A Printer's Choice

by W. L. Patenaude

  Yoshiharu continued to eye-type and drink. “I know, Mizuki. I’ve already scheduled inspections at key points. I’ll do a walk-through in a couple of days. Check things out. Although it would be easier if we could redesign the chapel—build it as it was first designed.”

  Pavić watched Jansen’s displeasure grow. He turned to McClellan and said, “If the investigation is still ongoing—and if you have not ruled out that the murderer could be someone other than the builder—then please let me know what data resources you will need. We’re a bit jammed with the buildout at Progress, but I’ll make sure we dedicate whatever bandwidth you and Commissioner Zhèng may need.”

  “Much appreciated,” McClellan said.

  Pavić raised his glass in a quiet toast. He drank and turned to the chief engineer. “Elaina, while we’re on the topic of delays, perhaps you should explain our answer to Tanglao’s superior and to his family. Might as well get all the unpleasantness past us before dinner.”

  “Ah, yes,” Jansen said, rousing herself from some thought. “An unfortunate situation has arisen, Father. One of your brethren, a Father Lawrence Lee, the head of Father Tanglao’s Dominican Order, had requested to come to New Athens for the funeral of Father Tanglao. But of course you know this. Sadly, this request has been denied. As has the request from Father Tanglao’s family.”

  “Denied?” McClellan said, allowing himself some displeasure. “Father Lee is the master of the Order of Preachers. Of course he and Tanglao’s parents want to be at the funeral. I thought that all this had been discussed.”

  “We had told Rome that we would consider the requests, which of course we did. But you see, there is some sensitivity among some of the other faiths on Earth that there may be too much travel privilege given to the Roman Catholic Church. And there is also some displeasure among the residents of New Athens—as happy as we all are, of course, with your quick detainment of a suspect.”

  McClellan read the varying expressions of the engineers. They were expecting him to respond with increased indignation—but there was something else. Each of them, in their own way, had some look of alarm. About what, he did not know.

  “I understand,” he said, in deference to their authority. “I don’t like it. But I suppose it’s understandable.”

  The engineers took turns looking at each other.

  “Well, I am glad you see our side of things,” Jansen said, sitting back.

  “I’m disappointed—”

  “I understand.”

  “—and now I have to write a homily for the first funeral in the orbits,” he continued, picking up his whiskey. “Because I still intend to hold a funeral Mass. But, as unfortunate as all this is, I cannot discount your generosity to me, and with your work rebuilding the cities on Earth.”

  The group smiled at themselves. This pleased the priest, but the Marine wanted more information.

  “Might I ask,” he said, turning to Pavić, “that I take you up on your bandwidth offer? Given these new circumstances, I’ll need extra comm time—secure, of course—with Rome, my own archbishop, Father Lee, and, of course, the Tanglao family?”

  “Of course,” Pavić said.

  There was a pause that prompted refills on drinks. McClellan declined another and looked over at Jansen as she returned to her seat. She was staring at him anxiously.

  “I have something to ask,” she said without her usual confidant tone. “It directly involves the five of us—and perhaps other engineers.”

  McClellan waited.

  “You see, in the past few hours each of us has received a threat. Very disturbing ones.”

  “From whom?” McClellan asked.

  Jansen’s eyes were wide, much like Tucker’s had been when McClellan had questioned him. “It appears that the threats are from Solorzano. And that’s confirmed, I’m afraid.”

  McClellan watched the expressions of his hosts, lit by the crescent Earth.

  “May I ask about the nature of the threats?” he asked.

  Mizuki Sasaki stood and walked to the fireplace. “I was told that my brother and I would be beheaded if we did not allow for human labor in future construction. You see, for the projects under way—especially those farther out in the orbits—we had planned full printer buildouts.”

  Pavić waved his glass. “And I’m to offer more data allotments to builders, as if I had it to hand out like candy. Have you ever seen their use breakdown? Pornography tops the list. Then sporting events, concerts, and gaming. They’re hardly doing neurological research. I’ve been told that if I don’t acquiesce, my tongue will be cut out and my throat slit.”

