Zhèng’s breaths came with difficulty, but the words were clear. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been nineteen years since my last confession.”
TWENTY-TWO THOUSAND MILES from the rotating world that John McClellan had entered, a winter nor’easter had been flooding the coast of Massachusetts for two days. The storm was forecast to move offshore in a few hours, with the sun returning for the afternoon. But for the moment, it raged.
Conditions were similarly turbulent in the office of Archbishop Alfred Bauer. The new cathedral rector and the elderly vicar general were disagreeing about the Holy Week liturgies—which, if the city approved, would be the first observed inside the Cathedral of the Holy Cross since a Sal attack in 2073. The rector insisted that the Holy Thursday Communion hymn be “Adoro Te Devote.” The vicar general wanted “Panis Angelicus.”
While the archbishop was doing his best to mediate the disagreement, he was also enjoying it. If the two priests had the time to debate hymns, then perhaps the world was finally regaining some semblance of normalcy.
Comforted, Bauer sat back in his armchair when Antonia Rossi, his office’s calm, dutiful administrator, came to the inner door.
“Your Excellency,” she said, “sorry to interrupt.”
It was Friday morning, a dark one because of the storm. The panes of the old windows were fighting a sudden blast of wind and sleet, which required the messenger to raise her voice.
“You have a rather urgent call coming in,” she said. “The Holy See’s secretary of state is asking to speak with you.”
Bauer and his priests exchanged glances. The way Antonia spoke, you’d think this happened every day. The current Archbishop of Boston was certainly an important figure in the Church, especially now that one of his priests had been selected to assist upside with the investigation into Father Tanglao’s death. But Bauer had only spoken to Cardinal Kwalia once when McClellan’s name was first proposed for the mission. Otherwise Bauer dealt only with low-ranking officials in the Vatican’s diplomatic offices. The secretary of state had respectfully kept his distance.
“Is this confirmed?” Bauer asked.
“Yes,” Antonia said, waving a small red notebook. “And it’s secure. I’ve checked the calling routes, and confirmed it with my own contacts in Rome. I just hope the signal holds in this weather. I haven’t installed the new transceivers yet.”
Bauer stood and dismissed his priests with a matter-of-fact nod. He retrieved his mug of coffee from where they’d been working and brought it to his precisely organized desk. Antonia went to his holodisplay to assist with the ecclesial, administrative, and diplomatic protocols with Rome’s communications offices. Soon Bauer was greeting Cardinal Peter Mwenda Kwalia, the former Archbishop of Mombasa and now the prelate in charge of diplomatic relations for the Holy See.
“Archbishop Bauer, greetings!” the cardinal said with sincere enthusiasm. “It is good to speak again. I understand you are having bad weather in Boston. We are in Rome as well—not at all like that warm day when we met last spring.”
Bauer remembered. He had been in Rome for a gathering of the American bishops with the Holy Father. He was at Trattoria Da Luigi, treating a few clergy friends and seven seminarians studying abroad in Rome, when he spotted Cardinal Kwalia walk in and ask for a table for one.
Bauer invited Kwalia to join them, which brought a broad smile to the cardinal’s tired expression—the kind of smile that comes from a man who knows the value of charity and joy. They had all laughed and spoken freely as the evening went on, and Bauer kept ordering cold pinot grigio, linguini carbonara, and whatever else the cooks could devise.
Three months later, Pope Clement XV appointed Kwalia as the Vatican’s chief diplomat.
It had upset Bauer that some questioned Kwalia’s loyalties. There was concern that he should have been more outspoken about Somalian incursions throughout eastern Africa before the wars—especially the attacks against Christians in northern Kenya. Bauer sympathized with clerics such as Kwalia—and there were many throughout Africa and Europe and in the Americas—who had been and remained in no-win situations. If they protested too loudly, they angered the enemies of their flocks, and the attacks escalated.
