“I took her to my apartments to die,” McClellan said. “She’s there to spend her last days treated with the dignity that she deserves—from people, not from robbers.”
“And there is nothing to be done?”
“She’s dying,” McClellan said. “We’re making her comfortable.”
“I hear you made something of a scene at the medical facilities.”
“I wouldn’t say that. It was the second time I met her when visiting the hospital and, yes, I was outraged at how she was being treated by those robotic nursing assistants. It’s that simple.”
“McClellan,” Clarke said, leaning in, “you made a scene.”
McClellan shrugged, and admitted that sometimes the Marine pushes aside the priest. “I have to watch that,” he said.
Wagner nodded thoughtfully. He watched for a moment as the small bubbles in his stout swirled upward into a layer of tan foam. “There’s a good deal of talk about this,” he said. “They say you are sleeping in your chapel.”
“Until we can get Mrs. Georgeson a proper medical bed, yes. I slept in the chapel last night. It wasn’t the first time I’ve slept in one.”
“And I assume that Elaina Jansen and the other engineers are not pleased?”
McClellan nodded as he ate, happy to finally be talking to a local builder, even if this was more interrogation than conversation. But then, he had been told to expect this of Wagner, who nonetheless seemed to have something he wanted to say.
“Well?” Wagner continued. “What did the great chief engineer have to say?”
“About what you’d expect. Jansen expressed . . . concern. And she was worried over the reaction of the Engineering Council. Something about faith and the New World Agreement.”
“And has that made you reconsider your decision?”
“I wish,” Clarke interjected.
McClellan said that unless the engineers sent Zhèng and his team to drag the elderly woman out of his residence, she would be staying. She would be cared for until she died, and he would pay for her remains to be sent back to Earth for a proper burial.
“You do not approve of this?” Wagner asked Clarke. “Will you be dragging this old builder onto the streets, and back to Troas City Hospital?”
Clarke gave a cold and silent stare.
“Always so serious,” Wagner said. “And distrustful. But to you, Father McClellan, I offer another toast. Any man who vexes the engineers is a friend of mine.”
The men toasted quickly. Wagner put down his stout and leaned into the bar. “It is a pity that you cannot bring Max Tucker to stay with you as well. If he must be detained, that is. For he is also dying, though in a different kind of way, I am sure.”
McClellan focused on the last of his chicken pot pie. If he was going to be lured in, he’d need more of an opening than what Wagner was offering.
Wagner leaned back and reassessed his dinner companion, his eyes lingering for a moment on the scarring on McClellan’s head. “Have you gone to visit Tucker?” he asked with enough sincerity to capture McClellan’s attention.
“Tried to. Three times since he confessed.”
“And?”
“He’s not interested in talking, and I can’t press the issue.”
“Ah, yes,” Wagner said. “You do work for Commissioner Zhèng.”
“No. I work for the truth.”
Sudden sounds of cheering came from the holodisplays and from the builders nearby. The noise drowned out Johnny Cash.
“I also seek the truth,” Wagner said. “I may die an unbeliever, but I was raised a Jew. I know that there is truth. And I know that in this world, as in the old one, truth is so very easily cast aside and trampled upon, and we all suffer greatly for it.” The cheering subsided, and Wagner’s voice was loud without the competition. “Father McClellan,” he said, his voice quieter, “very simply, I am here to thank you for disrupting the status quo—for dining with both engineer and builder. For taking in that old woman. And for wanting to help Max Tucker, for I believe that you wish to help him. And so, for all this, I am offering you help.”
McClellan said nothing, but listened and watched closely. He didn’t want to offer too much before he knew what was at stake.
“After all,” Wagner said, “as I understand it, your investigation is stalled. And there are things that I could tell you about your new home.”
“That so?”
“Yes, but only a few things that I should tell you. But not here. Perhaps you and Agent Clarke will take a tour of my facilities? It would be good to speak where it is private.”
“Or you could come by my offices,” McClellan said. “Or the chapel.”