  Hannah Ward said that she wouldn’t speak of the threat against her—but that it had something to do with complaints about power grid repair prioritization.

  “And as for me,” Jansen said, “I’m in charge of New Athens, and of course its printers. So I am of particular interest to the Sals. Let us leave it at that.”

  McClellan could not ignore the fear in these people. Jansen in particular slouched as she stared at stars slipping past her feet.

  “You see,” she said, “I understand that we sometimes come across as harsh—as I am sure our decision about the Tanglao family and his superior must certainly sound. And thank you, again, for your understanding. We try very hard to balance a great many issues. As much as the printers can do, resources are not infinite, the work needed to be done on Earth is vast, and space will always be hostile to life. The continual dispersal of radiation in the Van Allen Belts alone is an ongoing headache. To say nothing of the maintenance of this world and the lunar bases. And through it all we do our best. But I’m afraid we make enemies as we choose this course over that one, this priority over another. And yet we do not intend to be mean-spirited. We are actually trying to help.”

  Jansen’s words were honest, and her fear was real.

  “I appreciate all that,” McClellan said. “And I understand. We’re all human, after all.”

  “Yes, yes we are,” Jansen said.

  “Have you told Zhèng about the threats?”

  “Not yet. We were hoping you might help with that.”

  “Why me?”

  Jansen was considering her words when Pavić spoke. “Because Commissioner Zhèng has never engaged the Sals,” he said. “But you have military experience with them. You were at Raleigh. And besides, we know that the Sals are Christians such as yourself—”

  “They most certainly are not,” McClellan said.

  “They say that they are,” Hannah Ward said. “And they do protect your Church.”

  “They routinely attack the Church, viciously, and they’ve all been excommunicated.”

  Jansen fidgeted. “Father McClellan, we don’t pretend to understand the nuances of your faith’s relation to the Sals. But we believe that for a number of reasons you know them better than our security commissioner, whom we otherwise hold in high regard. We will of course communicate our issues to him—”

  “Exactly when did you get these threats?” McClellan said.

  “Yesterday. While you and Zhèng’s team were boarding Red Delta. So of course we wonder what the connection could be. But I know—we know—that you will find that connection.”

  McClellan said nothing. Jansen’s eyes gave him a thoughtful inspection. “Allow me to be blunt,” she said, leaning forward. “You did more on Red Delta in a few hours than Commissioner Zhèng and his team accomplished in a month. You’re a natural investigator, and you have experience with and understand the Sals. Which is why I want you to lead this case. I’d like you to take command, beginning tomorrow morning.”

  “Me? You don’t mean that.”

  “I do. And I have the backing of the Engineering Council in offering you this . . . promotion.”

  “You’re giving me too much credit, Elaina. You understand that I can’t get into the details of an ongoing investigation, but I’m certain that Zhèng and his team would have uncovered everything that I did.”

  “I wo
nder,” Jansen said.

  The mantel clock sounded seven o’clock. McClellan used the time between strikes to plan his next move. When the chimes ended, Mizuki Sasaki returned from the fireplace. “Well, McClellan?” she asked. “What will you do?”

  He looked down at Earth rolling again under his feet and he thought of Sunday’s Gospel reading, which offered the notorious duel in the desert between Christ and Satan: “The devil said to him, ‘I shall give to you all this power and their glory; for it has been handed over to me, and I may give it to whomever I wish. All this will be yours, if you worship me.’”

  McClellan smiled and sat back into the folds of his armchair. “What will I do? I’m going to enjoy my dinner with you fine people, go home and pray the evening office, get a good night’s sleep—finally—and after morning Mass I’m going to visit the sick and the imprisoned. Then I’m meeting with Commissioner Zhèng, who will remain in charge of this case.”