“It is always a pleasure, Your Eminence,” Bauer said, raising the monitor’s sound as the wind renewed its attack. “And many congratulations on your successful negotiations with the engineers and the Security Guild. As you may know from my report to your office, I spoke with Father McClellan a few hours ago. Our boy is enjoying his new home.”
“Yes, I am happy for that. But please, Alfred, call me Peter. And thank you for your support in this matter. The whole affair has been . . . a learning experience. Which brings me to my reason for contacting you. It seems that there may be an unforeseen issue with sending Father McClellan upside.”
Bauer pretended not to be concerned. “I would imagine there are quite a few, depending on whom you ask.”
“I am sure there are. But what I speak of may be a concern for the Holy See and for many here on Earth. As well as for Father McClellan—as it relates to his safety and, possibly, that of the people of New Athens. Of course I am not certain if any of this is a legitimate concern, but we are being told that it may be. And, well . . . we must be sure of things.”
Bauer suppressed a curse. He checked the time on the wooden clock opposite his desk. McClellan should have left New Athens for the Red Delta relay station by now.
“The Holy Father has received a communication,” the cardinal continued, “verified, I am afraid, about Father McClellan. This communication is from a militant group you know well. The Soldados de Salvación. But you would know them as—”
“Butchers!” Bauer blurted, prompting Antonia to look in.
The cardinal paused, apparently not expecting such bluntness. Bauer didn’t care.
“I believe this group is referred to in English simply as ‘Sals.’”
Bauer silently collected himself. Then softly, but still angrily, said, “I am sorry, Peter, but, as you can see, I’m no diplomat.”
“Perhaps not. But I appreciate your candor. I know that you were a chaplain during the wars of your nation. That is how you met John McClellan, I believe. You know the Soldados de Salvación very well. I do sympathize. They were—perhaps you do not know this—but this group was present throughout the eastern coast of Africa when I was a parish priest, and later a bishop.”
“Yes, I know. And I am sorry if—”
“Please, there is no need to apologize. We have all struggled with heavy crosses these many years. But at the present, let us focus on the matter at hand.”
The cardinal looked down. He seemed to be shuffling objects on his desk. Download codes appeared at the bottom of Bauer’s screen and soon multiplied.
“The Soldados de Salvación’s communication to the Holy Father is a warning,” Kwalia said. “They say that they are concerned that we have sent Father McClellan to help the engineers. They say that he holds secrets—about what, their correspondence does not say—and that there could be tragic consequences if this information became available to our overlords upside.”
“I see. How selfless of them to warn us.”
“Yes, indeed,” the cardinal said. “Now, two elements of this matter are most concerning. The correspondence tells us that the militia is standing by to, and I quote, ‘assist the Church in preventing Father McClellan from being used by the godless rulers of the new world,’ which, knowing the history of these Sals, I take as a threat against the people of New Athens and, given their duplicity, the Church herself.”
“And Father McClellan,” Bauer said.
“Precisely.”
“And the second concern?”
Cardinal Kwalia paused. “The letter purports to be signed—and yes, it is an actual letter, on paper—by Juan Carlos Solorzano himself. We haven’t received one in years.”
“Solorzano? I thought he was dead. Has this been confirmed?”
&n
bsp; “We’re determining that. Of course, if Solorzano is indeed alive . . .”
Kwalia didn’t have to finish the thought. Bauer had learned much as a Marine Corps chaplain. He knew what it could mean for the Church, for the world—the old one and the new—and for John McClellan, if Solorzano was indeed alive. If he had chosen this moment to summon his followers from the shadows.
“This is about the printers, isn’t it?” Bauer said.
Kwalia nodded. “I am afraid that is our concern, yes.”
“Does the letter mention them?”
“No—and you are receiving a copy of it, along with the intelligence we’ve assembled. But even without a specific mention of the orbital printers, I can see no other suitable conclusion as to why the Sals are meddling in the investigation.”
“I agree,” Bauer said, watching outside as wind pushed around icy trees. There was a crack up the street, followed by the noises of a limb falling hard on pavement. The lights of the room flickered and returned as Bauer looked back to the monitor. “There’s always more with the Sals than what they say. The high-defs have always been Solorzano’s prize. The question, I guess, is if the letter is really from him.”