“I could. And I will. But another time. For now, in addition to hearing what I have to say, I believe you will both want to see what I have to show you. Because in a way—in a profound way, actually—what I wish for you to see is related to your chapel, and the creativity that went into how it was printed. This may have some greater meaning. But of course I, a simple builder, would not know of such things.”
McClellan met Wagner’s stare. “You work in water reclamation, right?”
“Yes,” Wagner said. “Wastewater treatment. Just down the street. An unglamorous profession, but one that has always been essential for civilization to thrive. It is my small contribution to what your kind call the common good.”
McClellan sipped his whiskey, turning the glass as he swallowed. Wagner was right. Tucker had confessed three days ago, and the investigation had gone nowhere. The forensics team had not found Tanglao’s coupler, and their wounded pride in missing the key during the first two sweeps had them searching for its counterpart with painstaking and unhurried attentiveness. Okayo was readying needle-in-a-haystack reconnaissance flights in the event that the coupler had blown out of the air lock—but her departure was still days away. As for Tucker, he wasn’t talking and there could be no questioning him until his lawyer arrived. And there was nothing new to learn from his confession. Lopez’s tests showed only that Tucker had been afraid when he spoke, with conflicting results on whether he was truthful, or honest, or some combination of both.
Then there was the quest for any information on Tanglao’s programmer’s codes and story. McClellan had only been able to send written communications to Bauer since the morning he arrived on New Athens, six days ago, when they had their first and only live conversation. In the subsequent written comms, Bauer seemed guarded about what McClellan was asking. None of the archbishop’s responses included anything related to Tanglao’s codes or story. McClellan hoped to be more explicit during tonight’s call—because the ruse of seeking information for Tanglao’s funeral homily could last only a few more hours.
“Okay,” he said to Wagner, “I’d love a tour. As will Agent Clarke. He’s my bodyguard all week.”
Clarke made sounds of protest.
“This makes me happy,” Wagner said. “Come tomorrow morning—”
“Not in the morning,” McClellan said. “That’s Father Tanglao’s funeral.”
“Ah yes, how stupid to forget. The first such event in the orbits, no?”
“Correct. How about the afternoon?”
“Wonderful. Tomorrow afternoon it is. Later, however, due to repair work I have scheduled. Say five o’clock? Excellent. And yes, be sure to bring Agent Clarke.”
Shirley came from nowhere with Wagner’s hamburger.
“Here you are, Deary. I’ll be back with ketchup.”
Wagner appraised his dinner for a moment. “It is not right,” he said. “All that has happened, it is not right in the least.” Then he took his knife and cut the hamburger precisely in two.
MCCLELLAN TOOK JACK AND Chrissy, his two assistants, boxed dinners from the Spinside, and then went to meet Zhèng in the Security offices adjacent to his quarters. On his way he checked on Catherine Georgeson. Okayo was sitting by McClellan’s bed, in which Catherine lay sleeping, as the old woman had since her delivery from Troas City Hospital the d
ay before.
“Chrissy and Jack are doing a fine job,” Okayo said, looking up from the orbital trajectory models that drifted over her tablet. “They’ve assembled a wonderful group of caretakers.”
“They have indeed,” McClellan said, straightening Catherine’s blanket before sitting on the other side of the bed. “These kids are a blessing.”
Okayo put down her tablet and watched the priest. “Dr. Gupta came to check in while you were at dinner. She seemed pleased to see Mrs. Georgeson smiling as she slept.”
“I really have to go to that hospital and apologize,” McClellan said.
“They might appreciate that. By the way, you’ll be interested to know that, after the doctor left, Catherine had a moment of clarity. She asked Chrissy where she was. We told her, and we explained who you are, what you did, and she smiled. It was a big smile.” Okayo could not contain her own, and her eyes widened with joy. “Then she said that her father was a Baptist minister. She said it loudly and with pride, just like that—a BAPTIST MINISTER—and she said that he had told her that God would always take care of her. Good job, Father. Too bad you can’t do this for everyone.”
