A Printer's Choice

by W. L. Patenaude

  “Okay,” McClellan said. “I’ll buy that—for now. But either way, now we find you breaking your superintendent’s lockdown—which was ordered by Commissioner Zhèng—to come here and hack into a secure conversation of an active murder investigation.”

  “Like I said—”

  “I know. You wanted to find out what we’re planning to do with your friend’s body. I appreciate that, Max. But that still puts me in a situation. I guess we have to reassess a few things about your involvement with this investigation. I guess we need to go through your earlier statements. See if any of them changed.”

  Tucker folded his arms, pressing them into his chest. His breathing was fast and shallow. He looked up at Zhèng, who was standing behind McClellan.

  “I didn’t kill anyone,” he said. “Why won’t either of you believe me?”

  McClellan wanted to believe him. But he couldn’t rule out the possibility that for some reason that might have made sense to Tucker, even if only for an instant, he had wanted Tanglao dead. Even if not all of him shared that wish, there could have been some fury that wanted to punish his friend—for whatever reason, and there could be many. And then, when it had the chance, the fury took control. McClellan had heard enough confessions—and had confessed enough of his own—to know how quickly, how totally, a man’s higher self can yield to the lowest of his passions.

  “Max, let me ask this again,” McClellan said, checking the time. “From one Wolverine to another, did Nick have a tablet like yours—it would look sort of like those, but bigger? More connection ports. And dual displays—side to side.”

  Tucker shook his head. “Not sure what you mean.”

  McClellan typed a few commands on his tablet, which sent off an image of a programmer’s key and coupler. “Did you ever see Nicky with anything like these?”

  Max recoiled. “Nicky wasn’t a programmer. He wouldn’t have had those.”

  McClellan was certain that Tucker was lying, but that a part of him wanted to believe his own words—either because he was the killer or because he was afraid of the killer. Or he was simply protecting his friend Nicky.

  “Max, you haven’t been to Docking 9 since they took away Nicky’s body, right?”

  Tucker stared. “That’s right.”

  McClellan stood up just as the station’s computer announced the initiation of orbital adjustments in ten minutes, and the final engine burn in ninety.

  “Let’s go, Max, you and I,” he said. “The man you call Nicky Pratt is my brother, and he’s your friend. I’d like to see where he died. And I’d like you to show me.”

  Tucker folded his arms again and his eyes were fixed at nothing.

  “Commissioner Zhèng,” McClellan said, keeping his eyes on Tucker, “I’d like to check the docking area where Max here found Nicky Pratt, and I’d like Mr. Tucker to come. And then I’d like to request that the Security Guild take him back to New Athens for questioning—more than we have time for here.”

  Zhèng guardedly agreed. He ordered his two agents to accompany McClellan and Tucker and to record the investigation. Then he took McClellan aside. “I probably don’t have to tell you this,” he said, “but go easy on the kid.”

  “That’s my plan,” McClellan said with a shrug. “But it all depends on Tucker.”

  ZHÈNG ACCOMPANIED AN UNHAPPY Molly Rose to the main administrative offices. Clarke and Okayo escorted McClellan and Tucker out of the habitation ring, through the weightlessness of Red Delta, and past the main arrays of cargo holds. Clarke had been to the Docking 9 assembly in the first security boarding, and led the way, while Tucker followed up with Okayo and McClellan.

  They stopped at a sealed bunker door that led to the quarantined aft section. It had been shut, locked, and sealed by Zhèng two weeks prior. Okayo assisted Clarke with the unlocking, which required the presence, passwords, and DNA of two security agents.

  There was a low rumble before the doors cracked and separated. A chill breeze and a stale smell met them as the atmospheres of both bunkers equalized. Ahead, lighting tracks flashed and flickered on.

  “How far?” McClellan asked Tucker, even though he knew the answer.

  “Four hundred meters,” Tucker said. “Straight down.” Then he pointed to a narrower corridor perpendicular to the main spine. “And down there are the triple c’s—the comm control centers—for the rear antennae. Go about eighty meters. That’s where I was when I got the news about Nicky. Left some of my tools there. They found them the first time they looked.”

