Archangel Protocol Read online

  Archangel Protocol

  Lyda Morehouse

  First the LINK – an interactive, implanted computer-transformed society. Then came the angels – cybernetic manifestations that claimed to be working God's will...

  But former cop Deidre McMannus has had her LINK implant removed – for a crime she didn't commit. And she has never believed in the angels.

  All that will change when a man named Michael appears at her door.

  Lyda Morehouse. Archangel Protocol

  Table of contents

  Acknowledgmentes

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  About the author

  Acknowledgmentes

  I'd like to thank all the people who have helped me with the creation of this book, but especially my editor Laura Anne Gilman, my agent James Frenkel, and his trusted assistant Tracy Berg.

  For all their support and belief in my ability, I'd like to single out for special gratitude Nate Bucklin, who first believed in me, and my mentor Eleanor Arnason (and Patrick Wood). Additionally, I should thank all the professionals who helped me along my way, especially, Anne Harris, Gardner Dozois, Pam Keesey, Peg Kerr, Laurel Winter, Terry A. Garey, John C. "Rez" Rezmerski, Robert Subiaga, Jr., Maureen McHugh, Scott Edelman, Angela Kessler, Philip Kaveny, Eric Heideman, and J. Otis Powell!

  Thanks to present and past colleagues (and friends!) in: "Wyrdsmiths" – Harry LeBlanc, Naomi Kritzer, Doug Huh'ck, Rosalind Nelson, Bill Henry, Michael Belifore, Laramie Sasseville, and Ralph A. N. Krantz; "Karma Weasels" – David Hoffman-Dachelet, Kelly David McCullough, Barth Anderson, Manfred Gabriel, Kirsten Livdahl, Alan DeNiro, and Burke Kealey; The "Fierce Wild Women" – Terry A. Garey, Rebecca Marjesdatter, Ama Patterson, Eleanor Arnason, and Laurie Winter; The "Loft Group," including – William Stitler (and Lady Bird), Carole Ashmore, Bob Metz, Rachel Gold, John Burke, Jon Olsen, and Susan Hastings.

  Friends and family who put up with boring writer stories, including William "Laughing Turtle" Bettes; Nick Dykstra; Julie Beale; Barb Bezat (and her family – Riley, my padawan William, and the Mah Jongg girl Allie); the gang at "d'lHRC" (Susan Staiger, Jennifer Gugliemlo, Todd Mitchney, Walter Anastazievski, Roman Stepchuk, Kristine Marconi, Joel Wurl, Judy Rosenblatt, and, the bodhisattva Timo Riippa); Gerriann Brower; Barb Mach; The Jacksons (John, Michele, Maggie and Jack); Michele Helen Morgan; Barb Portinga (and the rest of the TMF Folks); Ishmael Williams; Jules Raberding; Garry Kopp (and Samantha Rose); geisha-boy Nik Wilson; Paul E. "Theisenburger" Theisen; the best nephew in the whole world Jonathan Sharpe ("I know, you distract 'em, I'll rush 'em"); all the Rounds (Shawn, Keven, Pat, Margaret, Greg, and Barb); my cousin who taught me to play and gave me the heart of a writer, Laun Braithwaite; and, of course, my parents Mort and Rita Morehouse.

  A special thanks to my last-minute proofreaders and fact-checkers: Robert Subiaga, Jr., and Rebecca Marjesdatter.

  And, of course, to Shawn Rounds, who came up with the new title and so much more.

  Chapter 1

  My hairline itched where the dead receiver lay just under the skin. I reached up to caress the hard almond-shaped lump at my temple. Maybe if I squeezed just right, the implant would eke out some last drop of code, like a used tube of toothpaste. I stopped myself. Granted, since the excommunication, I no longer had to maintain the high standards of a decorated police officer, but you'd think I could retain at least some vestige of ladylike demeanor. The unconscious gesture made me look like a wire-junkie. My LINK access had been severed a year ago, but I tended to poke at it like a scab, especially when I was upset.

  I picked up the note I found tacked to my office door again. Mrs. Rosenstone couldn't afford our barter anymore. She'd been using her access to the LINK to get my letters to the New York Times criticizing the presidential campaign published. In exchange, I did a little detective work into the death of her husband – she wanted more details than the "your husband died bravely" letter the government sent. Apparently, as of today, she decided the information wasn't worth the price. Her war-widow pension had mysteriously disappeared into the government's red tape for a second time in six months. Crumpling up her note, I tossed it in the garbage can. I could hardly blame the woman.

  The office was as quiet as my empty head. Pools of light warmly mottled the hardwood floor despite the dirty windows and the layers of grime on the Venetian blinds. Dust motes sparkled, illuminated by the stripes of soft light. As my gaze followed the specks swirling through the air, all I could think of was that I really should clean this place more often, especially since I all but lived here.

  The broom closet held several changes of clothes. The cubbyhole beneath the window, designed for data chip storage, overflowed with coffee cups, plastic forks, and sundry dishes. Along the far wall, a bookcase of mail slots stood. In places you could still see remnants of labels that once bore the names of former office workers. Now the mailboxes were crammed with bills and traffic tickets, most of them past due. I was a pack rat; I probably had a better archive than the Vatican, if less organized. The only things that lent any style to the office were the big oak desk and the frosted glass door with my name on it: deidre mcmannus, private detective.

  Even after a year, it felt strange to be working alone, but Daniel was gone – and anyway, he would never have stooped to be a private eye, especially working for barter on the fringe. I snorted in contempt at my state. Solo, empty, alone: the story of my life.

  It was a Saturday. I should be at home, but something about those block walls inhibited my thought processes. Maybe it was the way concrete muffled every sound, but whatever it was, I preferred to spend as little time in the apartment as possible. The sudden loss of steady income that the excommunication brought forced me into skyscraper living. Try as I might, I couldn't make that hole-in-the-wall feel like a home. Barring my bed, I moved everything I really valued to the office.

  That was next. The rent for two places stretched an already tight pocketbook, and my supply of Christian Scientists in need of a private investigator was running dry. Despite their religious convictions against getting LINKed, the Scientists were, at least, respectable clients. More importantly to me, they could pay in credits rather than barter. The government recognized their objection as legitimate because it was based on religious belief against surgery. As conscientious objectors, they were allowed official external hardware.

  Anyone else not on the LINK was either a dissenter or couldn't afford the process. America, as my letters to the editor often lamented, was no longer the home of democracy. We were becoming, instead, a theocracy, and had been since the last Great War, twenty-one years ago. Science, which had brought an ugly end to the fighting by producing and detonating the Medusa bombs, and the secular humanism that spawned it, had fallen so far out of favor that it was now officially a crime not to be at least nominally part of an organized religion.

  Dissenters, mostly secular humanists and atheists or people like me, who were forced out of a recognized religion, made up the bulk of my clientele. However, as dissenters, they didn't have a citizenship card – no card, no LINK; no LINK, no access to commerce; no commerce, no credits.
Not even my shady landlord would take home-brew or other barter in lieu of real rent. It was credits or the street.

  People had suggested I simply convert to another religion and have done with it. There had been several offers. Still, my Catholic guilt told me I deserved to be punished for what had happened between Daniel and me. Moreover, the Pope had made things more complicated when he excommunicated me. Legally, I was still a Catholic, just an excommunicated one. So, if I tried to officially join another religion, it would be like trying to marry a new husband without being divorced from a previous one – not even Mormon women got away with a stunt like that in this country.

  I sighed, then tapped the space key and watched halfheartedly as the New York Times scrolled across the antique monitor propped on the edge of my desk.

  "Not even a graphical interface anymore," I muttered, waiting for the next article to materialize on the screen. I skimmed another op-ed page article.

  Once again, the reclusive presidential candidate, Reverend-Senator Etienne Letourneau, took a firm position against "liberal" (read: all but heathen) Rabbi-Senator Grey from New York. It took me two sentences to realize Letourneau's rant was an obvious ploy to put the fear of God into the opposition. This campaign was such a joke. If you believed in what the LINK angels had to say, and an overwhelming majority did, Reverend Letourneau embodied the Second Coming of Christ. In a theocracy, being God was a guaranteed winning platform.

  I had my doubts, and not just since the excommunication. One of my main arguments all along against Letourneau was that new messiah ought to have similar basic tenets as Christ. A recluse holed up in the mountains of Colorado surrounded by all the fresh air money could buy fell pretty damned short of my expectations. Honestly, I'd sort of been holding out for a woman messiah this time around – or, at the very least, not some nearly dead white guy.

  My finger hovered over the reply key ready to fire off another letter to the editor, when I heard a loud rap of someone at the door.

  "Later, Letourneau," I told the monitor, and hit save. "Door's open," I shouted, twisting the chair to step back into the leather pumps I'd kicked off earlier. I was still adjusting the heel when he let himself in.

  "Detective McMannus?"

  "Not anymore," I corrected, without looking up. "Door says private investigator."

  With the shoe finally in place, I swiveled the chair. Something between a gasp and a hiss came out of my mouth.

  Granted, masculine beauty has always been a weakness of mine, but this man literally took my breath away. Olive-skinned, tall, broad-shouldered, slender-waisted – he looked like he might have been sculpted from marble. Unfortunately, this David remembered to dress himself this morning. His fashion sense leaned toward urban combat. Leather jacket and dusty-blue jeans hugged his muscular frame. He looked like a warrior sheathed in casual armor.

  As I traced the line of his throat up to his face, a smile captured my lips – a girl could cut herself on the angle of that jaw. His dark, curly locks were shorn above the ears in a martial style; gray eyes flashed from under strong, dark swatches of eyebrows.

  "Are you Deidre McMannus?" He asked again, irritation marring his godlike brow.

  "I am," I said, remembering to stand up and offer him a hand. Smoothing out the wrinkles in my blouse, I turned on my most charming smile. "And who might you be?"

  He took my hand and I wasn't disappointed by the firmness of his grasp. "Lieutenant Michael Angelucci, Tenth Precinct."

  "Oh. A cop." I dropped his handshake and turned my back to him. Not only a cop, but an angel freak. Since the appearance of the LINK-angels several months ago, thousands of converts changed their given names or surnames to include some form of the word "angel." More than half my client list was named Angelica or Angelo.

  I sighed and sat back down. "Sorry, Mike, but I already bought tickets to the charity ball, so I don't think there's any more I can do for you."

  Such a shame, I thought, allowing myself one last look at the way the stripes of sunlight fell across his chest. I should've figured him for a cop. My earlier assessment of his manly charms neglected to include the slight bulge of the standard-issue Glock tucked into the shoulder holster. With a clearer eye, I ticked off the other dead giveaways. The way he stood, all ready for action, held a certain flat-footedness that I should've picked up before. The biggest clue was the dumbstruck expression on his face. That said cop all over it.

  Pressing the space bar, I retrieved the article I'd saved from the Times. I feigned an overwhelming interest in the screen, and added, "You boys should know I don't involve myself with police work anymore."

  Michael eased his hands into the pockets of his jeans. He stood there, as if to tell me he had no plans of moving anytime soon.

  Waving a hand in the air, I shooed him out of the office. "Come on, Officer, you managed to find the door once."

  He glanced at the door, then swung his handsome face back in my direction. A lesser woman might've swooned, but I just tightened my smile. I gave up on the Times with a sigh. "Let me guess this time is different: it's a matter of life or death."

  "Actually ..." Michael sauntered over to my desk and propped himself up on the edge. "It's more serious than that."

  I laughed. Leaning forward onto my elbows, I rested my head on my hands. "What could be more serious than life or death?"

  "Some things have eternal consequences." He smiled slightly, turning up the very edges of his mouth. The effect on his face was stunning. His eyes widened just enough to smooth the crease from the middle of his brow. Michelangelo eat your heart out.

  "Some things do," I managed to say. "But I'm not running a church. You look like the football and Bible type. Why don't you try the Promise Keepers Church down the road? It's a drive-through."

  "What they're selling can't help me."

  I looked back at his face, trying to judge by his expression how he meant that. The tone sounded almost mocking, but his mouth turned down, and his eyes were serious.

  "Yeah? But I can, eh?" I gave him a tired smile, "I have to warn you, I don't have any plastic figurines or Bible scorecards to offer."

  "I'll have to make do," he said. Michael took my words as an invitation to stay and settled himself more securely on top of the scattered snail-news clippings and other clutter of my desk. His knee grazed the edge of a pewter picture frame. The back-prop folded and began to tip over, but Michael reached out to rescue it. He turned the frame over in his hands and glanced down at the photo. Something in the picture caught his attention, and his eyes flicked over it as if searching for some clue.

  I leaned back in my swivel chair to observe him. The springs of the chair creaked noisily. He showed me the photo, "Family?"

  "Yeah," I admitted, wary of the direction this conversation was going. My personal life was off-limits. Still, I'd give him the benefit of the doubt. "My brother, the priest."

  As he set the frame down near its original spot, his deep-set eyes searched out mine. I didn't like the intimacy of his gaze, so I found myself bristling and talking without thinking.

  "So, what are you implying? My brother's a problem?" I scoffed. "Mike, I have it on good authority that Eion's nearly a saint."

  "What? No, no, not at all. I was just ... hmm-mmmmm." He paused, as if searching for the right words. Absently, Michael pushed at the glossy cover of the dog-eared paperback novel I'd been reading. His finger traced the edge of the design, skirting the hem of the heroine's ripped bodice. Slowly, along the embossed folds of the dress, his fingertip moved toward her bosom. Grabbing the book out from under his touch, I slapped the cover facedown on the desk, surprising both of us.

  When he raised his eyes, I gaped at him mutely. I couldn't explain why I'd reacted that way. The feeling was silly, and I was losing control of this conversation. So, I grabbed the novel and tossed it into the bottom drawer of my desk. I kicked it shut with the toe of my shoe. "Bad habit." I shrugged.

  Michael lowered his eyes. That slight smile turned
up the corners of his mouth again. "Tell me something, McMannus. Are you still Catholic?"

  "Does the Pope shit in the woods?" I fired back.

  His gray eyes flashed up at my words, pinning me under a harsh glare. Determined to stay on top of the pecking order we seemed to be establishing, I stared back just as hard.

  "So what does my faith have to do with anything?" I asked. "What? Are you one of the New Christian Righters out proselytizing for Letourneau? I always figured the force was crawling with Letourneau's minions. Listen, Officer, I have less than no time for you if ..."

  "I'm not," he cut me off. "Though in a way, it's Letourneau that brought me here."

  "Well, if he's involved, I'm not," I bristled. "The good senator has caused me enough trouble."

  "I know he has," Michael said quietly. He stood up, careful not to disturb the photo. Michael moved over to the window and looked out between the dusty blinds. He pushed the slats down with a finger. He had to be thinking hard about something, because the only view out my window was the unimpressive back alley of an abandoned Western Union. Truth was, most things were empty and derelict on this level, my office being one of the few exceptions.

  "If not one of Letourneau's lackeys, then what are you?" I asked Michael's back.

  "Just a messenger," he said absently, still watching the alley.

  "Oh yeah? Well then, what's your message?" "It's not for you," he said in a low voice. Michael squinted as though tracking the movement of someone outside. Pointing out the window and down toward the street level, he asked; "Is that man often there?"

  "Who? A scruffy-looking soapbox preacher?" I asked. When Michael nodded, I checked my watch. Sure enough, the time read quarter to four. "Like clockwork. He's the only other guy besides me who works on a Saturday afternoon, I swear."

  "Damn," Michael said through clenched teeth. Though he'd whispered, the curse cut through the still office air like a knife.