“At least in theory,” McClellan said. “Last I remember, printer communication wasn’t easy to manipulate.”
“True. It’s a safety to keep programmers from overstepping their authority. Especially if someone nasty ever got their hands on one. But we’ll figure something out.”
McClellan smiled at Clarke’s confidence. It reminded him of his early days as a programmer.
“And there’s something else,” Clarke said, leaning forward until he had to catch himself to avoid tumbling out of his chair. “Going inside the house printer will be good training for you. Time you got to know one of these newer models. You need practice, old man, if we’re planning to find and get inside the printer from Red Delta.”
McClellan relaxed and his smile grew. Now so did Clarke’s.
“So when do you suggest we go in?” McClellan said.
“That’s the hitch. The engineers are rounding up printers for maintenance—including these models of clamshells. Then out they go for their next project—probably the Progress buildout. From what the engineers told Zhèng, these clamshells are being sent away in a few hours. That’s soon, I know, but they said they need New Athens’s morning swing sunward to assist the orbital transfer.”
“Can’t they wait until another day? New Athens swings sunward every morning.”
“True,” Clarke said. “But the engineers have their schedule. And you know how they are about their schedules.”
“I bet it has more to do with getting that printer off station before Draeger subpoenas it. You said it’s the same model as the one at Tanglao’s murder?”
Clarke nodded. “Similar, yes. So you could be right about a subpoena. Anyway, we have only four hours and fifteen minutes before that printer and a few hundred others are bundled, processed, and shipped out.”
McClellan watched Clarke’s expression shift. The young agent had that probing stare of soldiers looking for confidence.
“Then we better move,” McClellan said, with a silent petition to St. Joseph. “I meant what I said yesterday. Between the two of us we should be able to get in deep enough to learn something—hopefully who programmed that printer with a replica of the Pauline Chapel. And why. There has to be a connection with Tanglao in all this.”
“Seems likely,” Clarke said, still watching McClellan’s reaction. “And someday if we get access to the clamshell from Red Delta, maybe we’ll find a connection between Tanglao and Solorzano. It’s a possibility, based on Okayo’s intelligence.”
McClellan shook his head. “If there is a connection, I’ll bet it’s not what first comes to mind.”
He looked up to the crucifix that hung on the wall behind Clarke. His parish had given it to him to take to New Athens. It was small and lightweight, as had been required, yet it communicated their feelings. McClellan had seen in the gift a sign of what lay ahead. As far back as that first meeting with Archbishop Bauer, he had been sure that his work in the orbits meant a return to the printers. Now he was eager to pick up this cross, and with God’s grace, to carry it forward.
McClellan stood. “You know that I haven’t been inside a printer since the wars.”
Clarke nodded. “I know. I mean, I don’t know all the details—”
“Well, you’d better learn them,” McClellan said. “Because if I have any contact with the printer, it’s going to be a risk.”
Clarke stood and met McClellan’s stare. “I read the report about Raleigh. I’m sure there’s more to know, but I can’t see much of a risk. You wouldn’t be the first programmer that lied to a printer.”
“This isn’t just about a lie.”
Worry came again to Clarke’s eyes, but with a growing impatience.
“Then you tell me what other options we have. We have to go in. I have to be in there to get you initial access, but I can’t do this myself. This isn’t something you can learn in a day. And it isn’t something you can learn alone. You know a hell of a lot more than I do. Look, I can bring you up to speed on the initial processing codes, but I need you in there with me. This has to be a joint effort.”
McClellan folded his arms. He was glad to see the young agent push back, and he gave Clarke the look of respect he was hoping for.
“You’re right,” McClellan said. “I’m in. But I’m going to need to brief you first.”
“Okay. If you think it’s important.”
“It’s important. And one other thing. I insist we go in through Wagner’s tunnels. This needs to be a partnership between the builders and the engineers. We need all the cooperation we can get.”
“You may have a point there,” Clarke said. He thought a moment, accessed his tablet, and redisplayed the imagery of New Athens’s tunnels. “There’s also a more immediate benefit. Look, the printer is . . . yes, she’s right here. It’ll be easier to go through Wagner’s tunnels. The engineering access is farther out. It would get us there, but Wagner’s is closer.”
McClellan watched as the small holographic version of New Athens turned before him, its utility and printer tunnels running through it like veins. Near the edge of Troas City was a small collection of dots that represented a cluster of printers. More of the dots were moving toward it. He followed one of the lines that ran along New Athens’s hull to the sidewall, up along the innards of the Wheel, and out to one of the mechanical docking assemblies.
“You better tell Zhèng we’re going in,” McClellan said. “And you better get your key and coupler.”
“Already done,” Clarke said.
“Good man. All right, give me ten minutes to shower and change, and I’ll need thirty to brief you. But before that I’d like a few minutes of quiet in the chapel. You’re welcome to join me.”
“No thanks. That kind of thing ends careers up here. I’ll wait in your offices.”
Clarke took a few quick steps, then slowed and turned, staring at McClellan with hesitation. “Can I ask a question?”
McClellan shrugged. “Sure. What about?”
