“And guild leadership?” he prompted. “What are they saying?”
“Nothing directly,” Parker said, shrugging. “But . . . no, you’ll think I’m crazy.” He thought a moment, debated in silence, and then gave a determined look. “My wife and I wanted to show you something,” he said. “It’s been bothering us for a few days. It’s on Veronica’s tablet.”
He jogged to the entrance that led to the apartments, then came back holding the pink tablet. He handed it to McClellan as if it were unexploded ordnance. “They started teaching this last week.”
McClellan skimmed through the lesson that Parker had accessed, pausing to study the imagery of determined men, women, and children in clean, bright builder jumpsuits, all staring aloft with fierce gazes, their right arms held up, hands pointing to the stars.
A History of the Engineers and Builders
With Study Words
Grade 1
Most of what McClellan read seemed right. The rebellions against the Global Union in 2073. No central government on Earth or the orbits. The subsequent formation of the Engineering Guild, its five-member Council representing New Athens, the Moon, the Lesser Stations, and the Asteroid Belt.
“Here’s where it gets interesting,” Parker said, reading over McClellan’s shoulder.
After the ENGINEERING GUILD was formed, the ENGINEERS made a special PROMISE that all the LABORERS could work in the final BUILDOUT of NEW ATHENS. But the Engineering Guild did not honor their promise. . . .
By October 2074, the number of UNEMPLOYED workers and FORCED RETURNS TO EARTH more than TRIPLED. . . .
When the hardworking human builders OBJECTED, the Engineering Guild created the SECURITY GUILD. Its job is to CONTROL the workers. . . .
The Security Guild ordered UNPROVOKED and VIOLENT attacks against the workers and even their families. . . .
In December 2074, the workers voted to create the BUILDERS GUILD. Like the Engineering Guild, the Builders Guild is governed by the hardworking members of the BUILDERS COUNCIL. That COUNCIL is also made up of five BUILDERS in LEADERSHIP roles representing New Athens, the Moon, the Lesser Stations, and within the Asteroid Belt. . . .
The job of the Builders Guild is to protect the workers from the UNFAIR oversight of the other two GUILDS.
McClellan handed the tablet to Parker. “A bit of revisionist history,” he said. “Unless I’m missing something.”
The builder stepped away, shaking his head slowly. “You’re not missing anything.”
McClellan remained silent, prompting Parker to continue. “Veronica has an uncle in the Security Guild—my wife’s brother, whom I consider a close friend. He’s always been so good to his niece, and now she’s asking questions about him.”
Which is just what the Sals want, McClellan thought.
“I’ve been up here since ’73,” Parker went on. “Back then we had some bad actors—agitators who were demanding more work. Some threatened to sabotage New Athens, even as it was being populated. Can you imagine? Probably nothing more than loudmouthed idiots, but you can’t make threats like that up here. So it got them thrown back to Earth. If I were an engineer, I’d have done the same thing. Sure, we wanted more work. We still do. We also want a little respect. But I never blamed the engineers for calling on Earth militaries to clean house. Or setting up the Security Guild—even if they didn’t always act like angels. Hell, most of us were glad for it.”
“And now?” McClellan asked.
“Now I learn what my guild is teaching our kids—my kid—while I’m raising her to treat everyone the same. I teach her that people are people, even the engineers. But what she’s learning makes me sound like a liar.”
McClellan shook his head. “Veronica knows you better than that.”
Parker appreciated the words, but they didn’t soothe him. McClellan expected that. No reassurances would—not to a man who worried about his family. Not to a man who sees the festering of unrest so close to home. The forces seeking discord had done their job, McClellan thought. All he could do was let the builder talk—let him speak his fears and hear them—and pray that, like a good confession, his speaking and hearing would bring some peace. And new direction.
