Archangel Protocol Page 4

  The instant he closed the door, I started up the car. The engine sprang to life and I maneuvered us out of the car park and headed for the tollway. I glanced over at where Michael sat sullenly in his seat. He plucked at the peeling duct tape that held the glove compartment shut. Noticing my look, he said, "You followed me."

  Just then, some Gorgon on a scooter cut across the traffic tube levels without so much as a "coming through" from Traffic Control, which was supposed to monitor all vehicles in the tubes. I leaned on the horn, and shouted after the punk.

  "Stay in your own lanes!" I shook my head, and muttered, "Those Gorgons are going to give me gray hair of my own. What was he doing here anyway? It's not like there aren't traffic tubes expressly for bikes and boards."

  "Hmmmm," Michael muttered, uninterested in my patter. His gaze tracked the scooter as it dodged around cars in the lower tube. "I know you followed me."

  Before I could put on my "What, who, me?" face, he held up a hand.

  "Don't bother making up an excuse," he said. "This thing is a relic, and anyway, you were the only car on the lower level."

  I smiled, but wondered how he knew the Chevy was mine. Suddenly, I remembered: if he was a cop, then he had the LINK. "Yeah, I ought to get something built in this decade, I know. But, hey," I joked, "in another year this baby qualifies as a classic."

  "Technically, sure." Returning my humor, he ran his hand along the scarred dash. "I doubt anyone'd mistake this for cherry."

  The car in question hummed into the third level. I remembered gas-guzzlers from before the war. I'd been young, far too young to drive, but I had a strange nostalgia for them. Despite what it did to the classic status, I had it converted to electric years ago. It had cost me a month's salary to get a battery big enough to haul the Chevy's frame for more than a couple of kilometers, and to fit it to draw energy from the tunnel currents. I could've bought a newfangled, lightweight car for the same price, but I was a purist. I wanted a car to look like a car instead of the ugly, modern, supposedly aerodynamic things that passed for vehicles these days.

  Following the entrance tube, we joined the line of cars that crowded on the seventh level. With one foot on the brake, I settled into the strangely comforting stop-start motions of a traffic jam.

  "So ..." Michael's voice was hopeful. "Does this mean you're considering the barter?"

  "I'd like more information first."

  "Of course," he said. "What can I tell you?"

  "Interesting guy this Morningstar," I told him. "What's his story? He's your brother?"

  Michael raised his eyebrows, then smiled. "I suppose you could call him that. We share a father, that much is true."

  "I gathered." I watched the traffic with disinterest. The bumper sticker in front of me proclaimed its owner as a voter for Grey, Letourneau's opponent, in the upcoming elections. I glanced over at Michael, "So you and Morningstar don't get along, eh?"

  He gave a disgusted snort. "Forget about him, will you?"

  "Forget him?" I oozed sarcasm. "Big guy, you've got to be joking. You can't tell me he's not part of your problem."

  "He's not." Michael sighed. "At least not right now."

  "No?" I tapped on the horn. My noise started a cascade of beeps and blares from fellow frustrated motorists. I gave Michael's profile a cynical smile. "Okay, if you say so."

  He shrugged, as he continued to stare out the window.

  "So, your family is Italian? Your half brother is in the business?" I tried to gauge how he reacted to my innuendo about Morningstar's Mafia connection.

  "Italian?" He shrugged. "I'd prefer Roman."

  I glanced at him to check if he was being serious. "Okay," I murmured, not sure how else to respond. "Roman it is. So, what was it you said to him?"

  "I see what you're thinking." He shifted his massive frame, so he could look me right in the eye. "Look, it's nothing like that. You have to believe me; Morningstar has nothing to do with you and me. He's right. This time things aren't so black-and-white, I'm afraid. We have to think beyond the dualism of me versus him."

  "What does that mean?" I said in Michael's direction, my eyes on the bumper in front of me.

  "Eternal consequences, but mortal players." He said as if that explained everything.

  "Right. Fine." Traffic stopped completely. The tubes felt claustrophobic at moments like this. "What is the problem here?" I yelled out the window, though no one could hear me behind their Plexiglas shields.

  Michael stared out the window at the business-district sprawl. Tubes covered the skyline like a chaotic ball of yarn. I could see lights blinking all-around us, where several panels of the traffic tubes had been replaced with holographic advertising. Inching forward, we passed through the logo of cola being joyfully consumed by a drop-dead gorgeous Indian woman in a sari. The image stood partially over the stick shift. Michael's eyes were wide in wonderment, as though he'd never seen anything so fascinating. The advertisement faded as we moved forward another foot.

  "You're not from around here," I said.

  "Amish country," he murmured, looking out the rear of the car at the cola ad.

  "Yet you're enhanced?" I asked, surprised.

  "I'm sorry?" He gave me another one of his big, dumb-guy looks and a shrug.

  "Cyberware," I supplied, with an arched eyebrow. What cop didn't know "enhanced"? Christ, half the guys on the force were ex-military, and those that weren't got special modifications under the table, or, at the very least, wore exoskeletons. With all the rogue wireheads out there, a cop couldn't be too careful. He still stared quizzically, so I added. "Your little dance around the table. The fight nearly broke the sound barrier. Impressive."

  "Right," he said, as if reminding himself. "I wonder if that was a mistake."

  I waved my hand to dismiss the idea. Then, I smoothly turned my momentum into a rude gesture as the woman in front of me hit the brakes for no apparent reason. I laid on the horn and repeated the gesture. I had to raise my voice to be heard over the responding traffic noise. "Don't worry about it. Almost everyone has some enhancement these days. It's not the sore thumb it used to be right after the war. So, what branch were you in?"

  "Huh?"

  Cute, I thought sadly, but not very on the ball.

  "You and Morningstar served in something together, I'm figuring the last big one ... although you don't really look old enough. Anyway, he called you Captain. You're a lieutenant in the force, so you must've been a captain somewhere else. So, which branch of the military?"

  "Army." He smoothed down the material in his jeans. It was the first time since he walked into my office this morning that he had answered my question directly. Fifteen years on the force taught me a lot about human nature, and it disturbed me that Michael chose this moment not to meet my eyes. Besides, Morningstar's references to "your boss" made me wonder if the title "captain" wasn't actually meant to imply capo. Still, for the moment, I let this lie ride.

  "Yeah?" I continued to make polite conversation. "Did you see any action?"

  He glanced up at me and gave me a weary smile. "Yeah. I suppose I did."

  "Really?" I did some mental calculations, and gave him an appraising look. "I suppose you could have been a young man, say twenty or so, that would only make you in your forties."

  He shook his head as if to tell me I'd asked him enough personal questions. The traffic was ridiculous, and I decided to get us out of this mess. I spotted a down exit moving at a quicker rate. In a second, I had us down on the sixth level and moving swiftly.

  "I want you to reconsider taking the case," he said.

  I nodded. "All right. Talk to me."

  "Somebody's been using my name on the LINK to prop up Letourneau."

  "Your name?" I asked, "What does Letourneau need with a cop's name?"

  "A cop?" Michael frowned, then, he said, "Oh, right. Me. No, not literally, more like figuratively."

  "Someone's using your name, your LINK access, figuratively? How does that work?" I w
atched his face intently. I couldn't believe that a second ago he didn't realize I was talking about him when I said "a cop's name." Captain Morgan had confirmed that Michael was with the force, so what was up with this guy?

  "Let me start again," Michael said.

  "I think you'd better."

  I decided that I needed to give Michael my full attention. I noticed a mostly empty parking lot and swung around to enter. I keyed off the engine and turned in my seat to look at Michael. He was frowning at the duct tape, as if trying to choose his words.

  "It's not really my name I'm concerned about," he said finally. "It's more like my reputation and the reputation of some people very close to me."

  "How is your rep tied to Letourneau?"

  "To the LINK-angels." He corrected.

  I studied his face. His lips were pursed and his expression serious. Glancing out across the car park, I could see a billboard with a beatifically smiling presidential candidate Letourneau. His arms were open and welcoming like the forty-foot Jesus. Behind him, in the 3-D space, hovered an image of a LINK-angel. The virtual artist had done a good job mimicking the experience of the angels. The apparition drifted in and out of view, like a dream: one time over Letourneau's right shoulder, the next second over his left. I shivered, then I shook off the feeling.

  "I still don't see the connection," I said. "What do the LINK-angels have to do with your reputation?"

  "Poseurs," he spit.

  I laughed and shook my head. I pointed my finger at him in mock accusation. "Blasphemer."

  "Heretic is more accurate, thank you very much." Michael's lips tightened like he was holding back something, and his face went scarlet all the way to the ear tips.

  "That's a pretty fine line of a distinction."

  "Not to me, and not to the law." He pointedly avoided my gaze and plucked at the duct tape. "Anyway, I don't buy the presumption that the LINK-angels have anything to do with God, nor are they inviolable. If I believed that, I wouldn't be asking for you to hack them."

  "That's what I still don't get. Why bust the angels? Most skeptics have been convinced by them, even men of science. That the angels are genuine seems to be the only thing religious and secular leaders agree on. The LINK-angels' appearance was a worldwide miracle..."

  "I know all this," he growled. "That's why I need your help. You're the only one, Deidre. You know the truth."

  "What truth?"

  "I think you know." Michael's eyes were filled with an intensity that made me look away. I shook my head.

  "I don't want to get involved," I said. "Besides, the truth doesn't count for jack, my friend; power and influence do. If I had either, do you think Daniel would be locked up right now? Do you think I'd be kicked off the force? Excommunicated?" I laid my hand out flat in the air between us. "No."

  "Yet you can't let it go on the way it is, can you? You keep trying to print your letters to the editor, even though you know excommunication automatically bars you."

  "I ... I ..." I didn't have an answer. "That's different."

  "No, it's not. It's politics, just like this faux Second Coming, and it must be stopped."

  "Now you sound like the Hasidic fanatics. They want my endorsement as a notorious LINK celebrity, too, you know."

  "I'm not looking for votes."

  "What are you looking for, Michael? You want the LINK-angels brought down, but why? What are they to you, really? What do you get out of it? All the LINK-angels have ever given anyone is a sense of peace. Why destroy that?"

  Michael laughed. "As if that's all they do." He pointed his chin in the direction of Letourneau's smiling hologram. "You know as well as I that they're propagating the whole Second Coming myth."

  "I know, I know. But what does it matter to you? Or is it who you represent, Michael? Who is this boss of yours? Is it in your father's interests that you've approached me?"

  "No. I came to you on my own." He took in a long, steadying breath. "It matters to me because ... it matters to me."

  "That's not good enough."

  Michael's gray eyes flashed up at me. "You don't need to know my reasons to do this job. Are you telling me you don't want the barter?"

  "It's not worth the risk if I can't trust you. Why not go to the Hasidim or someone else?"

  Michael shifted slightly on the vinyl seats. Creaking was the only sound for a few moments as he started to speak, but then stopped. Finally, he said, "I'll be honest with you, you weren't my first pick. I did go to the Hasidim first."

  He glanced at me to gauge my reaction.

  "The Malachim?" The Hasidic terrorists went by the code name Malachim Nikamah, the Angels of Vengeance.

  He nodded. I raised my eyebrows, but held my tongue. It made sense. The Malachim were renowned hackers and the LINK was what they terrorized. They shared Michael's distaste for Letourneau's bid for messiah, and disbelief in the divinity of the LINK-angels.

  "Things didn't work out with them," he said.

  "And you think they will with me?"

  Michael nodded.

  "I don't know about this," I started. "People with past terrorist connections representing hidden interests don't exactly inspire trust, you know ... it's not really my kind of thing; maybe you need the CIA or something."

  "Do you trust your government, Deidre?" He gave me a knowing look out of the corner of his eye. "These are the same people who issued a life sentence for an innocent man."

  "Daniel was hardly innocent, Michael. There is no doubt in my mind that he killed the Pope." I dropped my eyes and tried to keep my emotions in check. "It was a crazy thing that happened to Daniel, but sometimes people just snap."

  "Is that what you really believe?"

  "That's what I have to believe. The evidence is empirical."

  "Maybe," Michael said quietly. "Maybe not."

  "What do you know?" I demanded. "Is there something about Daniel's case that's changed?"

  "The LINK-hack case you were working on has never been solved. No one has even touched it."