“About Raleigh. I read the report on file, but there was something missing.”
McClellan waited, but he knew what was coming.
“Your friend Macedo—did he survive?”
McClellan met Clarke’s stare. “Danny and his escorts were overrun and beheaded. We lost a lot of good men and women that night.”
Clarke looked away, then back at the Marine. “That’s what I thought. Listen, John, I’m sure others have told you this, but I can’t see this being your fault. You went with what you knew. Just like I did in releasing Tanglao’s clamshell based on bad telemetry. Anyway, I don’t see why you’d take all the responsibility. The GU engineering teams were watching everything that night. They could have easily reset the other two printers. Did you ever think of that?”
The young agent didn’t wait for a reply. He turned to begin his preparations, and to report their next steps to Commissioner Zhèng.
Some forty thousand kilometers away, Archbishop Bauer walked along the rocky shore of Beavertail to meet his friend Monsignor Tom Harper—perhaps for the last time, if Harper’s doctors were right. The island’s bridges were still closed, but Bauer’s sister-in-law had demanded that the Jamestown Police and Militia allow the privilege of this meeting.
The day had been warm and calm, but the late afternoon brought a chill as winds came and gusted across the coast. Harper sat on a folding chair facing the ocean. He stood occasionally with the help of his driver and made some attempt to cast his line, then sat again and adjusted the hood of his Marine Corps sweatshirt.
The two friends shook hands without mentioning Harper’s weakness. The driver excused himself and jogged up the rocks. Bauer placed his blue backpack next to Harper’s old green one and joined his friend catching fish. Their conversation ebbed and flowed as the waves rolled and splashed in the late winter sun. The two men spoke of nothing important—nothing involving cancer or the orbits or the Sals—and laughed at memories.
When the daylight faded and the chilled bree
ze became cold, they gathered their belongings as the old lighthouse flashed and flared and its horn sounded over the waters. Bauer waved off Harper’s driver and his own. This last hill would be taken by them alone.
When they had achieved that mission, they shook each other’s hands, almost as firmly as they had in their youth, and said good night—and perhaps good-bye.
Bauer watched as the driver helped his friend into the waiting car. With a final wave, Harper was gone. Bauer looked down at the old green knapsack he’d taken up from the rocks. He placed it gently into his trunk but said nothing about it to his driver. He sat silently as they made their way past his brother’s house, through the bridge checkpoint, and straight to Boston.
CHRISSY CALLED FOR MCCLELLAN after he finished briefing Clarke. Catherine Georgeson’s blood oxygen level was falling, and her organs were shutting down faster than the nanocorrectors could repair. The doctor had checked her moments ago, and determined that her body would not last the hour.
“I’ll be right there,” McClellan said. “Thank you.”
He turned to Clarke, who was scrolling through data floating over the conference table.
“I understand,” Clarke said. “But remember, we need to go as soon as we can.”
McClellan stopped to say a prayer before the chapel’s tabernacle and then hurried to Chrissy and Jack’s apartments. The old woman was cleaned and washed, but the smell of death lingered.
Catherine smiled as she looked up at the priest. She mouthed some words that no one understood. McClellan returned her smile, placed his hand on her forehead, and told her she was loved.
When she relaxed a little, he placed his stole around his neck and removed the small bottle of holy water from his jacket pocket. He said the prayers for strength and mercy that he had been asked to say, in one way or another, by every dying person he’d had the honor to accompany.
Chrissy stroked the woman’s pale hands. Jack stood behind his fiancée, rubbing her shoulders, sobbing quietly, but trying to look strong like McClellan.
When the prayers were said, Catherine looked up in a moment of clarity. It was a sudden strength that McClellan had seen before, a moment of grace given to the dying for the benefit of the living.
Catherine held the priest’s hand courageously and asked, “Has Mercury gone behind the sun?”
McClellan paused. He might have considered this some delusion—some jumbled memory of her younger years building orbital communications systems. But Catherine’s eyes were clear and intent.
“No, Catherine. Well, actually I don’t know. Why do you ask?”
She took a moment to remember. “Fast little planet, always lost signal when that happened.”
McClellan asked for clarification.
The old woman’s grip weakened as she thought of what to say. “No signal with Mercury behind the sun—you can’t tunnel through the sun. The sun . . . so bright it shows everything. I see everything—good and bad. Pray for me, Father.”
“Of course, Catherine. Every day. We all will, right, Chrissy? Jack?”
Chrissy brought a smile to her face. Jack held her shoulders tighter, and they both assured the old woman of their prayers.
“It’s good that people pray for you,” she said, her voice weakening to a whisper. “I’m ready, Papa.”
After a few shallow breaths came soft words that seemed to say thank you. Catherine’s breathing then slowed and stopped, and her body relaxed and stiffened all at once. When her eyes went still, McClellan reached over to close them, entrusting her soul to St. Mary and St. Joseph, who knew better than anyone the way to the light of Christ.