“Yes. As I said, we are determining that. But I must be clear: whether or not this correspondence is truly from Juan Carlos Solorzano, its content contains information that places its source deep within his militia. I am sure of that.”
The lights dimmed again. The image on Bauer’s monitor jumped and froze.
“Archbishop Bauer, I shall get to the point. While the Sals may be madmen and butchers, their intelligence gathering has never been wanting and their boldness has never waned. This puts us in a predicament. If Father McClellan’s presence precipitates any move by Solorzano against the new world, it will be our responsibility. We cannot let that happen. We must do whatever we can, silently but surely, to protect not only our brother priest, but also the lives of the six hundred thousand souls in New Athens—and, I daresay, the souls of all those everywhere in the orbits.”
RED DELTA
OKAYO’S VOICE WAS CRISP over the transport’s broadcast system. Docking with Red Delta would be in thirty minutes. It was time to prepare for final braking maneuvers. Her words ended in a quick chirp, making way for the persistent hums of ventilation systems and the rise and fall of engines deep within the ship.
McClellan had spent most of the nine hours since their departure in the privacy of an aft cargo hold, which looked a lot like the insides of the old C-150 air transports from his years in the Corps. Back then he would be surrounded by the men and women of his unit. Now he was alone, hundreds of thousands of kilometers from Earth, yet comforted by the industrial webbing and the familiar smell of lubricants and electrical conduits.
He considered joining the others in the main passenger area but knew he had more time before final docking preparations. Okayo was a courteous pilot, keeping everyone apprised of even the smallest event—the firing of main engines, a roll maneuver, an unanticipated radiation belt that she’d report to the engineers so they could send Van Allen dispersers. No, there was no rush. She’d announce the final approach, and when she did there would be more to see.
Zhèng had given McClellan full access to the case files: catalogs of investigation reports; witness statements; laboratory findings; chain-of-custody documents; and, of course, catalogs of information on Raphael Tanglao. It had taken him more than seven hours to read it all—and he needed to pray his rosary and think. He needed to immerse himself in that unrepeatable moment that begins all investigations when you have the luxury of linking questions without the certainty of answers. Why that chapel? Who was the old builder in the blue jumpsuit and black boots that had watched his arrival, and then again when he left for Red Delta? Why had Tanglao set all this in motion by assuming an alias and coming upside to work in a relay station? Was he ministering to builders, or did he have some other goal?
He felt the tremors of engines preparing for maneuvers. Then came the thrust. The force pushed his chest against the safety strapping, but the motion gave only a general sense of the ship’s new direction. The better indicator was his rosary’s crucifix, which traveled off on its own, tugging on its chain as he held it firmly at the far end, its mass maintaining the trajectory it had traveled on before the thrusters spit fire.
McClellan studied the movement. The ship’s maneuvers were teaching him about motion in weightlessness—a reality he did not remember as well as he should. The docking ring where Father Tanglao’s body was found was in a zero gravity environment, as was most of the relay station. Only Red Delta’s central habitat had partial Earth gravity. That meant that life on the relay, as it is on this ship and similar short-range craft, is dictated by raw Newtonian physics—by action and reaction and inertia, all emphasized by weightlessness, which the unfolding of evolution hadn’t brought to human instinct.
McClellan stretched to loosen the gray patrol uniform that Zhèng had asked him to wear. He adjusted himself in the strappings and returned to the prayers of his rosary and to the matter at hand. It was Friday—the first Friday of Lent. The rosary meditations were the Sorrowful Mysteries, which recalled the events of Christ’s passion and death—a fitting narrative for replaying the chronology of events that preceded Father Tanglao’s death.
On Tuesday morning, January 20, more than a month ago, Red Delta had been passing 190 kilometers over the far side of the moon. Its superintendent and her three crew members, including Tanglao, had entered the final phase of its construction punch list. And because the engineers wanted the relay commissioned soon, completing that punch list meant no shortage of work on the first and second shifts and little sleep on the third.