  I hadn't thought about that case in over a year. With everything that had happened with the Pope, I'd forgotten about it. The details came back to me in a rush: "But, it was a smash-and-grab of bioware tech – hot stuff. The company, was it Jordan Institute? They hounded us every day to crack that case."

  "Exactly my point," Michael said, turning to face me in the cramped car space. "Somebody's hiding something about Daniel's case."

  "And, so, what are you saying? Do you think our old case is related to Letourneau and the LINK-angels somehow? That's kind of a strange leap in logic," I said.

  "All I'm saying is that I just don't think you should count this case as closed just yet, Deidre."

  Over Michael's shoulder, the billboard image of Letourneau caught my eye again, and I watched the angel drift around the board like a ghost. "I'd rather let the dead stay buried. I'm out of the force, and whatever stones they leave unturned are no longer my business."

  Michael shook his head. "You might feel at the end, but there is still a lot to lose, Deidre. What if I told you I had proof that the Second Coming was a fraud?"

  My eyes sought his. He met my gaze steadily. Could he be telling the truth? Excited, but cautious, I said, "I'd wonder why you hadn't gone to the media."

  "The media haven't exactly been open to opponents of Letourneau."

  "I see what you mean," I said, remembering the Times. "What do you plan to do then? And what's my part?"

  "You have connections that I don't. I need to break into the LINK to expose the angels' fallacy."

  "You'd have better luck hiring some crackerjack surfer, like the Mouse, or getting one of your pals in the Malachim to freelance. I'm not even LINKed anymore."

  "If you'd take the job, I'd make the connection. You're a crack surfer in your own right."

  My head itched. I ran my hands along the rough plastic of the steering wheel to keep from fondling the implant. He gave me a tight smile; I dismissed his sideways compliment by loo
king out the window. "It's not possible."

  "The hardware is still there, Deidre," he said softly. "They couldn't take that away from you."

  "Hmmmmm." I couldn't trust myself to speak. I had a white-knuckle grip on the wheel.

  "My offer still stands. I can arrange to have your access reestablished."

  His words hung in the air. I was acutely aware of the emptiness of my head and the silence in the car. There was no sound but my harsh, shallow breathing. The dead receiver near my temple felt heavy and cold. The itch had become a dull throb.

  "Yeah?" I managed to scratch out of my dry throat. There was no lady in my voice, only junkie.

  "Yeah." He sounded confident, and I so desperately wanted to believe in his ability to get me what I needed. "What I want to know is – will you help me?"

  "You get me the connection," I told his reflection in the window, "and I'll do anything."

  * * *

  New Jersey State Penitentiary Jan. 7, 2076

  Dear Deidre,

  Must have started this letter a hundred times. Had to give up on anything but voice-activated text, because I couldn't bear my pick-pecking on the keyboard.

  (Not that they'd let me have access to anything with a motherboard. Shit, they've sure got me figured wrong.) Anyway, I'm finding it easier to talk. Lessens the urge to re-write, you know?

  Still don't know quite what to say. "Wish you were here" would get me a quick visit by the Morality Officer for a little attitude readjustment, and I've already been through that wringer once – thanks to a friendly round of fisticuffs that the wardens mistook for hostility. By the way, Oscar says "hi." You remember him, Dee. His page was called "Weasel." (What is it with rodents and those damned LINK-hackers anyway?) You know I wouldn't mean "the wish you were here" bit in THAT way, don't you? I know things got ugly there at the end, but we were partners for how long? Five years. You know me better than that. I just mean I wish to hell we could talk face-to-face, like the old days. I miss that. I miss you.

  There's some things we need to talk about. Important stuff. Before we can get to that, I figure I got to clear some air. I know you were just doing what you thought was right, okay? I forgive you. All you said was that you didn't know what was happening to me and that I'd left early that night... Ah. [PAUSE] Listen, about that night. I'm sorry. I should never have come on to you like that. Shit, that's part of it. Part of this whole thing. I'm trying to say that I can see now that you were telling the truth on the witness stand. I'm not even sure I know what happened to me ... what changed me. It's all seems different here. The whole thing seems clearer. Before ... those things I said ... I was angry. That wasn't me talking.