  The station’s lighting dimmed for a moment, as echoing around them came the unsoothing voice of the relay’s computer. “Attention, all crew. Prepare for level four transit adjustment in one minute. Main engine fire in one hour, sixteen minutes. Remember: take caution during all orbital adjustments.”

  Okayo consulted her tablet, nodded to Clarke, and waved the team forward. “Tucker, you’re with me and McClellan. Agent Clarke will reinspect your stated location at the time of Father Tanglao’s death. Let’s go, everyone. The orbits are doing their thing.”

  Per Zhèng’s orders, Okayo activated her suit’s scanners and video recorders and called out to the others to do the same. Then, as forewarned, Red Delta’s main thrusters fired. The structure groaned and the corridor revolved slightly, pushing slowly toward them as the relay gained a new orbital momentum.

  Clarke gave a cheerful shout when the engines stopped. He grinned and waved as he turned into the side access tunnel. “Okayo, don’t let McClellan bump his head. That was a baby compared to the big corrections coming later.”

  Okayo said something in Swahili that made Clarke laugh loudly, but her smile faded as she, Tucker, and McClellan moved deeper into the cold main spine. This end of the relay was even more monotonous than the rest of Red Delta—its corridors were numbered and color-coded but otherwise identical, and the lighting, rising and falling as they came and went, allowed only small glimpses of the expanses in which they moved. McClellan had read about the psychological tests that builders take to work on a relay. Now he knew why.

  They came to the outer wall and the hub for Docking 9. Between the two docking-access tunnels was a round window with an elaborate fractal design. It was similar to the yellow-and-white stained glass over the entrance foyers to McClellan’s rooms. But this design used transparent metals, which looked out onto the darkened lunar horizon and the stars beyond.

  “I didn’t realize printers got so creative on relays,” McClellan said as he studied the window.

  The docking access tunnels ran at opposing right angles from the main corridor, either above, or below, or to the sides, depending on how your brain made sense of things. McClellan’s followed the flat-floor convention of the main corridor, which oriented the docking ring where Father Tanglao had died as above him, as if it were a tunnel that rose to an elevated vault.

  “Damn,” Tucker said. “This is a sad place.”

  “Murder will do that,” Okayo said, engaging the docking controls. An activity alarm chirped as the door to the access tunnel slowly slid open, grinding in protest as it stirred from its frozen condition. Air hissed as the atmospheres of both tunnels equalized. Then ice crystals tumbled from within the Docking 9 access, melting as they drifted through the warmer air.

  Okayo watched with concern. Tucker did too.

  “Clarke,” Okayo radioed, pulling up the communications tip of her collar, “report.”

  A few larger beads of water quivered as they drifted toward Tucker’s face. He scowled and slapped them into a different trajectory. A droplet adhered to his thumb. He examined the droplet wonderingly.

  “Clarke, report.”

  Tucker, lost in calculation, squeezed the droplet between his thumb and forefinger.

  “Clarke, Okayo here. Report.”

  Tucker peered into the access tunnel. His eyes were working to see through the slight mist within, into the air lock where five weeks ago he found his friend sliced up from a printer’s emissions.


  Okayo forced her collar closer to her mouth. “Clarke! Report!”

  After more silence came static and then a response.

  “Here,” Clarke radioed. “Sorry, I was in a control bunker. Lost signal. Glad you called—saved me the trouble. I have some news from this end.”

  As Clarke spoke, Okayo briefly closed her eyes. “Before you begin,” she said, “I have a question from Docking 9. You were here on both boardings. Were there any reports of water vapor in the docking access?”

  A pause gave way to a distorted response. “That’s a negative on water vapor. We had humidity levels of about five, ten percent on the first investigation. I thought that was high, but not too much out of the ordinary. I didn’t go dockside for the second trip, but nothing jumps out about water vapor.”

  “I’m sending a visual,” Okayo said, holding her left arm aloft for the wrist unit to send video. “What’s the word from your end, Clarke?”