“My wife and I can deal with whatever the guild throws our way,” Parker was saying, pacing. “We always have. They want us to strike? Fine. They want us to protest? Fine. But don’t try to poison our daughter. Don’t scare her. Don’t use the deaths of those men to turn her against us—against me. That’s when they cross the line. And as God as my witness, Father, that’s when I’ll fight back. Me and others. You can count on that.”
ANTONIA NAVIGATED THE HOLY See’s communications system—as always with incomprehensible speed—bringing Archbishop Bauer his first real smile that day.
“You’ll have about fifteen minutes of security with this new encryption,” she said as she confirmed the link with the Vatican’s Office of the Secretariat of State. “Probably more once the Holy See begins adding random blocks, but I wouldn’t go much longer before adding our own. Other than that, you can speak freely, Archbishop.”
“I have no idea what you’re saying, Antonia, but thank you. As always you are an immense comfort.”
The young woman smiled, humming the Salve Regina as she returned to her office. Bauer’s display gave the usual prompts and notifications, and then Cardinal Kwalia appeared.
“My dear Alfred,” the cardinal said, “Father Lee is waiting to join us. But first I understand you have urgent matters to discuss—in private.”
“Yes, Peter. Thank you. I wondered if you had gotten any additional information on this lawyer, Rudolphus Draeger. And if the Holy See’s diplomatic corps has any news about Sal movement—especially in the northeastern United States.”
Kwalia gave a serious look. “As to your last question, no, Alfred. We have no information on Sal activity. But we are keeping our intelligence networks open. I have heard what happened to your nephews in Jamestown. As has the Holy Father. He has asked me to inform you of his concerns and personal prayers.”
Bauer was touched. “Please pass along my sincere appreciation,” he said. “And I shall write to him personally with my thanks.”
“That would be kind of you, Alfred. As for this man Draeger, of course I do not need to tell you that he is very dangerous. His impending arrival in New Athens concerns the Holy See deeply.”
“Then you’ve confirmed the intelligence I had been told.”
“Yes. Yes, we have.”
“May I ask what else you have discovered?”
“Certainly. In addition to the information you provided, which we confirmed through Draeger’s dioceses in Bosnia and California, we know that he was involved with a number of firebombings of mosques and temples in the southwestern United States. It seems he was working under a variety of aliases, but much of the work was orchestrated by Draeger, as well as the Sals he commanded.”
“Does this have anything to do with what happened in Los Angeles in 2076?”
“Yes, Alfred. It seems that is the case. The Sals had ordered Bishop Ramirez to fund and assist Sal operations, but the bishop, God rest his soul, responded with a public denouncement.”
“Not always the safest response,” Bauer said.
“But the truthful one,” Kwalia said with mild reproach. “As you know, that June the Los Angeles cathedral was bombed, and Bishop Ramirez was killed, along with three hundred others during Mass.”
“And then came the killing of the parish priests,” Bauer said, recalling the events. He had lost two classmates during the Sal persecutions of the Southwest. They, and every person martyred that June—cleric and laity—were canonized the following year. Bauer had remembered the two priests. Back in the seminary, they weren’t always the brightest, or the holiest, but when the time came to defend the faith, they died because they dared to say Mass in spite of the threats of the Sals.
“As always,” Kwalia was saying, “if the followers of Solorzano do not find su
pport in the local Church, they seek to destroy its leaders. They are relentless in demanding loyalty and purity for what they see as the true faith, which of course centers on their demonic heresies and their financial enterprises. And so you see why the Holy See and Pope Clement himself are very concerned.”
Bauer said that he did.
“And so, Alfred, I give thanks to God that it has been made my priority to help Father McClellan in any way I can. And of course that means assisting with any of your efforts and alleviating your concerns, including the safety of your family and your diocese, and that of the bishops throughout New England.”
“Thank you, Peter. Thank you very much.”
Cardinal Kwalia gave a sad but unwavering look. “There is one other matter I would like to discuss before I have Father Lee join us. I was notified this morning by the New Athens security commissioner that there will be a delay in the transport of Father Tanglao’s body.”
“Delay?”