  LANCE CORPORAL DANIEL MACEDO cleaned the gash on his arm with alcohol, the last in McClellan’s med supplies. Macedo wrapped the wound with pieces of a towel they found in a half-buried clothes dryer. The ranch house that had once sheltered the dryer was in ruins from the Sals’ rush north the day before. What remained provided decent shelter and lines of sight for McClellan, Macedo, and fifteen other tired Marines. The advance on Raleigh had been halted for more than three hours, and it was night. Fires and incendiaries burned brightly in the south and west, and with no electricity running through the city’s power grid to drown them out, the stars shone brightly.

  “Not too tight,” McClellan said. “Give it room to keep the blood flowing.”

  “Johnny, I know what I’m doing,” Macedo said. “Damn. I’d give anything for a high-def.”

  “You and me both. When we make it to one, I’ll print up antibiotics, if we don’t find any on the way. I’m better at meds than you.”

  “And a Mustang convertible?” Macedo said, wincing as he refastened the armor on his sleeve.

  “And one of those,” McClellan said.

  Corporal McClellan and Lance Corporal Macedo were programmers assigned to the 6th Marine Raider Battalion, which had been deployed to secure three experimental printers from North Carolina State University’s engineering campus. Their mission was a key element of a grand and hopefully final offensive against Sal incursions throughout the southeastern United States. The Marine Expeditionary Force from Lejeune led the joint operations, with support from Army field artillery, as well as international assistance from Mexico and Croatia. National Guard units from the Carolinas and Georgia lent operational support, mostly assisting with the protection and care of thousands of civilians who for decades had survived the famines and the big storms, only to be displaced by the Sals.

  The operation had begun that morning, a clear and warm one on the twenty-fourth day of August 2075, when Marines and Army artillery moved in from the north and the east. The international forces, including three thousand Mexicans and about half as many Croatian Special Forces—all defectors from the Global Union—simultaneously pushed the Sals north and blocked their movement from the west. Battles went as scripted, and spirits were high. For seven hours, the offense had sliced easily through the armies of the Soldados de Salvación and cut off their means of retreat.

  But the day would not end as it had begun. Heavy thunderstorms grounded air support while Sal forces closer to Raleigh were better equipped and trained than the intelligence had suggested. They were controlling the tempo on multiple fronts. Forward motion slowed, the casualty rate rose, and the joint forces questioned their operations plan.

  The southern advance along Interstate 440 halted at the rubble of Wade Avenue. There McClellan and Macedo, the other programmers, and their battle-proficient escorts found refuge in blown-out ranch houses where they watched the new strategy unfold to their south.

  In an age when high-definition printers with Deep Intellect created worlds in the orbits, the Marines of the 26th Marine Expeditionary Unit slipped behind enemy lines and fought the old-fashioned way—building by building, dropping from helos onto roofs, clearing structures floor by floor, then forward, and up to the next, because the decisions were coming from the battlefield.

  Dying thunderheads, still flashing with lightning, reflected the sun’s warmth, then faded to gray. Then the world went dark as the 26th continued clearing paths for the removal of civilians and the arrival of the programmers. Thousands of soldiers and Marines who waited along the forward edge used the precious time to rest and to heal, to eat, to clean themselves, to check and repair equipment, and to tend the wounds of their brothers and sisters before the order came to advance.

  A friendly whistle and a green light on a proximity badge gave the all-clear. Lance Corporal Samuel Jordan trotted up the driveway from where he’d been sharing rumors and a smoke with his escorts. He fell into the rubble next to Macedo.

  “Just the three of us left,” Jordan said, breathing deeply but steadily. “The COC ordered Hamilton and Ramos to Virginia Tech. Heard we found two more printers there. That’s okay. They aren’t the best programmers—not as good as us.”

  “No one’s as good as us,” McClellan said. “Any word on medical supplies?”

  “Just that there aren’t any. Command probably expected us to have made it to the printers by now. We lost a lot of good Marines today—Army, Mexes, Croats, the works. Hey, I heard there’s water here.”