  “Well, the good news is no sign of human activity since we sealed this bulkhead two weeks ago—not saying there wasn’t any, but I’m finding no signs—and hey, I am pretty good at this—so I’d say no one has been here.”

  “Sure of himself,” McClellan said to Okayo, “isn’t he?”

  “Oh, that he is,” Okayo said. “But he is good. Almost as good as I am.”

  “But get this,” Clarke’s voice continued, stronger but still through static, “there are fresh markings on the tunnels that are telling me a clumsy little robber was here—and recently. If we had time I could ID the one—if it’s still on station. Be good to find. I thought Superintendent Rose was to have robbers locked down in quarantined sections.” Clarke paused again. “Wow, that’s a lot of water. There’s a leak somewhere.”

  “You are brilliant,” Okayo said, circling around the perimeter of the main spine. “The only water available here is in the reclamation lines for the emergency oxygenators. Could be that. Could be a punctured environment suit.” Okayo gave one more check of the corridor’s circumference. She pulled a small vial from a pouch on her belt and followed some of the water to collect it. “We better let Zhèng know about this,” she said.

  “Already done,” Clarke said.

  “Wouldn’t a leak cause an alarm?” McClellan asked, looking at Tucker.

  “It should,” Okayo said.

  The lights dimmed and went red. “Attention, all crew. Prepare for level two transit adjustment in six minutes. Main engine fire in sixty-nine minutes. Remember: take caution during all orbital adjustments.”

  “So either the sensors failed,” McClellan said when the lighting returned to normal, “or there was a water vapor alarm and it was silenced. Unless I’m missing something. Guess we’ll find out more when we go in.”

  “Not sure we’re going in.”

  McClellan pulled himself level to Okayo. “I’m going in. I came here for this, and now after examining Tanglao—”

  “McClellan, listen to me. I think I can buy us more time.” She turned again into her collar mic. “Commissioner Zhèng, Agent Okayo here. Based on new evidence and lack of on-board investigative resources, I am requesting a forensic analysis of the markings found by Agent Clarke, and this water leak in the Tanglao docking access.”

  “Copy that, Okayo,” Zhèng replied, and then after a pause, “but request denied. With Tucker in custody, I don’t have cause for delaying this station any longer beyond its next transfer window. That’s a pretty big ask, Agent.”

  “Commissioner, besides Tucker’s illegal monitoring, we have evidence of a security breach in an active murder investigation, and possible signs of tampering at the site of the murder.”

  “What we have is a water leak in an idle docking station—hardly startling. And Clarke’s evidence of a robber doesn’t sway me either. Robbers are routinely activated for maintenance. Neither are causes for idling this station for a third forensics check. If we want more time, I’ll need something else.”

  Okayo looked at McClellan. “Looks like we go with your plan.”

  The lights dimmed and went red. “Attention, all crew. Prepare for level two transit adjustment in five minutes. Main engine fire in sixty-eight minutes. Remember: take caution during all orbital adjustments.”

  “Better hurry,” Okayo said. “After this adjustment there are only a few more before Red Delta fires her main engines—and if we’re here for that, our trip home gets a lot longer.”

  “Understood,” McClellan said.

  “All right,” Okayo said, positioning herself at the docking controls. “You know the protocol. I’ll stay here and monitor. You keep all body cams activated.”

  “Will do,” McClellan said. “Come on, Tucker.”

  The access to the docking assembly was only about three meters in diameter, and it did not have a flat side to orient its occupants. Signs were sparse and the walls were utilitarian—hallmarks of the engineers’ backup systems for their backups to their backups.

  McClellan looked at Tucker. “You all right?” he asked. “The last time you were here . . . well, this has to be difficult.”

  Tucker looked sideways at McClellan. “Feels sad,” he said. “The whole thing is sad.”

  “That it is, Max. So let’s try to make things right, okay?”

  The questions seemed to have gone unheard. Tucker continued through the tunnel, shaking his head, propelling himself mechanically, seemingly resigned that he no longer had the freedom to decide where to go or what to do.