“Yes. Commissioner Zhèng sent a communiqué that Father McClellan did say the funeral Mass, but that all shuttle traffic into and from New Athens has been suspended ‘until such time as the Security Guild determines it is safe to reopen shipping lanes.’”
“And the reason?”
“None that I have been told.”
“What about Draeger’s inbound flight?”
“It had already launched and was in a committed trajectory. They have to let it dock. But all outbound traffic is canceled, and so Raphael Tanglao’s body remains in the chapel until further notice. I have of course passed this news along to Father Lee, who is quite upset—first being denied attendance to the funeral, and now this.”
“And there is nothing to be done?”
“I am afraid that our options are limited. I have sent a diplomatic protest to obtain more information. And I have requested to speak with Father McClellan directly. We shall see. Now, Alfred, unless there is some other issue you wish to discuss privately? If not, we will patch in Father Lee, who is not quite as familiar as you and I with the followers of Solorzano. Let us be sure to comfort him.”
The display readjusted and split its image between Cardinal Kwalia and Father Lee, the middle-aged Korean master of the Dominican Order. It would be about one thirty in the morning in Seoul, which explained Lee’s tired eyes. The cause of this call explained the worry.
After the appropriate ecclesial and personal pleasantries—abbreviated and difficult with Father Lee’s accent and lack of sleep—the cardinal let Bauer open the conversation.
“Father Lee,” Bauer began, “please know of my sadness at the delay in Father Tanglao’s arrival on Earth. I know this has been difficult for your order and for his family. Please know of my personal prayers and all those from the Church in Boston.”
Bauer shifted his tone and sat straighter. “As I had mentioned when we spoke some fourteen hours ago, Father McClellan hinted at Father Tanglao’s programming abilities. At the time, news of this surprised you. Since then, have you been able to find any information to confirm this? Or about how Father Tanglao achieved his status as a programmer, and what he sought to do with such skills?”
Lee’s expression predicted unhelpful answers. “I am sorry to say again that if Father Tanglao was a programmer, I admit with embarrassment that we were unaware of his ability. Worldwide we have eleven programmers. All are former military, trained by the engineers themselves. But Father Tanglao had no military connections. How he became a programmer, or what he sought to do with such knowledge, I do not know. I am afraid that whatever Father Tanglao may have shared about such matters is known—if indeed it is known—only to his spiritual director, which is under the seal of confession.”
Kwalia leaned onto his desk and rubbed his forehead. “We of course understand the privileged nature of that relationship. But we need to have something that we can share with Father McClellan.”
“I understand,” Lee said. “The Dominican Order will help as we can.”
Kwalia smiled with appreciation. “As is always the case. Now, my understanding is that because all wealth is shared in common in your order, there are no personal couplers among your programmers—the ones that you know of, anyway. I’m also told that the order’s programming codes and its stories are communal knowledge. Or, should I say, that this is the Holy See’s canonical understanding with all religious orders who possess programmers.”
Father Lee nodded a quick and enthusiastic affirmation. “Yes, Your Eminence.”
“And all your programmers and their couplers are accounted for?”
“Yes, Your Eminence. And I can assure you they are all on Earth.”
Kwalia did not appear happy. He looked away with a thoughtful expression.
“This leaves me with only one inquiry,” he said. “And please excuse my candor, Father Lee. I would understand that you may not want to share your order’s common programmer’s codes and story—and here Canon Law prevents me from requiring it. But even if Father Tanglao had his own story and codes, information about those of your order may help Father McClellan investigate the murder of your friar—and thus help manage what is quickly becoming a very dangerous situation.” Kwalia leaned forward, his face taking up his section of the screen. “Father Lee, you will of course understand why the Holy See and Pope Clement himself would ask you to share this information.”
“I do,” Lee said. “And of course we wish to do our part. I have already instructed our programmers to transmit the codes and story to the Holy See. They will do so securely within the half hour. And you will understand that while I am aware of the general scriptural foundation for our codes, I do not know the exact nature of them or how they are used. Nor do I wish to.”