  A flash preceded another low rumble from the south. McClellan listened in to his earpiece but nothing was reported. “Yeah, we got water. Coming out of that pipe under the sofa.”

  “Looks like sewer.”

  “Yeah, I’m handing out sewer water. No, it’s fresh. Help yourself.”

  Their earpieces roared with comm traffic. McClellan’s escorts stood out of the shadows, their gear glowing red from firelight. One of them said that remote intelligence had news. That was Lance Corporal Rocha, hands down the toughest Marine whom McClellan had served with. Rocha had gotten word from an old buddy from boot camp who was now in Command. The buddy said that the Sals may have found a printer.

  Getting to his knees, Macedo cursed. “How the hell did they find the printers?”

  “No surprise if they did,” said Jordan as the remaining escorts circled around them. “The Sals are good that way. They want what they want, and we all know they’re going to get one someday. Looks like that day is today.”

  “They could just be baiting,” said McClellan. “They do that—send bad intelligence, saying they know more than they do, like where a printer is hidden—hoping someone’ll move to secure them, tipping off locations, strategies.”

  Macedo tested his arm and winced.

  “Danny, you gotta get called out,” McClellan said with an unhappy look.

  “I’m good,” Macedo said, forcing a carefree tone. “I wouldn’t say it if it weren’t true.”

  McClellan was considering his response when the next report came. It was official: the Sals had found all three printers—but there was no word on their condition, or any possibility that they could be extracted.

  “Think they have programmers?” Jordan said. “If not, they’ll be looking for some.”

  “Jordan, you’re like Einstein over here,” McClellan said. “Sals got themselves printers. We know what they’ll look for next. No sense going on about it. We’re good. We got some of the best Marines watching our backs. Ain’t that right, Rocha?”

  “Semper Fi, bro,” Rocha said.

  “Doesn’t matter if the Sals got a hundred programmers,” Jordan said, undeterred. “They want as many as they can get—especially us, ’cause we know how to print weapons.” Jordan watched as water from the pipe bubbled over his canteen, which flashed a blue light because the water was safe to drink. “You guys hear about the two programmers out by Knoxville getting done in by their commander? They say she shot them instead of letting the Sals get them.”

  “Shut up, Jordan,” McClellan said. “We’ve all
heard stories like that. Bunch of Sal lies.”

  A trio of low-flying F-35s shot past them, the scream of their engines following behind. Radio traffic escalated, and there were blasts of light and smoke closer to the freeway.

  “Key and coupler check!” McClellan shouted. “Confirm couplers are depowered!”

  “Bet your ass mine’s off,” Macedo said.

  “Confirmed here, too,” Jordan said. “No Sal is pinging me on a Saturday night. I’m going out after this is over. Gonna find whatever’s left of a bar in Raleigh—all the liquor I can have. I may even buy you two a drink.”

  Ordnances seared the darkness and roared in the south and the east. Seconds of adrenaline-laced silence became minutes. One of McClellan’s other escorts was the radio tech. He was patched into Command, his eyes moving swiftly as he heard the secure communications coming through his implants. “No confirmation that they secured the high-defs,” he said. “But Mex Special Forces are moving in—maybe they got intel . . . yes, yes they do. Hold.”

  “You have to love the Mexes,” McClellan said.

  “Yeah,” Jordan said. “They’re winning the competition with us and the Croats about who hates the Sals most. It’s a good competition. I’m gonna buy them all a drink, too.”

  The radio tech cursed and stepped forward. “Sounds like the Sals just did their thing again. Gunned down a few hundred civilians they rounded up along the way. Said God told them to do it ’cause we advanced. Damn religious crazies.”

  “That’s religion for ya,” McClellan said.

  Four more F-35s raced overhead.

  Around the ranch house, the motion of a thousand men and women gave the word before the radio tech could speak: the Sals had clear access to the printers.

  It was time to move.

  THE CHAPEL

  MCCLELLAN REMAINED SILENT AS Zhèng told him the news about Max Tucker.