Ira Wagner was waiting for Clarke and McClellan. He led them down the facility’s stairs to the wastewater base level, and then through the tunnel toward the dark access doors that led to the printers. Two young builders in faded blue jumpsuits—one tall and wiry, the other stocky—worked farther down on a section of overhead piping. Wagner went over to ask about their labors. As they spoke, the young builders gave momentary looks around them but did not acknowledge Clarke or McClellan.
“My apologies,” Wagner said as he returned. “The maintenance of these systems never ends. Now, let us get you to your printer.”
He stepped over to the dark access door that faced the direction of McClellan’s chapel. He felt for the lock at the center, inserted his builder’s key, and stepped back.
The dark door became opaque and then transparent. Wagner said that this design allowed for safety checks of what lay on the opposing side before opening the door. “There may be a printer or a robber coming through,” he said. “Best to know in advance.”
But there was nothing ahead—at least as far as they could see inside. He twisted his key once more and the doors parted and slid open. As lighting flickered every few meters down the tunnel, a stale, foul air breathed out from the passage. The tunnel had an oval shape about seven meters wide and five high, and its bottom was a mesh of metallic flooring. Below that ran a wide, black pipe that carried wastewater from sections of Troas City to the treatment works. A matching blue pipe, carrying drinking water, ran along the top. Smaller electrical and instrumentation conduits were embedded in the wall along one side, with the matter-energy feeds for the printers traveling along the other.
McClellan peered deep into the tunnel. He was looking for some ending, or some sign of New Athens’s curvature. He found neither—but that made sense. The circumference of New Athens was immense, and this tunnel looped its full diameter. If he walked past this open door and continued for almost nineteen kilometers, he’d come out the matching door behind them.
“As Agent Clarke knows,” Wagner said, “your printer will be found in a staging area off a main access tunnel, about four hundred meters down.”
“Four hundred meters?” McClellan asked. “I thought you said it was close.”
“That’s close,” Clarke said. “By comparison. From the main engineering passage, it’s six hundred.”
Wagner chuckled. “There are transport platforms if you need one. My staff uses them. I prefer to walk. I get to know things better that way.”
Clarke and McClellan opted to save time. They stepped a few meters into the tunnel and found the platform waiting inside. After a few commands on a control pad it slipped into the tunnel. They stepped on, and after a few more commands it went along the flooring, taking them in deeper, where the air grew warmer and even fouler, even if the monitor that Wagner had given them indicated that breathing was still safe.
McClellan looked back and waved to Wagner, but Wagner was no longer there. McClellan watched as the opening shrank into the distance, and then turned to watch Clarke check his coupler. He wanted the younger programmer to taste leadership, so he offered corrections only when necessary.
“This is it,” Clarke said as the transport slowed and stopped. “The lights should be on, but maybe they’ll activate as we go in.”
They stepped off the platform and went a few meters into what seemed to be a wide and open space. Cooler and drier air came from somewhere overhead. Muffled sounds of machines and metal came from the darkness—the sounds of wheels on railings, the hum of drives, the booming and creaking of moving weight. As their eyes adjusted, they saw the dim shapes of tall structures and scaffolding, walkways and stairs, and rows of clamshell and tulip-head printers. The glowing torsos of robbers came and went as they assisted the printers, turning occasionally to assess the approaching humans.
Lighting overhead finally began to buzz, providing dim illumination but no more. It was enough to see that the structures and the scaffolding rose to the upper height of the junction area, which was just below the ground floors of Troas City. McClellan counted seventy tulip heads and clamshells aligned on racks of ten printers each, stacked two levels high. More were arriving on conveyance platforms from the various passageways that opened throughout the staging area. The printers were positioned with the claws of small cranes and assisted by the prodding and pushing of ro
bbers.
“This way,” Clarke said, his eyes fixed on his tablet. “I found her.”
There were stairs to their left. Clarke went up a flight and pushed himself along a rack of idle clamshells between the side of the chamber and the printers. The wall was lined with conduits and drinking water mains that ran upward from the utility level below. The interface controls for the printers faced the wall, giving Clarke and McClellan less than two meters to work.
Clarke stopped at the second clamshell down. He consulted his tablet and the printer’s interface and said, “She’s the one. This is the lead printer that built your chapel.”
“I’m assuming it had assistance.”
“Yes. It was in sync with a pair of house structural printers. But they’re old school and don’t think much. She’s the brains of any buildout.”
McClellan inspected the clamshell. It was slightly smaller than the one in Raleigh, but other than all the scrapes and pings on its casing, it looked identical.
“It’s seen some action,” he said.
“They all have,” Clarke said. “There aren’t too many inner buildouts left, but house printers stay active with the big maintenance jobs, especially on the Wheel and docking rings. And the hull.”
As he spoke, Clarke was busying himself with his tablet. He was sending updates to Zhèng with their location and the status of the printer.
After a moment he said, “We’re in. Zhèng gave final authorization. Let’s go over this once more. I’ll initiate the printer, then go through the opening sequence to get past trust verification.”
“Then I’ll await your word for the introduction.”
“That’s right. And since we’re going in as a training exercise, it shouldn’t be too out of line for you to be telling me where to look for printing logs and comm data.”
A Printer's Choice Page 27
