A Printer's Choice

by W. L. Patenaude

  “And so, as you might imagine,” Zhèng was saying, “this image has been a great benefit to Draeger’s campaign of whipping up the builder population.”

  “Let me guess,” McClellan said. “He’s been quiet. Making only a few targeted statements to remain relevant. Otherwise he’s been busy day and night meeting with the builders in each of the twelve cities, driving wedges, inciting factions.”

  “Yes, and not just with reps in New Athens. He’s meeting stewards throughout the orbits, who come here to pay him homage.”

  McClellan nodded. “That’s how the Sals work. They slither in and build their networks, offering the world, corrupting one mind at a time, until they can turn communities against each other.”

  “And that’s exactly what’s happening on my station,” Zhèng said, pausing to look up at the wide Security Guild banner. “Draeger gave a talk two nights ago claiming that the Security Guild ‘is the puppet of the engineers.’ He’s demanding his own security force, one that can protect him and the builders.”

  The two men did not need to discuss the implications of that demand.

  McClellan took and released a deep breath, giving thanks for the ability to do so. “I understand we’re meeting with Draeger tomorrow, at his request—him and the engineers—to negotiate a way forward. That should be interesting.”

  “Yes,” Zhèng said. “I believe that it will.”

  Zhèng stood and went to the transparent wall. Across the plains, the Wheel was turning at full rotation. “We need to move fast,” he said. “And we need to move in a united fashion.” He turned and looked directly at his guest. “Father McClellan, do you remember when I confessed my sins to you?”

  McClellan stiffened. “Of course.”

  “Then you remember what I was most sorrowful for. What I most sought to change.”

  “The sin of pride,” McClellan said. “You said you knew personally that it’s the root of great evil.”

  “Yes,” Zhèng said, considering his words. “At times in my career I have been . . . severe.”

  The light faded with some movement of the clouds, darkening Zhèng’s expression.

  “You mentioned that,” the priest said, standing and walking over to Zhèng. “I suppose it is a struggle up here, enforcing good behavior in a new world that had promised to do away with the sins of humanity.”

  Zhèng gave a slight nod. “That’s part of it. A small part. My greatest temptation—and you’ll laugh when I say this—is this view. Everything I see, I command. Orbital traffic. Public gatherings. Even the Wheel. The engineers like to think they are in control, but ultimately I am.”

  “And yet Philippi is a middle city. This window only looks out at half the station.”

  “That’s true. There’s much in my world that I don’t control. I know that—now more than ever, since Tanglao’s murder, and everything since. But I also know my duties. I know the people here, and I understand what we need to do—and what we cannot do. What I cannot do.”

  McClellan stayed silent.

  “After we spoke during my confession,” Zhèng continued, “I vowed to take your words to heart. I wanted to run this investigation with the humility you spoke about—the humility that calms a soul’s pride and opens doors, as you said, with God’s help.”

  McClellan remembered.

  “And yet,” Zhèng said, “since then I’ve often felt that you and I are still dueling on those basketball courts in Gainesville.”

  McClellan folded his arms. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “I believe that you do. Think of how you have acted as an investigator. Can’t you see? In that role, you’ve often pushed me to act in opposition to your counseling during my confession. You urged me to return to some of my former ways. It felt like you didn’t trust my methods. That you didn’t trust me. And a commander can’t allow that. Nor can a friend. And so I’ll ask again: do you trust me?”

  McClellan saw a pleading in Zhèng’s eyes—the same that Clarke had given when they discussed entering the printer. Part of him wasn’t entirely sure what Zhèng meant by trusting him—of course he had. Most of the time. He also recognized the fear and mistrust that always come, even among friends, with the arrival of the Sals. But, more than any of this, he could see his own mistakes—his own uncertainties.