“I shouldn’t have to,” he said. “Everyone can take care of the Catherines of the world—the old world and the new one. God’s grace is sufficient for that. We just have to cooperate.”
Okayo nodded thoughtfully. She maintained her smile, although it dimmed as she glanced at Catherine’s health monitors. “Jack emptied the catheter not ten minutes ago, just like you showed him. Let’s go—you have a call to make.”
Okayo stood, but McClellan said he’d wait until Fiona, a friend of Chrissy’s, came to take a watch. He leaned forward and listened to the old woman breathe, then he began ten Hail Marys and the Salve Regina, offering them not only for Catherine but for all the people of New Athens. He thanked God for the sacrifices of so many who were helping to care for this woman—who, it turned out, was one of the first builders in the new world. She’d come upside to work with the communications systems that made orbital construction possible. She had degrees. Accomplishments. And yet she had been left alone to die. He had met hundreds of souls like Catherine in the neighborhoods and clinics of his parish, where his friend Father Bauer had taken him during his first visits to Boston—almost eleven years ago. It was sometime back then, somewhere in neighboring Somerville, at a moment like this, that McClellan began to understand Bauer’s faith—the faith of his Aunt Betty and his Uncle Roger.
He breathed deeply, and he thanked God for his blessings, and then he prayed until Chrissy’s friend arrived.
He found Okayo and Zhèng in his offices monitoring the New Athens holodisplay and speaking in low tones. Clarke, next to them, was firing up the comm displays.
“This doesn’t look promising,” McClellan said when he spotted the commissioner’s expression.
“Just more unrest,” Zhèng said. “The builders will be issuing a statement in the morning. They’re striking in solidarity of Tucker—even if we haven’t formally charged him.”
“Maybe that’s what old Wagner wants to talk about,” Clarke said, looking up to McClellan.
Zhèng gave them a look asking for clarification, which Clarke dutifully provided.
“You’re going to tour the sewers?” Zhèng asked.
“Can’t hurt,” McClellan said. “Besides, I have a hunch. I think Wagner is serious about getting us somewhere.”
Zhèng looked at Clarke, who did not look pleased about his situation. “Then again,” the commissioner said, “it’s not a bad idea to improve relationships with the builders—although Wagner is hardly popular among their leadership. But no matter. I want to know anything if it’ll help.”
Zhèng read more information on the holodisplay and then shook his head. “I honestly don’t understand,” he said, almost to himself. “The builders and the engineers have never had a love affair, but I never thought that tensions would grow so hot and so quickly. How can they not see that we’re all standing in a twenty-kilometer-long orbital tomb, if that’s what we want it to be—if we work against one another? And that’s exactly what’s happening. More so since the death of Father Tanglao.” Zhèng thought a moment. “If this keeps up, I almost believe calling for martial order would be justified.”
“You have that authority?” McClellan said.
“Technically, yes. And my forces are the only people on New Athens with weapons. But I’m hoping there are other options.”
“Ninety seconds,” Clarke said. “The engineers are handing over comm control, so it looks like you’ll be talking to your archbishop.”
McClellan sat at the display and entered his personal access codes. Zhèng came to his side as the display prepared itself for the incoming call:
Engineering: New Athens Communications Center
Private Link: NA-Troas City/Earth-Boston
Time to link: 27 seconds
And then 26 seconds, and soon 10, and then . . .
Bauer looked good. He was smiling as he always did when he greeted one of his priests. McClellan felt relief not just at seeing his archbishop—his friend—but also the details of his office behind him. There on that wobbly table was the small statue of St. Boniface and the palm plant that thrived only because of Antonia. And there was the painting of St. Thérèse of Lisieux—or at least the lower third of it—that took up most of the wall behind Bauer’s desk.
“Johnny McClellan,” the archbishop said, “praise God, it is good to see you. You look well.”
“Thank you, Your Excellency. And it is good to see you. Allow me to introduce Commissioner Zhèng, my colleague and now a friend. Zhèng is the—”
“Yes, yes, we spoke once during the planning stages. Good to have you with us, Commissioner. Please keep my priest out of trouble.”