According to the relay’s comm log, that morning at 0902 hours the superintendent had reported “all normal” and dispatched her three technicians to complete two tasks: a communications software upgrade, and a minor exterior reprinting at a backup docking ring.
At 0925, technician Maximillian Tucker had radioed from an auxiliary communications hub that, as expected, in ten minutes he would initiate a master reboot of Red Delta’s comm software, with a system restart estimated for fifty minutes after that.
At 0927 hours, technician Walter Hobart had radioed that he was suited up and exiting Air Lock 7 with two robbers for an inspection of a troubled secondary communications array, and then to test the unit after the comm system reboot.
At 0934, technician Nicholas Pratt—the alias used by Father Raphael Tanglao—had radioed that he had entered Air Lock 9 to coordinate with an external printer to assist with minor repairs of an exterior hatch.
At 0935, technician Tucker had initiated the comm reboot—which began a communications blackout with and throughout Red Delta. Soon after, crew member Walter Hobart had spotted what he thought was an explosive decompression near the air lock that Tanglao had been repairing. It was the other crew member, Maximillian Tucker, who had investigated and found Tanglao trapped in the air lock moments before his death. It was Tucker who witnessed the printer’s emissions cut into his coworker’s legs and face. It was Tucker who had discovered the message that Tanglao had recorded on the comm controls of his life suit.
On the recording Tanglao’s voice was weak. His words and the sound of his shallow breaths were marred by gurgling, and they competed with the scream of rushing air as the docking structure repressurized. But something could be made out: “my intent . . . but to the one who has taken my life . . . please pray . . . and for my family . . . Father, I ask forgiveness.”
Other than the recording, the evidence was minimal. Not only were external and internal comms and monitoring systems down for the reboot, but also the superintendent had decided to get the job done faster by reloading not just the primary systems but the backups as well.
Anne Okayo explained at the briefing that the builders call these times “flying blind.” Comm shutdowns like these for any legitimate reason, or illegitimate ones, were a favorite of the workers. Th
ey freed them, even for just a few minutes, from the constant oversight and ever-changing orders of the engineers. There were risks to flying blind, of course—the least being violations of the Orbital Construction Safety Code. Little usually comes of such citations, Zhèng had said. But in this case, one of the crew members had been found dead during the shutdown, which made the superintendent’s orders contributing factors.
Brandon Clarke knew the superintendent from another case. He wasn’t surprised that she was cutting corners to get her relay commissioned, especially if the engineers were offering bonus credits for family citizenship, which, in all likelihood, they were. But he didn’t see her as a conspirator for murder. Still, Clarke said, they should take the superintendent’s words with caution. “She’s better at lying to herself than to others,” he said. “I’m not sure which is worse.”
“In this case,” McClellan answered, “both.”
Complicating matters was time. Zhèng’s team would have only a little under three hours after boarding Red Delta to perform their work. This included meeting McClellan’s demands for time to examine Tanglao’s corpse—which would be his only opportunity before the body left the quarantine of the relay’s morgue. McClellan had also asked to inspect the site where Tanglao’s body had been found, and then to question the superintendent and her two technicians.
Three hours was tight. But the original plan had been merely a retrieval of Father Tanglao’s body by a brother priest. Offering McClellan time for an examination of the body and additional investigations was an added wrinkle that had to be fitted into the demands of the orbits—unless they could find some reason to extend the Security Guild’s control of Red Delta.
Okayo had explained to McClellan—twice—why they had this time limitation. But astrophysics was never his strong point. Still, she had done her best to describe Red Delta’s lunar orbit, as well as the brief window to transfer the relay to a working elliptical orbit around Earth. Because that opportunity wouldn’t recur for another month, she said there was uncommon agreement between the builders and the engineers to commission Red Delta, fire her main engines, and get her in business at exactly the right moment.
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