  “Commissioner, I’m going to repeat what I said when we returned from Red Delta—when there was talk of me leading the investigation. You have my unequivocal support—and trust. One hundred percent. And you have my apologies. I should have been clearer about that. I guess . . . well, this is the first time I’ve had to be a priest and an investigator at the same time. Not to mention a programmer. I’m going to have to do a better job balancing all that. I just hope that you’ll give me the opportunity to try.”

  Zhèng stood straighter. He thanked McClellan and turned to take a long look at the core. Then he went to his desk. He was still standing and sifting through some of the holodata when he motioned for McClellan to join him. “Come. I have an update that I want to give you personally.”

  The two men sat. Zhèng held up another tablet, but not close enough for McClellan to reach.

  “Before I hand it over,” Zhèng said, “can you guess my news?”

  There were a few possibilities, but only one made sense given Zhèng’s expression. “Molly Rose,” McClellan said. “She found the printer, right?”

  Zhèng handed over the tablet. “She has, yes. And it’s on its way to an Earth orbit as we speak.”

  “How? I thought Clarke wasn’t successful with a communications burst?”

  “He wasn’t. Molly Rose found it the old-fashioned way. Knowing who to talk to, and calling in favors.”

  “God bless her,” McClellan said. “Because if I’m right, and I know that I am, she also found Tanglao’s coupler.”

  The commissioner gave a surprised look. “How did you know that?”

  “It was in the data from the Emily—from the printer. I had time in the hospital, so last night after talking with a few patients, I processed the data.”

  “And?”

  “And I can tell you with certainty that the design of the Pauline Chapel didn’t come from a random data search. It didn’t even come from the printer used to kill Tanglao. It came through it. It came from Tanglao’s coupler.”

  Zhèng thought a moment. “I suppose that makes some sense, given the nature of the design. But I’ve never heard of such a thing. Isn’t it more likely that the design came from another printer, or some information warehouse in the orbits, or even on Earth?”

  “Yes, that would seem more likely. But it didn’t. It came from the coupler. I’m certain of its origin—that’s how I know the coupler has been in that printer all along.”

  “And you learned all this when you were linked with the house printer?”

  “I can’t take the credit. It was the printer. In her last seconds of contact—her last seconds of life—she sent me a fair amount of data without me knowing it. I’m guessing the third programmer doesn’t know, either. If so, that gives us an advantage.”

  Zhèng allowed himself a laugh. “It never ceases to amaze me how some of you programmers relate to these machines—the way you speak of them as living entities. Well, in any event, I look forward to your full report. We mere mortals had to learn of the coupler’s location another way. The crew of the deep-space relay that gained possession of the clamshell—unknowingly, it seems, with dozens of other units—had agreed to Molly Rose’s request to send it back to Earth. As they were loading the printer onto a transport, they discovered the coupler. It was still locked in its control deck. They also saw that it was not only embedded, it also was active. I had assumed this was because Tanglao had been caught off guard when the printer was hacked.”

  “I’m not so sure,” McClellan said, looking away. “Tanglao had time to remove and hide his programmer’s key. Why not remove the coupler, too?”

  “Couldn’t it be that he was just too we
ak?”

  “Maybe,” McClellan said. “Maybe not. But either way, we can get our answers if you get me into that printer.”

  Zhèng gave an anxious sigh. “Even after what just happened?”

  “You don’t need to remind me. But the goal all along has been to find out what happened to Tanglao by learning what was happening with that printer. As a priest, I’m the best programmer to do that. And as a member of your team, what I find can be used if this goes to trial.”

  “I know, I know. But it’s risky.”

  “Commissioner, you asked me to trust you. I’m asking for the same thing. I have a good idea what Father Tanglao was doing when his printer was hacked—and why it got him into trouble, and with whom.”

  Zhèng leaned back in his chair. “And you need to confirm this by accessing the printer?”

  “Yes. And to confirm much more. But here’s the hitch. To get me into that printer, we’ll need another programmer—one with full programming status and valid trust. Otherwise I’ll likely only get some low level of entry but no access.”

