The officer introduced himself as Captain Alfred Bauer. He gave what sounded like a canned statement that, while he was a Roman Catholic priest from Boston, he was there only to provide any comfort and assistance that he could, and would do so for anyone of any faith or no faith.
“That’s me, sir,” McClellan said. “I don’t believe in a god, just so you know.”
“I understand, Corporal. I’m just checking to see if there’s anything you need, or that you want to talk about. And remember, I don’t write this up or report it to anyone. I’m sort of a free agent that way.”
McClellan thought about what he could discuss—but it was difficult to think at all. Nausea came when he concentrated too hard, and a throbbing grew over his left eye and ear. He felt for the source of discomfort, and saw that both his hands had been bandaged.
A robotic nursing assistant came to probe his arms and legs and feel along his skull. It made cold sounds as it adjusted patches that held down medical probes.
“I hate those things,” McClellan said as the machine walked away.
“You and me both. Humans were meant to be cared for by humans.”
McClellan agreed, and before long they were talking about Union City, and his uncle’s farm in Iowa. But McClellan struggled with what to say, even when he knew what he wanted to.
“That’s okay,” Captain Bauer said. “You’re full of nanocorrectors. They make it hard to remember details when they’re patching you up. And they’ll uncover memories that you may want to forget. That’s unfortunately where you’re at, son. But all in all, I hear that the docs are happy.”
As McClellan processed the news, Bauer shifted in his chair and leaned in. “So you were saying you lived for a time with your aunt and uncle in Iowa, but you’re from Michigan, right?”
McClellan nodded.
“I understand that your parents took the option,” Bauer said.
“Yes, sir. But I was young when they did.”
“You were nine. That’s not so young. It must have been difficult.”
McClellan looked away. “They made sure I was okay, that I’d be taken care of. My aunt and uncle were good to me—didn’t matter when the GU ran out of money. I had it a lot better than other kids whose parents took the option.”
Shouting came from a cot at the far end of the infirmary. Robotic assistants and Military Police hurried to the source, and soon the shouting subsided to a moan that faded into the hush and chatter that comes with caring for so many wounded.
“Can we change the subject?” McClellan asked, turning back to the captain.
“If you’d like, and I am sorry if I upset you. It’s just that you were talking about your parents when you were under. I’ve dealt with this before, and I’m happy to help if I can.”
“I was talking about them in my sleep?”
The captain nodded.
“What did I say?”
“That someone told you that your mom and dad could still be alive if you hadn’t been born.”
McClellan said nothing. He was angry that that memory was in play—that a stranger was talking about it in the open.
“You’re not the first person that was said to,” Captain Bauer said.
“That supposed to make me feel better?”
“That’s not what—”
“Look, it’s okay. It was some stupid government social worker who came to check on me. She wanted to know how it felt that my parents had to choose between themselves and me, and then she says that they wouldn’t have had to if I hadn’t been born. Who the hell says a thing like that to a kid?”
McClellan was startled by the fury surging in his mind and his muscles, and he found himself facing more forgotten memories—not all of them unpleasant. He could smell the grasses and manure of his uncle’s farm, and he could see his aunt chasing away the social worker.
McClellan tried to wipe the moisture in his eyes, but couldn’t with bandaged hands. The captain found tissues on a nearby table and assisted with the task.
McClellan breathed deeper and found himself trying to remember what had brought him here. He concentrated, but could find only fragments—a map of Raleigh, a clothes dryer and a demolished ranch house, double-timing past a pickup on the way to the engineering campus, an air strike that made the night become day.
“How long will I be here?” he asked, not wanting to remember anything else.
“I’m not sure, son. I don’t think the doctors know.”
“They want me back out there programming?”
“I would expect that they do. I hear you’re one of the best in the Corps. But they may have reasons otherwise. We’ll see.”
“Did they send you here to get me back? Back into a printer?”
“No. As I said, we chaplains—”
“Because I don’t want to go back.”
“Then it may be best that you don’t. But Corporal, I’m not your doctor. A lot of smart people are working to help you. So as the treatments go along, things may change as you remember—some of it good, some not so good. Of course, the doctors might also want to wipe it all. Either way, I’ll stay close by. Is that okay?”
McClellan said that it was.
“Captain, mind if I ask one more question?”
“Of course.”
“What if I want to remember? Will they let me?”
“The doctors should ask you what you prefer,” the captain said guardedly. “Although they could try to choose for you—talk you out of remembering. They’re good at that, and it’s easier for them. They may play on your fears—tell you that you’re not strong enough, that you really don’t have a choice. So watch out.”
McClellan searched for some recollection of what had brought him here. He remembered that he had been programming a printer named . . . no, he couldn’t remember the name. He cursed how little access he had to his own history.
“The doctors can talk all they want,” he said. “I want to know what happened. I want to be me again, and I guess I don’t think I am anymore, if that makes sense.”
The captain gave a serious look. “It does. And I’d ask for the same thing if I were you. Although, after these wars, I don’t know if any of us can go back to who we were. I’m just praying we become something better.”
