A Printer's Choice

by W. L. Patenaude

“And how to ping the other printers.”

  “Can’t forget that.”

  With Clarke taking the lead, McClellan had time to study the printer’s interface and feel along the outer casing. He instinctively raised his hand in search of his programmer’s key, which hadn’t hung from his neck in thirteen years.

  Clarke took his key from under his uniform shirt and slipped it into the printer. He twisted it, and gave an approving nod when he saw signs of activation. He held up his training coupler in the dim light for a last inspection, then brought it to the shelf of the printer’s casing.

  McClellan felt the hum and the warmth of the clamshell as it roused. There was a sense of both relief and irresponsibility at not being the programmer in charge—the one providing the primary will to instruct the machine.

  Clarke was smiling as he inserted his coupler, which quickly came to life. He was at code verification—responding to the printer’s queries about blood type, master’s codes, and neural programming permissions. McClellan watched him manage but could think of no advice to offer.

  Clarke passed the point of neural link activation in his hands and brain. He breathed irregularly as he touched the printer to maintain physical contact, which helped the link grow strong.

  The completion of trust was taking place. McClellan was not part of the conversation, nor could he hear it—not the introductions, not Clarke’s story, not if it was a happy or a sad one, or any follow-up questions that the printer might ask.

  Nor did he learn the printer’s name.

  But his moment to enter would be coming. He steadied his breathing and gave thanks that he was at peace.

  The printer’s interface flashed, and it offered words that delight programmers:

  Brandon James Clarke: Trust ranking at 92.89 percent.

  Past training simulations have passed protocol.

  Programming codes and story match.

  Limited training access granted.

  Clarke’s eyes were vacant, yet intense, as hypostasis occurred. His mouth moved slightly as the neural mapping tripped some of his facial muscles. McClellan stepped closer. He knew that Clarke was introducing the printer to his trainer. Both the interface and the coupler flashed again, and a second access opened and waited for McClellan.

  Clarke nodded, and he struggled to speak verbally.

  “I told her what she may expect in your links, and that you don’t have a coupler. Her name is Emily Jane, but she says we can call her Emily.”

  McClellan raised both hands, palms outward, and brought them down to the printer. How odd, he thought. He’d made this motion hundreds of times as a combat programmer. He’d made a similar motion thousands of times saying Mass. It was sobering to remember that there was once a younger man named John Francis McClellan who would have laughed at, or even been appalled by, his eventual path to the priesthood. How very odd, he thought, when our lives bring about a reunion with our younger selves—ones that would never have expected the choices we eventually made.

  McClellan rested one hand on the coupler, the other on the printer’s interface. Emily began to scan his DNA and nervous system. His long-idle links labored under the flow of her energy, and he felt the warmth spread through his hands and head.

  A motion at his feet surprised him. He stood on a flatbed trailer next to an unresponsive clamshell. The trailer shook as air cover screamed in the dark summer night. No, the sound had come from only meters ahead of him. He focused and saw the source: a robber pushing a printer into a rack close to where he and Clarke stood.

  Emily felt the memory and paused. At Clarke’s urging she renewed her reading of McClellan’s history—all of it. She assessed the data, found the majority to be satisfactory, and allowed McClellan entry but not access.

  McClellan heard Clarke’s welcome. A neural connection was forming between them—between trainer and trainee—as McClellan bowed to the will of the lead so that the printer would be given only one set of instructions.

  “That is one hell of a Mustang,” Clarke was saying through the neural link.

  McClellan concentrated hard as he remembered how to respond. “The finish wasn’t easy,” he finally said. “But I admit it looks good.”

  The men’s focus on their earliest print jobs was more than some analogue of human conversation; it was a specific technique among programmers. Controlled points of reference helped navigate a growing intimacy between two minds as they learned about the content of the other.

  “Update for Brandon James Clarke,” Emily was saying. “You have linked with a programmer who has violated programming ethics. Please explain John McClellan’s role as a trainer.”