“Understandable,” Kwalia said. “Out of curiosity, what may I ask is their scriptural foundation? That alone may help McClellan.”
“Certainly,” Lee said. “They are related to chapter nine of the Acts of the Apostles. The conversion of St. Paul.”
Bauer sat back and looked over to a smaller display. On it was one of the few images of New Athens that McClellan had sent—or had been able to send. It was a picture of him and his two young, smiling assistants in the replica of the Pauline Chapel.
“If that concludes your questions,” Lee said, “there is something that I can add—information that has come to me only a few hours ago.”
“And that is?” Kwalia said.
“You had asked in the beginning of the investigation about Father Tanglao’s disciplinary record. If he had ever gone missing, as he had last summer, when we thought him dead on Earth, not assuming a new life in the orbits.”
“Yes, and your reports indicated no other time when his whereabouts were unknown.”
“That’s true, Your Eminence. But after speaking with Archbishop Bauer earlier, I took the liberty of instructing my order again—in the most direct terms—to tell me anything that may have been . . . overlooked.”
Kwalia and Bauer waited.
“One of Father Tanglao’s superiors admits—and he will be disciplined for keeping this information from me—that when Father Tanglao was just a novice, he had spent a short time in Mexico when he was to have been on a formation retreat in Guatemala. At first, the superior thought nothing of it, as the first year of discernment to the priesthood can be difficult, and he did not wish to speak ill of the dead. But . . . I have this new information in writing and will transfer it to you directly, Your Eminence. It places Raphael Tanglao in Morelos during those few weeks.”
“I see,” Kwalia said with rare trepidation. “And how long would he have been in that location?”
“It appears for only three weeks before he finally arrived at the retreat house in Guatemala. Of course, this was a number of years before his ordination. We have no information as to why Tanglao went to Mexico, although I understand what this may imply. All I can say to you both, once again, is that Raphael Tanglao has always been considered a holy and dedicated priest—and one of the youngest exper
ts on St. Augustine in the order. I can think of no reason why such a promising academic would have associated with—much less colluded with—criminal forces.”
“But you think that he may have,” Kwalia said.
“I do not know,” Lee said solemnly. “It seems possible, although there is no evidence that convinces me. Unless my order learns more, I am afraid that what Tanglao was doing in Mexico is known only to his confessors and to God.”
MCCLELLAN AND CLARKE FOLLOWED Ira Wagner into a narrow stairwell of metal and synthetic grating. After ten flights they came to a low corridor running out of sight in both directions. The landing and corridor were lit with fierce orange safety lights and the glowing holodisplays of control panels. Overhead hung conduits and piping, small and large, in a variety of colors. The air was heavy and dank.
“Welcome,” Wagner said, his white hair like fire in the safety lighting. “We are in the outermost levels of the hull, or the lowest levels, depending on how you define such positions. Either way, welcome to the bowels of New Athens. This, McClellan, is my world. And even as my fellow builders rattle their sabers and stage their puerile strikes, this is where water and sewer workers perform our humble and necessary vocations. This is where we thrive.”
“So do the printers,” Clarke said as he peered down the tunnel in one direction, then another.
McClellan went a few paces to his right. He knew they were passing beneath tanks that were aerating more than two million gallons of sewage. The subsequent treatment systems were more complex and, at any other time, they would have interested McClellan. But as Wagner continued to describe the roaring and humming around them, McClellan felt a growing impatience.
“Do you feel that?” Clarke asked with a grin.
“Feel what?” McClellan said.
“That wobble under your feet. That’s the rotational oscillations as New Athens turns. Your toes are less than five meters from dead space. If you’re here long enough you’ll feel the station-keeping thrusters. Man, I love being at this level.”
Wagner gave a genuine laugh. “Who would ever believe that I would be providing such joy to our dear agent Brandon Clarke?”
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