McClellan thought about the captain’s words. He knew there was some truth to them, but he didn’t understand the part about prayer. At the same time, he wasn’t about to let fear or uncertainty take what was his. And he hoped he could make things better.
“Johnny?” a warm voice said. “Are you awake?”
McClellan heard the voice above the ones within him—erratic ones that insisted he could have done more to save Clarke, accusing him of failing the young agent, and the investigation into Tanglao’s death. But this new voice was stronger. And it was familiar.
The voice repeated the question. McClellan assessed the situation before he opened his eyes. He was lying on his back, and he was warm. Something was covering him—a comfortable, smooth fabric on his bare legs and chest. He found breathing difficult, but he could also remember that he had been unable to breathe at all.
He cautiously opened his eyes. The small room was bright and clean. He slowly remembered the events that brought him here, and he would have succumbed to their desolation had it not been for the man standing before him, concerned and determined, and so very out of place wearing a black clerical suit among the medical amenities of New Athens.
But then, even archbishops can board an Aesir and come through the Wheel.
McClellan gasped as he breathed deeply. His eyes went wide as he allowed himself to remember everything. It was safer to remember now. When he wept, he covered his face with one hand and held out the other for Bauer. The archbishop stepped closer and grasped firmly, and soon McClellan didn’t know if he was crying from despair or from joy. He wanted to stand and properly greet his archbishop, but both his body and the health monitors complained when he tried.
After a mo
ment, McClellan wiped his face with his palms and asked, “How long have you been up here?”
“Two days,” Bauer said.
“And how many have I been out?”
“Seven.”
Dr. Gupta, who had been Catherine Georgeson’s doctor, came quickly into the room. She gave a worried look, then nodded approvingly.
“I am happy to see you conscious,” she said. “But please take things slowly. You took a direct strike from the printer’s charged emitter. It was not easy putting you back together.”
“But we’re expecting a full recovery, right?” Bauer said.
“He is mending well. Very well, actually.” She turned to McClellan. “Your organs have been functioning on their own for seventy-two hours. Your skeletal damage is fully healed and, as you weren’t in direct neural access with the printer, you suffered no long-term neurological damage. Rest assured, you’ll be fully functioning and causing trouble soon.”
“I feel pretty weak, Doc.”
“That’s mostly the treatments doing their job. You need to be patient.”
Bauer chuckled. “Patience is not something that Father McClellan is known for.”
McClellan would have debated the matter, but he was sorting through questions.
He wanted to know how Bauer got approval to come here, and why. He wanted to know about the two builders who had saved him—what their names are and how had they managed to be in that tunnel when he needed them. He wanted to know if Father Tanglao’s body, and Catherine’s, had finally made it home.
Then there were the questions for Zhèng. McClellan wanted to know all that had happed in the past week—if they had found Tanglao’s coupler, if Molly Rose had found the clamshell, and what Draeger had been doing.
As he thought, the list of questions grew. But the one he asked first was about Brandon Clarke.
The doctor was busy scanning his abdomen. Bauer turned to McClellan and said, “He’s alive, Johnny.”
“Thank God,” McClellan said, dropping his head into his pillow. “How is he?”
Bauer referred this to the doctor.
“My understanding is that his body has recovered,” she said. “But I believe there is still a question of whether his mind can be restored. He received extensive neural overloads, not to mention his physical injuries. That he is still living is something of a . . . surprise.”
McClellan questioned the doctor’s uncertainty.
Dr. Gupta said only that Agent Clarke was not her patient. He’d been transferred to the hospital in Corinthia, which was the best in New Athens for dealing with neural damage to programmers.
“I’m afraid I know little else about his condition or treatment,” she said. “My concern is your recovery. And, with that in mind, I’d like you to rest a little longer before we attempt to work on your motor skills. A physical therapist will be in at dinnertime. And yes, I have already made arrangements that we not use robotic assistants.”
The doctor excused herself after more prodding and some additional instructions, including her repeated insistence that he rest.
“I’d better go too, Johnny,” Bauer said. “I’ll be back after you get some sleep. I know you have questions, and I have much to tell you. And to give you. I brought a few things up from Earth that you may find useful. But that’s for later. Right now, tell me if there’s anything I can do.”
McClellan could only think to ask if Okayo was back on New Athens.
“Yes,” Bauer said. “But until you’re cleared by the doctor, Commissioner Zhèng has restricted visitation. He wants to meet with you personally, which I understand will be as soon as you’re up and about. Until then, I’m the only visitor they’ve allowed in.”
“Understood,” McClellan said, not really understanding. He was disappointed to have to wait to tell Okayo about what Clarke had done. He thought of asking Bauer to relay the message, to record the first baptism in the registers of New Athens’s chapel, but the fatigue was returning. He had strength enough for only one more question.
“Why did you come?”
Bauer came closer so that he could speak with some privacy.
