s small couch, “make yourself comfortable.”

  McClellan sat across from them, complimented Veronica’s braids, and moved quickly to the only topic that would have brought him guests. “It’s been a tough day for us all,” he said, watching the father’s expression. “I’m so sorry for what happened to your colleague Lawrence Walker. Did you know him?”

  Parker hesitated. “Never met him. Not that I remember, anyway. I don’t meet the structural guys much. I’m in Mainline Comms. But still . . . yeah, this is all a shock. They all say he was a good kid.” He glanced around the sparsely furnished room, and then looked down to his daughter, whose hand he still held. “My wife suggested we come by—she’d have come, too, but she’s a second shifter.” The builder, looking again at McClellan, spoke apprehensively.

  “You see, my little girl here has a few questions about what happened . . .”

  His voice faltered, but his eyes completed his words. Questions that a father should know how to answer.

  McClellan took his cue and turned to Veronica. “Questions? I like questions. Can I know what they are? Or are they secret?”

  The girl checked for her father’s approval, then turned back to McClellan.

  “Ms. Buxton told us at school what happened in Heracle—Heracle—”

  “Heraclea,” her father said.

  “Yes, Hera-clea. She said what happened to that builder and that engineer may happen again, even here in Troas City.”

  “Did she?” McClellan said. “Why does she think that? Did she say?”

  Veronica nodded. “She said because of history.”

  “History?”

  “Yes. Ms. Buxton said that history is like a circle, and it repeats. She said history says more bad things will happen on New Athens. She said there could even be a war! I told her that Mommy and Daddy said that bad things like that happen only on Earth. But Ms. Buxton said that’s not true.”

  The girl’s eyes were wide, as were her father’s, who hid them from her by looking at the lighting in the ceiling.

  “Is there going to be a war?” Veronica asked.

  McClellan had spent the afternoon staring down engineers as well as questioning the girlfriend of Lawrence Walker and the structural repair team that Walker had worked with. From that morning, when he stepped into the chapel to say Father Tanglao’s funeral Mass, to just moments ago, surrounded by young and uncertain security agents, eyes had been watching him, looking for comfort. For strength. For how the outsider might help. None of those eyes had rattled him. These little ones did.

  He debated how to answer—with the offer of comfort or the certainty of cold truth. He decided to split the difference.

  “Veronica, can I tell you a secret?”

  Veronica nodded. “I won’t tell anyone.”

  “Well, you can tell everyone this secret. You will always know when a grown-up is lying if they say that they know the future. Maybe they don’t mean to tell a lie. Maybe they’re just lying to themselves. Or maybe they just want to sound smart. But no one knows the future. Not even Ms. Buxton.”

  “No one?”

  “No one.”

  “Not even you?”

  McClellan laughed. “No, Veronica. Not even me.”

  Veronica wasn’t sure if that was encouraging.

  “But I do know this,” McClellan continued. “History is not a circle. That’s because people can always choose whether to do good things or bad things—even if that means trying really hard to do good things. Or asking for help to do good things. Does that make sense?”

  Veronica seemed uncertain, but ultimately agreed that his reasoning was sound.

  “And you know what else I know?”

  Veronica shook her head.

  “I know that your mommy and daddy, and people like Agent Lopez, who you just met, and all the agents all over the orbits, and people like me, are going to do everything we can to make sure bad things don’t happen. Everything.”

  Veronica thought about that one. Her head went down and she fingered one of the stickers on her tablet. Then with a protesting tone she said, “But you’re not staying. You’re just visiting and then you’re going back to Earth.”

  McClellan felt the words cut through him. “That’s true, sweetie,” he said, leaning forward. “But I’m here now. And I’m here to help the security agents. I won’t leave until we find out who did the bad things you heard about—not until we arrest them. Do you believe me about that?”

  Veronica took a moment before answering, “Yes.” Her legs began to swing, making little sounds as her feet connected with the couch.

  “Now,” McClellan said, looking at her father, “mind if your daddy and I talk a little by ourselves?”

  Bobby Parker gave a nod, happy for the offer.

  His daughter also gave her approval, and McClellan went to find Chrissy and Jack, who were tending to Catherine Georgeson deeper in his apartments. It took Chrissy only seconds to have Veronica laughing at some game as Bobby Parker followed McClellan into the chapel.

  “Is it okay for me to come in?” Parker asked, taking in the structure.

  “If you’re worried about the New World Agreement,” McClellan said, “don’t be. There was a waiver, and quite a few engineers and builders were here for the funeral. I’d say that sets precedent.”

  “No, I don’t care about that. What I meant was, I never went to church much.”

  McClellan waved Parker forward. “If they let me in,” he said, “everyone’s invited.”

  As expected, McClellan felt his tablet vibrate with a priority message. He read it as Parker went about studying the frescoes. It was from Clarke, who had done what Clarke did well: monitoring McClellan’s whereabouts and running checks on anyone getting close to him: Robert Edward Parker. DOB: 10-10-2053. Birthplace: Glenns Ferry, Idaho. Orbital arrival: August 5, 2073. Orbital security record: No priors. Earth criminal record: None. Career record: Builder in good standing. Assigned: Antennae maintenance, Centerwell. Secondary career: Softball coach, Troas City High School.

  McClellan slipped the tablet into his pocket and leaned against the closest pew. He watched Parker’s gaze stop at the far corner where Tanglao’s casket had been placed on a platform, draped with a long white cloth.

  “You came upside to get away from all this, huh?” McClellan said.

  Parker nodded. “But I guess there’s no getting away from some things,” he said. He paused a moment, either to choose his words or to avoid them. “We both know Veronica’s teacher is right. Or at least she’s not completely wrong. More trouble’s coming.”

  “Is it?” McClellan said, stepping closer to the builder.

  Parker didn’t answer.


  “I meant what I said to your daughter. I don’t believe in fate—in history dictating what happens next. People have choices.”

  Parker, again looking toward the casket, stayed silent.

  “Look, Mr. Parker, I don’t want to push this, but if I’m going to do my job, I’ll need to know as much as I can.”

  Parker turned and sized up the priest. “Not sure what I can say that you don’t already know.”

  “Let me be the judge of that.”

  The builder looked away, then turned to confirm that the doors of the main entrance were closed. “We safe?”

  McClellan nodded. “We are. I insisted on it. I’m supposed to be able to hear confessions here. I can’t have people listening in.”

  Parker considered McClellan’s response. After a moment, the builder began talking. “Things are getting bad,” he said. “The talk I hear at work—the things we’re all hearing—they’re bad.”

  McClellan remained silent.

  “Even before Red Delta,” Parker went on, “everyone’s been worried about the printers—about the engineers losing control. But now there’s talk that someone’s taking advantage of the situation—someone besides the engineers.”

  “Any idea who?”

  “No,” the builder said. “Mostly I hear guys saying the engineers got it coming to them. But no one seems to know what ‘it’ is. Or why exactly the engineers got it coming. But whatever it is, people are happy about it.”

  McClellan heard only truth in Parker’s voice. “Fair enough,” he said. “What are people saying about the printers?”

  “The printers? Weird stuff.”

  “Like?”

  “They say that the printers are rebelling. That they want to control the orbits.”

  “Do you believe that? Ever see anything that makes you think that’s what’s happening?”

  Parker shook his head. “No, I guess not. But I don’t work with printers all that often. Still, I don’t trust them. Those things have minds of their own.”

  McClellan noted the words—the same used by Max Tucker on Red Delta. He’d have to explore that similarity later.