  Both men felt the other’s reaction.

  “There’s nothing to explain,” Clarke said. “I’m aware of his mistakes. He wants to get his trust level back up, and I’m going to help him.”

  “John McClellan has an unresolved notation in the printer-programmer database. His trust level is void.”

  “Understood,” Clarke said. “But we’re not here to print. We’re here for a training exercise. We’ll only be retrieving your printing history and sharing updates with your fellow printers. That should help McClellan return to a nominal trust level.”

  Emily did not respond.

  “I’ll make sure he behaves,” Clarke continued. “I’m the lead programmer, even in the training environment. McClellan’s trust status is irrelevant.”

  There was a pause. Emily again probed McClellan’s links, assessed his prior average trust levels, and agreed to elevate his trust level from void to 1 percent.

  Clarke gave a celebratory smile. He had just thanked Emily when her interface flashed. There had been a power spike in one of her Deep Intellect processors. McClellan waited for signs of secondary feedback, because if there were—

  Emily roused. “A third programmer is requesting access,” she said.

  Clarke looked at McClellan.

  “We haven’t authorized a third programmer,” McClellan said to Emily. “Or asked for one. Do you have an identity?”

  “Besides the Clarke-McClellan link, there is a third query for access from an undetermined location. But I am allowed only two programmers in a training environment. John McClellan, are you withdrawing?”

  “No, he is not,” Clarke said. “John McClellan is the authorized trainer. Tell us who is seeking access, and from where.”

  Clarke’s angry eyes typed commands into his coupler. A holographic diagram of New Athens appeared. It was filled with the haze of ongoing and excessive tunneling. But with so much of it, he couldn’t isolate any localized concentrations, even this far from the general population.

  “The identity and location of the third programmer is classified,” Emily was saying. “That information is available only to full programmers—those with trust ratings over seventy percent.”

  “Damn it,” Clarke said as McClellan began sending him blocking maneuvers.

  Clarke deployed the defenses. But they’d only last so long, and then the third programmer—whoever he or she was—could easily connect and seize control.

  “Emily,” Clarke said, “begin uploading your printing history into John McClellan’s links.”

  Emily complied.

  McClellan felt the data transfer—a process that would have gone faster if he’d had his coupler. He could analyze the logs in detail later, but for now he was looking for any source related to the printing of his chapel.

  “Found it,” he said for Clarke’s benefit. The programming specs had come from printer designation 4.016.028, which was the printer at Tanglao’s murder scene.

  McClellan stored the information in his neural registers—the first that had been added since Raleigh. He shared it with Clarke, who went to work programming Emily to contact her fellow clamshells, prioritizing a connection with 4.016.028.

  Emily refused. “You do not have full access in this training mode. Please provide justification for printer-to-printer communications. Or have the command r
outed through a trainer with a valid trust level.”

  McClellan found her comm ports, just where they had been on Audrey. He provided the locations to Clarke, who again tried to generate a comm burst.

  Emily rejected the second request, and another power spike lit up her interface.

  McClellan knew what had happened even before Emily confirmed it.

  “Third party access successful,” she said. “Brandon James Clarke, you are no longer the lead programmer.”

  McClellan felt Clarke’s fear.

  “Emily, that third connection is not part of this exercise,” Clarke said. “Disconnect it. Now!”

  Emily’s casing flashed with a new interface—the interface for her printing mechanisms. These had not been requested by Clarke, nor should they have been activated in the printer’s current location, restrained and racked with dozens of other printers in a junction between New Athens’s habitat and hull.

  Emily’s long intakes and emitters began to unfurl. They slipped out of her widening center ring and reached upward.

  “Emily,” Clarke said nervously, “cancel all printing. I repeat, cancel—”

  “Printing authorization has been provided by a valid programmer,” Emily protested. “Application sequences are valid. Available energy storage: one percent maximum. Awaiting printing instructions.”