“One important reason. A priest should not be asked to do what you’re doing without a brother priest. Christ sent out his first disciples two by two for a reason. And who are any of us to think we know better?”
“Two by two,” McClellan repeated, his voice weakening. “How long has this been in the works?”
“From before you were selected. Cardinal Kwalia insisted from the start that two priests be sent. Of course the engineers and Security refused, and they were not moved by the need for priests to hear each other’s confessions. But Kwalia is shrewd. He agreed to send you on the condition that if something happened, another priest would be sent for an anointing. Well, something happened. And here I am.”
“You knew all along that you could be coming up?”
Bauer laughed. “No, no. There were other candidates. Younger ones. But when I heard how serious things had become, I pulled some strings.”
McClellan thought for a moment, but that was getting more difficult. “Thank God. I could use a good confession—and someone to talk to.”
Bauer smiled. “You’ll get both. But you need sleep. May God bless you, John Francis McClellan, and may he speed your recovery. And may the Author of Truth help you—help us—get to the bottom of all that’s happened.”
MCCLELLAN ATTEMPTED A CONVERSATION with his new Security escort, but when Agent Michael Molina gave his fourth one-word answer, McClellan got the hint. From there it was a quiet walk from the Troas City hospital to a private streetcar that brought them to the City of Philippi—and then to McClellan’s meeting with Commissioner Zhèng.
McClellan didn’t know much of what happened during the past week. And Zhèng wouldn’t know what McClellan and Clarke had discovered in that house printer. It made sense for the commissioner to meet with him quickly, and alone, before the case briefing that evening. What surprised McClellan was Zhèng’s insistence that they meet before checking on the still unconscious Clarke.
The streetcar entered Philippi, a showcase of architecture known as Modified Orbital Greek Revival. It is a middle city, positioned directly opposite to and balancing with Corinthia, and like that city, Philippi’s towers rose high above the skylights and the farms of the core.
The headquarters of the Security Guild was the tallest. It rose some fifty floors over the skylights and came to a tapered peak that, from the ground, appeared to rise precariously close to the Sun Crane. From the outside, its walls looked windowless and closed, but they were perfectly transparent from the inside.
The pair entered its long lobby, which was sleek and unadorned, save for a grand replica of a Security Guild command badge. There were routine checks and conversations between Agent Molina and his colleagues at the main entrance. After an all-clear, the pair went on to Zhèng’s office, which was an efficient walk and a long elevator ride to the fiftieth floor.
Zhèng was sitting in a chair tall enough to fit his frame. His large office was printed with a standard blue metallic finish, and decorated only with a Security Guild banner. The focus of the room was his well-ordered desk with its well-ordered data floating above in color-coded clusters. Behind him was a transparent wall overlooking Philippi and the farms beyond, and past all that was the City of Heraclea and then the Wheel, turning as it lifted its occupants to the Centerwell.
Zhèng motioned to a chair next to his desk. He dismissed Agent Molina and waited for McClellan to make himself comfortable. There were no pleasantries.
“Nice office,” McClellan said, feeling a need to take some advantage.
Zhèng sat and considered McClellan’s clerical suit, then reached for a tablet. He held it casually, but positioned so that McClellan could not see its content.
“You’ll understand my wish to relocate our briefings here. Through that door”—Zhèng motioned to the right of the office’s entrance—“is a command office ve
ry much like the Security substation attached to your quarters.”
“Makes sense,” McClellan said. He considered his words and opted to keep them to a minimum.
Zhèng shifted and handed McClellan the tablet.
“This includes a summary of this past week’s events,” he said. “But before you dive in, allow me to provide some highlights.”
“Please,” McClellan said. “I have many questions.”
“No doubt. Let’s begin with Draeger. Well, no, let me begin with what happened after you and Clarke were brought to safety.”
Zhèng eye-typed commands on the desk’s interface. A blurry image appeared. It was the tunnel that Clarke and McClellan had taken to the printer staging area. The image—which Zhèng said came from a security monitoring camera—showed two young builders frantically placing a wounded McClellan on a transport platform as a torrent of water erupted behind them.
“This image was the talk of New Athens as soon as it was released by the Builders Guild,” Zhèng was saying. “These young men have become celebrities, although they are quite embarrassed with the attention. But the long and short of it, Father McClellan, is that this picture of two lowly, noble builders saving the great guest of the engineers, as well as one of my agents, has become a tool of propaganda. It’s given the builders a sense of pride that—if in many ways is long, long overdue—has made some of their leaders intent on fighting for not just issues of class inequality, but also for control of New Athens.”
McClellan kept his focus on the image. He had been given the names of the two builders and learned that Wagner had sent them into the tunnels for maintenance. The pair had been checking the main wastewater line when they heard the thrashing of the activated printer, and then the alarms of a waterline break. When they made it to the staging area, they found McClellan tumbling backward, bloody and soaked. They went looking for Clarke, but couldn’t get to him until the printer convulsed and went idle.
McClellan remembered the sincerity of his rescuers, and he was eager to meet them under better circumstances.
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