“That is a difficult task, Archbishop.”
“Ha!” Bauer exclaimed. “Commissioner, I could tell you stories—”
“If I may interrupt,” McClellan said, “also with me are Agents Anne Okayo and Brandon Clarke. Two of the Security Guild’s best.”
“It takes three of us to keep your priest in line,” Okayo said.
Bauer gave a grand laugh, and after some professional courtesies and updates on McClellan’s parish and the goings on in Boston, McClellan got to work.
“Your Excellency, I want to follow up on my written requests. As I mentioned, I need information for Father Tanglao’s homily. I realize there’s little time before the funeral tomorrow morning, but the engineers have promised to transfer your response to me as soon as you get one.”
“Of course,” Bauer said. “I read your correspondences, but I wasn’t entirely sure what you were asking, or if it was necessary. With the family unable to travel to New Athens, the Dominican Order will hold a funeral on Earth when the body arrives. So you need not go to great lengths. A simple Mass is likely all Father Tanglao would have liked. Nothing grand.”
“It’s hard not to do grand in that chapel, Archbishop. I’d appreciate it if you could do what you can.”
“Of course,” Bauer said, hearing that friendly tone that McClellan uses when he means business. “What do you want to know about Father Tanglao?”
“Anything meaningful. Any life-changing event—which is the theme of the art in the Pauline Chapel, come to think of it.” McClellan paused as he pictured the works of Michelangelo that dominated the chapel’s two sides, and the painting of the Transfiguration. In fact, all the artwork depicted moments of transformation, like a good programmer’s story should.
“Anything in particular?” Bauer said.
“Actually, yes,” McClellan said. He would prefer not to get personal on a comm channel, even if it was supposed to be secure. But this was his chance to be certain that Bauer understood his improbable request. “Take, for instance, the story I told you after Raleigh, when we met in the infirmary. We were talking about my parents taking the government option when I was nine. I told you how they took me to visit my
aunt and uncle, and my mom told me it would be best for me to stay with them in Iowa, and then my dad told me that they were doing something noble by being euthanized to help reduce the population, and then my mom said that, in return, the Global Union would pay for my housing, medical care, and education. Do you remember me telling you that?”
“Yes,” Bauer said softly, surprised that McClellan was sharing his programmer’s story so casually, even if he wasn’t saying that that’s what it was.
“And do you remember the context of why I told you that story?”
“Yes. I remember.”
“Well, I’d like to know details like that about Raphael Tanglao. Because that kind of story could really help me.”
As Bauer wrote a few notes, McClellan said a silent prayer to St. Joseph.
“If it helps,” Bauer said, “I do have the music that his family chose. It’s all funeral hymns you approve of.”
“Of course,” McClellan said. “Thank you.”
“Now, Johnny,” Bauer said, “before I forget, Rome has asked for any news on the killer. We’d like to get word to Father Tanglao’s parents and to the Dominican Order. I’m supposed to be speaking with Father Lee, their master general, in a day or so. But based on what you’ve just asked, I’m going speed that up. Substantially.”
McClellan smiled. Bauer had understood.
“There’s nothing firm on the killer,” McClellan said. “We’re holding a young builder who has confessed. But he hasn’t been formally charged. He’s being held pending the arrival of his lawyer.”
Bauer stiffened, glad for the opening. “Lawyers in New Athens? Well, if they let a priest upside, I guess that opens the floodgates.”
There was something in Bauer’s tone that made McClellan cold. The archbishop may not know the nuances of modern comm systems, but the Marine chaplain knew how to get a point across with words, voice, and body language.
“You watch out, Johnny,” Bauer said, giving a serious look. “Remember that lawyer who came to file charges against you after Raleigh? What was his name? Estrada? He was a lot smarter than you, if I remember. You’d better be careful that this lawyer coming your way isn’t a smart SOB like Estrada.”
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