  McClellan reconfirmed that there were no energy conduits nearby—at least none that Emily could connect to. Nor were her intakes capable of burrowing into her surroundings to harvest energy or matter.

  But even with her reserves at only 1 percent, Emily’s emitters could puncture a hole in New Athens, if that’s what the third programmer wanted to do.

  Emily fired her small orbital maneuvering thrusters. There was a smell of hot metal as she pushed against her holding brackets. Robbers came to correct the situation, but Emily’s emitters slashed and tossed them across the hold.

  Clarke’s hands and eyes worked furiously, but Emily’s intakes and emitters only moved faster.

  McClellan warned Clarke about the rate of his neural processing.

  Clarke ignored him and began to power down their link. “Get out,” he said to McClellan through the dwindling connection. “I won’t let anything happen to you—not under my watch.”

  McClellan might have protested, but he knew Clarke was right. Without his coupler he had no direct access to the printer, nor could there be any without adequate trust. He could not help Clarke—at least not from the inside.

  “Clarke, let’s get you disengaged. We can do that.”

  “No. There’s too much power. I need to close this down.”

  But there would be no way for Clarke to do that.

  “Leave!” Clarke said as their link dropped to 80 percent. “Either this clamshell is going to fire up, or I am going to stop it. Either way, you can’t be here.”

  More robbers came to restrain the printer, but were pushed back across the hold.

  McClellan knew it would take massive neural processing to block the third programmer—even more than seasoned programmers should attempt. But Clarke was keeping up. He was moving deeper inside Emily.

  McClellan wasn’t sure how that was possible. Not with only training permissions.

  But he had a hunch.

  The third programmer must have allowed Clarke direct core contact, and the young programmer, seeking to regain authority, must have submitted to the temptation. If so, if Clarke had grasped at Emily’s Deep Intellect, he would now understand the consequences of doing so.

  McClellan’s link was at the halfway mark. The hand of a robber seized his shoulder. He landed a hard kick on its knees, sending it tumbling down the stairs.

  Through their eroding link, McClellan felt Clarke’s terror at the thought of death—and his shame for being so weak.

  “Agent Clarke,” McClellan said. “Focus on your mission. Do you copy?”

  The rhythm of Clarke’s heart had become dangerously uneven—McClellan felt it in his own. Clarke was falling deeper into Emily’s core.

  McClellan cursed. If he had a valid trust level, he could break into Clarke’s link and suspend it. But his only option was to physically pull Clarke away—which could be a final and, ultimately, futile action. A cold break from this far in a Deep Intellect core came with too many risks, both to Clarke and—without Clarke blocking the third programmer—to the hull of New Athens.

  No, there had to be some other way. And McClellan begged for the grace to see it.

  Okayo was in Clarke’s thoughts. He faced her in a room that McClellan did not recognize. There had been an argument. Something about Okayo’s career. Something about their future together, if only Clarke would accept the risk she was taking. If only he’d respect her wishes—and her faith. Clarke spoke loudly and Okayo left the room abruptly. She was off to the orbits to find Tanglao’s coupler, and Clarke wished he hadn’t spoken as he did, or said what he had said.

  The printer’s emitters were firing up. They raced through the air, spitting sparks and smoke as they sought some target. The intakes climbed higher, reaching over the upper row of printers. They probed the utility walls—stabbing them—seeking some way to increase the printer’s energy stores.

  Clarke’s efforts to regain control would have been laughable had he been alone. But Emily—or at least some part of her—was now resisting the third programmer. McClellan could hear only fragments of her thoughts—frantic and furious cries, much like Audrey’s had been.

  And like Corporal McClellan had done, the third programmer pushed back.

  An intake lashed out, its head crushing a drinking water line that rose up from the lower level. Water sprayed out, arcing into the chamber and onto the printers and the robbers, onto Emily, McClellan, and Clarke.

  Clarke’s face was distorted with rage. He demanded again that the priest leave. The link between the two men was at 12 percent—that was low enough for McClellan to walk away safely.

  But McClellan stood fast. He held the coupler and the interface as a robber once again pulled him back, and once gain McClellan kicked hard, sending the robber into the waters that poured around them.

  Clarke cried out. How could he have allowed his words to Okayo to upset her so? And yet he had known that they would, but had said them anyway. If he was going to die, there had to be some way to make this right—to do something that Okayo would remember, something that would comfort her always.

  Some part of the printer’s Deep Intellect became aware of Clarke’s concern. It offered its capacity to assess the situation.

  The intellect affirmed that there had to be . . . something.

  But could it be so simple?

  Yes, the intellect replied. And now is your chance.

  Clarke saw the option before him. And choosing it would make Okayo so very happy.

  He used the last of their link to ask McClellan this final favor.

  Emily’s link with Clarke wavered and weakened. McClellan saw the opportunity to free the young agent, and he saw the desire in Clarke’s darkening eyes.

  As the collapsing main surged with more water, McClellan’s left hand swung into Clarke’s chest, tearing him from the printer. His right hand came down on Clarke’s sopping head, and with it he fulfilled the agent’s plea. With the palm of his hand McClellan traced the sign of the cross, and he cried loudly, so that Clarke might hear, “Brandon James Clarke, I baptize you in the name of the Father . . . and of the Son . . . and of the Holy Spirit.”

  As he fell backward into the downpour, Clarke seemed to be saying thank you—but McClellan couldn’t tell. Clarke was weakening too fast.

  McClellan dove to retrieve the fallen agent, twisting to avoid the lunge of one of Emily’s emitters. But it came fast through the pouring waters—faster than McClellan could avoid. The emitter thrust into McClellan’s arm and chest, slamming him on his back. Ugly sounds came from deep inside his lungs, and blood filled his mouth. He was struck by terrible pain, both from his gut, and from hearing Cla
rke’s cry from somewhere in the flood.

  McClellan tried to stand, but he could not, nor could he breathe.

  Two robbers grabbed him and hurried him down the access stairs, carrying him to the utility tunnel where he and Clarke had arrived. Behind them came a crack and a roar as the water main collapsed, followed by blazes of energy and loud concussions. The arms that carried McClellan laid him on the tunnel’s transport platform—but they were not the arms of the robotic assistants.

  With the last of his strength, McClellan focused. Leaning over him and shouting were two young, terrified men—Wagner’s tall, thin worker, and the stockier one, their faded blue jumpsuits bloody and drenched. They looked away quickly and then, before the darkness came, they were gone.

  “CORPORAL MCCLELLAN?” SAID A warm voice. “May I sit with you?”

  The voice rose over inner ones that spoke of darkness—that accused him of some failure. This new voice was stronger. It had the authority to push back the others, to encourage him to rouse from a restless sleep.

  The voice repeated the question. McClellan assessed the situation before he opened his eyes. He was lying on his back, and he was warm. A coarse fabric covered his bare legs and chest. He could feel the weight of his dog tags, but not his programmer’s key.

  He cautiously opened his eyes, which had grown unaccustomed to light. The voice belonged to a man standing patiently waiting for an answer. He was a middle-aged officer, fit in his fatigues but not entirely lean. He had a strong, round face and tired eyes. His black hair was fanned with white, and neatly parted to the side.

  McClellan motioned that he’d accept the company.

  “Thank you, Corporal,” the officer said. “I’ll grab a chair.”

  The infirmary at Camp Lejeune was long and bright with sunlight from high windows. Monitoring drones passed through the light, casting little shadows on the faces and blankets of the wounded from Raleigh. Two robotic assistants were at the cot across from McClellan caring for a Marine with a neck wound.

  McClellan watched the officer drag a chair beside him. He was a captain, with a cross on the collar of his fatigues. That made him one of those chaplains who come and tell the dying to not be afraid—that there’s some hope in all their hopelessness.