  “Even if you have Tanglao’s key and coupler? I’d prefer to use only members of my team—for obvious reasons.”

  “Understood, but if it’s just me, then I’ll need both Tanglao’s coupler and mine. And I haven’t seen my equipment since Raleigh. Only God knows where it is, or if it exists. The best plan is to find another programmer.”

  Chimes came low and regular from somewhere above them as the building informed the city that it was eleven o’clock in the morning. McClellan listened to the rhythm as he thought through the available programmers. It would have to be one of the engineers.

  “Commissioner, you said the clamshell is on its way back to Earth. I assume we know how long that will take.”

  Zhèng leaned forward and made motions over his desk. Images of Earth and the Moon appeared and expanded, along with the arcs of their orbits, and those of various craft and relays.

  “Our printer was found bundled there, in the Blue Theta relay. It was with printers being readied at the L5 point on Earth’s orbit. As I said, thanks to Molly Rose it’s on a transport to our geostationary orbit. It will arrive here at New Athens in twelve days.”

  “What about the moon?” McClellan asked. “Can we get the printer to Red Delta?”

  Zhèng looked over the orbital displays. “Yes. It would be a straightforward series of maneuvers. Although the transport may need a little more fuel for braking to achieve Red Delta’s lunar orbit. I’m sure Molly Rose can squeeze that favor out of someone. But why bring the printer back to the relay?”

  “Poetic justice?”

  Zhèng was not amused.

  McClellan examined the images. He looked at Zhèng and said, “Before Clarke and I left to sync with the printer, he showed me his research on the tunneling that’s taking place throughout New Athens. He had a good idea about where some of the more interesting eavesdropping was coming from.”

  “I’m aware of his findings,” Zhèng finally said. “But what of them?”

  McClellan shrugged. “We should use them to our advantage.”

  Zhèng watched the orbital dance before him. “I know where you’re going with this. But you won’t be able to track tunneling in the orbits. If you think there’s too much interference in New Athens, try it with all communications among Earth, New Athens, the construction of Progress, the lunar bases and the Lesser Stations, and the relays, not to mention the transports, the shuttles, and the Van Allen dispersers. It would be impossible to track any single attempt at tunneling—even a strong attempt to Red Delta.”

  “If you mean it’s impossible only because of the comm traffic, then I agree.”

  “And what do you propose? Turn it all off?”

  “Something like that.”

  Zhèng stared as if he’d been displeased with the humor until he recognized that McClellan wasn’t joking. “You’ll have to explain that in more detail.”

  “I will. In time. First I need to think things through a little more.”

  “Undoubtedly,” Zhèng said. “And as you’re thinking through the miracle that would be needed to silence all communication in the orbits, I’ll call Elaina and tell her that we’re working with the builders and have hijacked one of her printers. I’m sure she’ll understand.”

  “Not that she has much of a choice,” McClellan said. “The builders control the shipping lanes. And if the transport is already committed to an orbit, what can they do?”

  “Hack it. Change its trajectory. Have it slingshot around Earth, back around and out again to its original L5 staging area. Or, if we do get access to it, they could deny you another attempt at syncing with their printers.”

  “True. But I’m leaving it to you to get me to that printer. As for access, the engineers may feel safer with one of their own programmers getting me in. Unless you know any other rogue programmer out there.”

  Zhèng reduced the size of the orbital simulations for a better view of McClellan. “I do not,” he said as he stood. “In any event, we’ll discuss all this at this evening’s briefing. I’ll arrange dinner for the team. I recognize that you prefer the Spinside, but we’ll see what the restaurants in Philippi can send up. We’ll all have much to discuss, including preparations for our meeting tomorrow morning with the engineers and Draeger.”

  “I can hardly wait,” McClellan said, taking his cue and standing. “You’ll handle Draeger well. As you said, you know the people of New Athens. Draeger doesn’t.”

  The men shook hands. They did so with a firmness of trust and forward motion. McClellan was eager to visit Clarke, but he stopped as he neared the door.