  The docking system must have sensed the water vapor. Drops spun along the circumference of the walls, disappearing into ventilation intakes.

  “Attention, all crew. Prepare for level two transit adjustment in four minutes. Main engine fire in sixty-seven minutes. Remember: take caution during all orbital adjustments.”

  “Max, show me what you did when you came in here that morning.”

  Tucker nodded obediently, braked his momentum on the next grab, and took a breath. “Well, first we were all doing our precommissioning jobs, maybe faster than we should. Maybe not by the book. But we were all excited about being commissioned—about getting a full crew and earning credits. So things were good, and Nicky always told me to enjoy when things are good.”

  “Go on.”

  “Well, like I told the other investigators, Hobart and I were doing all the comm systems. He was outside, and I was inside. We had to do a system reboot to upgrade our software—the engineers are always upgrading the software—so that meant no comms except for local radios, but no one was using those at the time.”

  McClellan noted Tucker’s honesty.

  “It’s a good time when we reboot,” Tucker said. “I like my job, but it’s noisy and you’re always hearing other people’s business. And you’re always getting hassled by the engineers. Reboots are like vacations. There’s just silence.”

  “And then?”

  “Then I got a tug on my local radio. Hobart was out at the antenna array, and he saw what looked like a compartment decompression, out this way, where a high-def was working. It wasn’t much, he said, but he got all worked up when he realized it was by the assemblies where Nicky was. He tried to radio, but they don’t work with printer interference, so we couldn’t get to Nicky.”

  “That’s true, Max. Printers are like us, sometimes. They don’t like comm traffic when they’re working.”

  “Attention, all crew. Prepare for level two transit adjustment in three minutes. Main engine fire in sixty-six minutes. Remember: take caution during all orbital adjustments.”

  Max was still thinking about McClellan’s words. “They scare me, those things,” he said. “I bet the printer is the killer. Not that I mean to tell you your job. But I don’t trust them. They have minds of their own.”

  McClellan urged Tucker to stay on topic.

  “Anyway, I was closest to where Nicky was. So again, like I told the others, I was already suited up in case something happened to Hobart, and I went fast. Left my tools behind and just went. My heart was poun
ding. I pushed off every grab I could to get as much speed as I could, kicked into the docking assembly, and I kinda knew when I saw the controls that things weren’t good. Nicky wasn’t in the access tunnel—this one, this one here—and the outer lock read that it was open and the inner door was closed. Not good. And I could hear the whine of the high def through the walls, and see its light all the way down here.”

  Tucker looked up and shivered.

  “So I went up fast. The inner door was locked with the vacuum on the other side. The window was iced up, but I could see in, and there was Nicky, my buddy, just floating as the printer was finishing up its business. All I could do was pound and yell . . .”

  McClellan knew there was more that Max Tucker wanted to say—or could say but had some reason not to. In time, McClellan thought. Give the kid time.

  By now the water vapor had been filtered out of the tunnel. But new water swelled in Tucker’s eyes. He wiped it away as McClellan put his hand on the back of Tucker’s shoulders, in part to comfort the boy, in part to urge him on.

  The lighting dimmed. “Attention, all crew. Prepare for level two transit adjustment in two minutes. Main engine fire in sixty-five minutes. Remember: take caution during all orbital adjustments.”

  “Better hold on,” Tucker said. “We’re gonna feel the maneuver hard out here. Maybe we should go back.”

  McClellan nodded forward.

  They went the last few meters silently, connected by grief and cold and the search for truth. The air lock was smaller than the main docking assembly that McClellan and the security team had used to enter Red Delta. The damage from the printer’s emitters was still there, along with some of Tanglao’s suit and helmet, which were fused to the wall. Markings from the forensic inspections still circled points of interest—possible locations of evidence, locations to scan, to test, to question.

  McClellan breathed deeply. “I’ve seen the holoimaging from two forensic checks of this spot. But it’s not the same as being here.” He took out his tablet and played Tanglao’s message: