Archangel Protocol Read online

  "Is that why you're here? The preacher? I can attest he's pretty harmless." Uncomfortable with the silence that had settled in the room, I asked, "So, if your message isn't for me, who is it for?"

  "Why does he come to your office window? He's not going to get much of a crowd back there." Hooking his thumb toward the street, Michael turned toward me.

  "He doesn't want a crowd. He wants me. When the window is open, I can hear him harping about heretics and all that. He wants to save me, I think." I shrugged. "Nice thought, but it gets old, you know?"

  Michael smiled.

  I crossed my arms in front of my chest and let out a long breath. "Even though his rants sometimes irritate the piss out of me, I'm grateful for his persistence. At least someone thinks I'm worth saving."

  "Why wouldn't you be?"

  "You ever use that receiver in your head?" I asked him, tapping the hard, dead pellet at my temple meaningfully. I smiled to take the sting out of my tone.

  "Martyrs and saints are rarely understood in their own time."

  I sputtered out something between a choke and a laugh. "You're joking."

  Michael shrugged and turned back toward the window. "Eternal consequences," he repeated.

  I gave in to a chuckle I'd been trying to hold back. "Oh, I get it now. This is some kind of sales pitch. Cop salary is still that bad, that you have to work door-to-door for some shady 'indulgence' company, eh?"

  He turned back to give me a patient smile. "No, but I am here on personal business. Listen, I'm willing to barter."

  "Barter." I sighed. "Just what I need."

  I shook my head and walked back behind my desk. I'd been excited at the prospect of a live client, but at the mention of the word "barter" the ache returned to my temple. I bit my lip to keep from scratching at the receiver.

  "Maybe you can't afford me," I told him. "I only work for credits," I added to the lie with a flourish. "And, I mean Christendom credits, not the local variety Free State crap."

  He looked around at my shabby office. "I think you might be interested in my barter."

  "Oh yeah?" I sneered back, offended that my desperate straits were so blatantly obvious that he didn't even pretend to believe my lie.

  "I can offer you the LINK."

  I suddenly forgot how to breathe. Then, the insanity of his offer pushed a stream of words out of my mouth in a rush. "Impossible. No bio-hack in the world could bypass the meltdown trigger, and, if you're talking external mode, I'd be just as toasted. The feedback loop alone would kill me." As an afterthought, I added, "Not to mention the fact that it would be totally illegal."

  "But if I could do it ... ?" Michael's eyes twinkled.

  "You'd be a god and I'd be your slave." I coughed out a laugh and dropped into the chair. I twirled a mouse-pen through my fingers. "But, you can just keep dreaming, big guy. You might as well offer me the moon."

  "That would be a bit tougher," he admitted with a smile, but his tone was serious.

  Michael's eyes still held that "I've got a secret" look, and my disbelief eroded. I dropped the pen and my flippant attitude. "You're serious."

  "I am."

  "Christ," I breathed, my mind reeling.

  "It would be worth a lot to you, wouldn't it?" Michael asked quietly.

  "You have no idea," I said. My voice sounded like sandpaper. The desperation in it reminded me of the urgent whine of the wire-junkies begging for access on Forty-second Street. I had to try to pull myself together; otherwise, this guy would think he could walk all over me. More than that, I hadn't seen the goods yet. I cleared my throat. "Presuming you can perform this little miracle, what exactly are you expecting in exchange?"

  "A LINK-hack." Michael's eyes watched my face.

  I looked over his shoulder to where the certificate of merit hung on the wall. I'd gotten that honor for successfully collaring a wire-wizard named Weasel, who was terrorizing the LINK. Michael was asking me to become what I used to hunt when I was on the Tech Vice Squad. He was asking me to break the law.

  "Is that all?" I gave a relieved laugh. "Hell, I could do that in my sleep. What do you want, Officer? Access to the department's slush fund? A peek at an Internal Affairs file? What?"

  I tried, unsuccessfully, to keep my tone light. My finger stroked the lump of the receiver.

  He scratched the short hairs at the back of his neck. "I want you to help me bring down the LINK-angels and expose Letourneau as a false prophet, a pretender."

  His face scrunched up, as though preparing for a bad reaction.

  I gave it to him. "What? Are you insane?"

  "You heard me."

  "The LINK-angels, fake? That's not possible," I told him flatly.

  He nodded. I stared at him incredulously. The LINK-angels were a bona fide miracle. It wasn't just that they looked like angels. After all, anyone could assume any type of avatar out on the LINK. The thing that made LINK-angels different is they broadcast emotions, feelings. As a former tech-cop, I knew sending emotions via electrons was as unlikely an alchemist's attempt to turn lead to gold. The equipment needed would fill more than just one person's head. The human mind was still enough of a mystery that even if we had the technology to link to the emotional centers, sending something coherent was another matter. All that either party would most likely receive was a garbled jumble of images, sound and smell – as the bard might say, "full of sound and fury, signifying nothing."

  Thus, all of the experts had agreed, secular and religious, what the LINK-angels did, no human could duplicate. The LINK-angels were what they claimed to be – a sign from God.

  "Some people might say what you're suggesting is heresy," I told Michael.

  "That's why I need you. You're already excommunicated. The Pope can't threaten you." Michael leaned against the windowpane and gave me a hard stare. "Besides, if Letourneau isn't the Second Coming, it's hardly heresy. Some might even consider a hack like that God's work. Anyway, why do you care so much about heresy?"

  "I care. All right? I happen to care a lot. Despite what people say about me on the LINK, I don't take this sentence lightly. I lost my job." My fingers stroked the implant with an almost feverish desperation. "More than that, I lost a friend."

  "Right ... Daniel."

  I wasn't surprised that Michael knew about my personal history. I had a fan-run site somewhere on the LINK, where people kept track of all my comings and goings. I was surprised at how much hearing that name out loud hurt.

  "I apologize," Michael said. He dropped his gaze and stared at his chest.

  "Forget about it." I shrugged. With some effort, I halted the rhythmical rubbing. To give my hands something else to do, I shuffled though the clippings and printouts on my desk. I couldn't look at Michael as I continued, "The LINK-angels are more untouchable than the Mafia, and they've picked Letourneau. The election is sewn up and people are roasting 'heretics' wherever they find them. A person can't even get a dissenting opinion printed in the Times these days without retribution." Thinking of Mrs. Rosenstone, I frowned and gestured at my monitor to empathize my point. "No. I'm truly sorry for whatever's happening to you or to whomever you represent, but count me out. I tried to go up against the New Right before and I lost ... lost a lot more than I was willing to sacrifice."

  "I'm certain Daniel's soul is clean," I heard him whisper.

  Something in his voice made me search out his eyes. "Clean?" I repeated, "Clean of what?"

  "Sin," he said simply.

  I shook my head slowly. "I wish I could be so certain, big guy."

  "So do I." His voice sounded heavy with defeat. Boots scuffed against the floor, as he turned to leave. "If you reconsider, my offer still stands."

  I didn't look up from the clutter on my desk. In my attempt to straighten up the mess, I'd unearthed the article about Danny's trial. Damn filing system. Between my trembling fingers read the headline: "COP CONVICTED IN POPE'S MURDER." Despite everything, I should never have turned him in like that – never, I thought desp
erately.

  "For him then," came Michael's voice at the door, startling me.

  "What?" I quickly shoved the article facedown under a coffee cup. I couldn't stand the sight of Danny's accusing face. "What did you say?"

  "If not for me, then take my case for him. It would clear your conscience."

  "What makes you think it's my conscience that needs clearing?"

  "Daniel is an innocent man."

  "Everyone saw him shoot the Pope, Michael. Daniel's guilty. That case was closed a year ago. I want to leave it behind me."

  "But can you?" Michael's eyes held me tightly, and my breathing became shallow.

  My smile froze, and the room seemed suddenly smaller. Michael's eyes, with their molten passion, felt only inches away. I took in a deep breath to steady myself. I closed my eyes, not letting Michael's gaze drag me deeper into something I didn't want to do. 'I'm not the hero you're looking for. I can't fight anymore. I'm spent."

  Michael's hand gripped the doorknob. He looked out into the hallway. "Just consider my offer, would you?"

  "I'm not taking your case, not for any price." It was a lie, but it was what a smart woman would say. After all, I knew nothing about Michael. This whole offer to reconnect me to the LINK could be some elaborate sting to try to entrap me into doing something really stupid. I looked up into Michael's eyes, which still watched me from the door. I wanted to trust those calm, gray eyes, but I shook my head.

  When he turned to leave, I knew my false bravado didn't really matter. For all intents and purposes, I was already on the case. I had to find out more about Michael and why he wanted the LINK-angels discredited. I had to know what he knew about Daniel. I'd take this job; I had to.

  * * *

  Excerpt from the NY Times, April 2075

  COP KILLS POPE

  Daniel Fitzpatrick, 33, of the New York Police Department was arrested today in connection with the shooting of Pope Innocent the XIV.

  Ironically, Detective Fitzpatrick had volunteered to serve as crowd protection along the Pope's parade route. Witnesses on the scene reported that when the Pope's parade came through the pedestrian tunnel on the 50th level Broadway, Fitzpatrick moved in closely to calmly address one of the Swiss Guard, then pulled out his service pistol and shot the Pope dead. Fitzpatrick was wrestled to the ground immediately and taken into custody, [hot-link here for video and/or virtual reality replay]

  The Swiss Guard who was approached by Fitzpatrick said, "I feel completely responsible, but I was fooled by the uniform. The police are supposed to be the good guys, right?" When asked what Fitzpatrick had said to the Guard, he replied, "Nothing, really. He was pointing out Muslim troublemakers in the crowd. We took him seriously, but I guess it was meant as a distraction."

  However, police confirmed that Muslim extremists were spotted in the crowd. According to sources on the scene, the police had, indeed, requested via LINK that Fitzpatrick verbally inform the Swiss Guard of the possible danger, since, due to tradition, the Guard is not LINKed.

  Police are suggesting that perhaps Fitzpatrick took advantage of a sudden possibility to get close to the Pope, and that the murder, in fact, was not premeditated.

  Yet, according to inside sources, Fitzpatrick had been acting strangely before today's events. "If you ask me," said an undisclosed source, "It was only a matter of time. He was a Protestant, you know. He was always going on about what would happen if the President made an alliance with Christendom." Though characterized by many as easygoing, inside sources said Fitzpatrick had been having angry outbursts. One report said, though no formal charges were made, Fitzpatrick might have attempted sexual assault on his partner mere days before shooting the Pope.

  Rabbi-Mayor Klien demanded to know why the police officers assigned to the Pope's parade route had not been tested psychologically. To this accusation, Captain Allaire Morgan of the 10th precinct had no comment. The FBI has been called in to investigate this incident.

  Chapter 2

  The slam of the door echoed in my mind like the clang of bars closing a prison cell. I picked up the hard copy of the article from underneath the coffee cup and smoothed out the edges. The accompanying item about my excommunication showed a picture of me in a small box in the corner. I shook my head sadly. That was probably my least ladylike moment. The photo was a scan of the moment they announced the Pope's murder, and my hair was a mess despite the short cut I wear, blond hair twisted this way and that like a rat's nest. I hated that picture; I looked like a crazy woman. Somehow the photo had made the most of my least attractive features. My pug nose seemed even wider, and my lips were far too thin and pale.

  I carefully folded up the article and wedged it under the desk blotter. My fingers grazed the letters Daniel had sent me from prison. Like so much in my office, I should have thrown them out months ago, but I just couldn't bring myself to do it. I felt guilty, I suppose, because I'd never opened them. I reached for them now, thinking I should finally read them. The envelopes were thin. The paper in my hands felt smooth. The computer-printed number with the address New Jersey State Penitentiary sent a chill down my spine. Danny always used to joke about hating New Jersey. I thought it was the final cruel twist of fate that he'd been sent there of all places.

  It was no wonder I'd looked like hell in the photo. I hadn't put in much sleep that week. Before the whole mess with the Pope, Danny and I were working on a hack-job case – a big one. We were spending later and later nights together hunched over code. I must have given him the wrong signals. It's not hard to see how it could have happened. He'd been changing so much since we started that case, growing darker, harder to reach. He'd had all sorts of strange outbursts – an anger that seemed to come from nowhere, and always right after a phone call or message. I figured that Danny, like most married cops, had troubles at home. We spent more and more time together, and I guess I must have crossed some line.

  I found myself rubbing my hairline again. I pulled my hand away forcibly and stood up to walk over to the window. Outside, bathed in a ghostly green light, I saw Michael talking to the soapbox preacher. I shouldered the window open a crack as quietly as the old building would let me. Neither of them looked up.

  "Stay away from that Jezebel." The preacher waved his arms in the direction of my window. Great, I grimaced, no wonder business dropped off so sharply. "Jezebel" was hardly the image I wanted to impart to my clients.

  "She is unclean," the preacher continued to rave, "... unholy."

  Michael's body stiffened, as if the insult were directed at himself and not me.

  "No one is beyond redemption. That's the gift you give her. If it wasn't for the solace that brings, I'd ..." His fists clenched at his sides and, for a moment, I thought he was going to punch the preacher right in the mouth. Then, with a snort, Michael turned away. Over his shoulder he added, "Try being the Christian you profess to be, and remember the phrase: 'Let him who is without sin ... cast the first stone.' "

  The preacher and I watched in stunned silence as Michael stomped down the alley toward the street. These days everyone used the Bible as a weapon, but usually to bludgeon, not to cut to the heart of the matter. Michael impressed me. Either New York's Finest had raised their admission standards, or this guy wasn't from around here. That's when I decided to follow him.

  Grabbing my keys from the hook by the door, I dashed down the back stairwell. The preacher's eyes were still watching Michael moving down the street, so he didn't notice me slip across the street to the parking ramp.

  My old beater was the only car at this level in the lot. The lights in the parking ramp flickered meekly, reminding me that I needed to pay my electric bill in order to keep the tube connection active. The car had a battery for short-distance driving off the rail, of course, but gravity would be against me if I needed to go up a level to get juice.

  Since all cars were electric, all the major metropolitan areas were covered in a gerbil cage-like maze of tubing. Traffic Control, a huge hub of computers and sen
sors, made sure that none of the millions of cars in the tubes went barreling into each other. Control managed our speeds and otherwise oversaw the difficult task of keeping up with city traffic. Needless to say, things did not always run as smoothly as planned. Especially here in New York.

  I jumped in the car and, on battery power, maneuvered the car over to the tube-rail. With a spark, rail connected to the car, and I lurched forward with sudden power. The traffic tubes on this level were recycled plastic, and murky, but I was able to see Michael moving on the street below me.

  This far down, the shadows of the city were long, and the light was hazy and greenish, as it was filtered through more and more of the knotwork of traffic tubes and skyways above. To my left, I could see three thin stabs of pure light that had not been diluted by tubing. But, mostly my world was cast in a perpetual greenish haze.

  The car shook as I moved along. The tubing of lower levels badly needed repair. The landfill-mined plastic had worn thin in places, and I sped up, hoping to have enough momentum to save me should one collapse under the weight of my Chevy. At this level, there was no other traffic. The electric engine hummed quietly.

  It was not difficult to follow the dark dot that was Michael's lone form on the cracked and ancient sidewalks below. Walking the streets of New York in the era of skyports and skyways was virtually unheard of and certainly not something for the faint of heart. If I learned anything about him, it was that Michael was braver than the average New York City cop. Not even a badge protected people on the streets these days. My grandfather remembered "beat cops," but these days that was an imperative sentence, not a noun.

  Still watching Michael's leather jacket grow smaller as he marched into the distance, I punched the numbers for the Tenth Precinct into my mobile wristwatch-phone. "Yeah," I told the dispatcher that answered. "Get me Captain Morgan."

  The image in the digital time readout window flickered, then morphed into a detailed three-dimensional image of an empty desk. Hard-copy files, photos, and data chips were spattered across the surface in seeming abandon. "All that's missing are the donuts, Chief."