  “Commissioner, one last question. I understand that there’s a big project out at Mercury. Would it be possible to get information on it? I read through the public material, but there wasn’t much. I assume you have more.”

  Zhèng said he did, and that he saw no reason not to grant McClellan access. “I have a number of files, although nothing specific about what the engineers are designing. What I do know is that only the printers will be used for labor—and that’s added to the builders’ grievances. But what’s your interest in Mercury?”

  McClellan looked away, past the transparent wall, out to where clouds drifted over the cylindrical plains of New Athens. Then he looked out to the Wheel. Tanglao’s body had finally passed through five days earlier on its return to Earth, as had the body of Catherine Georgeson.

  “Let’s just say, Commissioner, that thanks to a little old lady, I have a hunch.”

  “About?”

  “About a connection between Mercury and what Tanglao was up to in that air lock—and why he was murdered.”

  OKAYO SAT PEACEFULLY IN the front pew, her eyes closed. McClellan had finally been able to talk to her—to tell her what had happened, what Clarke had done, inside that printer. Now she needed time alone. McClellan genuflected before the tabernacle and made his way to his reunion with Archbishop Bauer, but lingered and looked back from the door to his apartments.

  Her eyes remained closed, but they seemed fixed on the tabernacle and the crucifix above it, as they had when he told her of Clarke’s choice. A smile had come again to her soft features, bringing some satisfaction to the darkness of the past days and weeks.

  McClellan allowed himself a deep, slow breath, so as not to disturb the scene. He felt the satisfaction of air filling his lungs, and gave thanks—that simple ability meant all the more since it had been taken from him. He gave thanks, too, for what Clarke had done, for what his baptism meant to Okayo and to him. Yet a shadow hovered over him. Envy, the enemy of gratitude, lingered and sulked. It urged him to stay, to call out to Okayo and thank her for her smile, to tell her how often he thought of her. But he would not allow it. Had life taken another path, perhaps a woman would be smiling for him. Had his choices been different, he would have been able to satisfy his desire to hold a woman as beautiful as Okayo, to marry and join with her, to bring new life and a new family
to creation. But he had chosen a different road, a different way to build up creation. It was a choice that asked for sacrifices and yet offered so much because of them.

  McClellan mirrored her smile. He wondered if someday he’d celebrate the wedding Mass for Clarke and Okayo. Perhaps he’d baptize their children—and their grandchildren. It was possible, after all, God willing—even with Clarke still hovering near death, and even with chaos and enmity spreading throughout New Athens.

  Again he breathed in the air of the chapel, and he was content.

  He had forgotten that he was holding open the door to his apartment. Bauer was waiting halfway down the inner hall, which gave him a view into the chapel. The archbishop said nothing when McClellan entered and closed the door, other than to offer a smile of understanding from one priest to another.

  They shook hands and embraced, then made themselves comfortable in the apartment’s simple sitting area—which was now a cramped guest room, with a spare bed and four shipping crates that Bauer had brought from Earth. They spent time laughing about Bauer’s hurried preparation for his journey—his first to the orbits—and the terrible coffee he had made an hour ago.

  After delivering a summary of the news from McClellan’s parish, Bauer thumbed the handle of his mug, and his smile dimmed. “Johnny, tell me, how are you?”

  “Good question. How much time do you have?”

  “As long as it takes.”

  McClellan looked away, not sure where to begin. “All things considered, I’m good. There’s just a lot to say, and to be honest I wasn’t thinking that I’d be having this conversation anytime soon—or whether I’d ever have the opportunity. How am I doing? I suppose you’ll know when you hear my confession.”

  “That’s one of the reasons I’m here.”

  McClellan released a breath. “One of the reasons?”

  Bauer leaned back. “Obviously I want to check in on you, see how things are going—”

  “And report back to Rome.”

  “Yes. Is there a reason I shouldn’t?”