Archangel Protocol Read online

  Heat rose on my cheeks. I leaned back in my chair, hoping the shadows would conceal my schoolgirl blush. "Mouse," I said sternly. "Business."

  "What?" He shrugged with faux innocence. "This is business."

  I kept my face stony and hidden.

  "So serious all the time," he whined. When even this attempt got no reaction, he pursed his lips. Finally, he conceded. "All right, give me the names."

  "Michael Angelucci, and the other is some Mafia tough going by the handle 'Morningstar.' "

  "Oh, one of those," Mouse remarked with a quirky smile.

  "What do you mean?"

  "There's a whole cult of people taking fallen angel names, especially among criminals and rebellious kids. Although most of them aren't as biblically savvy as your guy. They're all calling themselves Lucifer or, even more creative, Satan." He wagged a finger at the screen. "You should know this stuff, Dee. It's part of your business. See, this is the problem with being cut off from the LINK and living in sheltered Christendom..."

  "Not yet, we're not," I protested.

  "If you elect Grey, you will be."

  "Grey is a rabbi," I countered. "He would never join Christendom."

  "Grey is a wimp," Mouse said in disgust. "He'll do what the people want."

  I laughed. "Isn't that what an elected official is supposed to do?"

  Mouse gave me a grimace. "America is a sinking ship, Dee. You have never recovered from the war. What America really needs is a benevolent dictator. Someone to guide wisely and steadily, not fluctuate with the tide of opinion polls."

  "You're scaring me, Mouse. That almost makes sense." I laughed. "But, America is not Islam. We're kind of stuck on this democracy thing. Anyway, I'm surprised at you. How friendly would a dictator be to mouse.net?"

  "Mouse.net is beyond single-country control."

  "Ah-ha! Finally! World domination, eh, Mouse?"

  He smiled, but there was a touch of sourness in his face. "You should give me more respect, Dee. I wield more power than you know."

  "Enough power to get me information on two men sometime this week?"

  Mouse blinked, then laughed. "All right, Dee. All right. Now then," Mouse said, with a wicked smile on his lips, "for payment ... underwear. Confess. What kind?"

  "Couldn't I give you some other information?" I stalled. It wasn't so much that I cared if the public knew this kind of detail, but that I was giving it to Mouse. "There must be something else you could sell?"

  "Of equal value?" he asked. After I nodded enthusiastically in agreement, he smiled darkly. The lines of his face looked tighter, and, for a brief moment, he looked older – more serious. Squinting past the screen into the sun, he said, "Sure, McMannus. Tell me what really happened between you and Daniel the night before the Pope was murdered."

  "White, bikini-cut, Hanes, size 6."

  His gaze slid back to mine. There was something different behind his eyes, disappointment, maybe. Or, if I allowed myself the thought, hurt or rejection.

  "Bikini-cut, no lie?" he asked, picking up his airy persona like a feather mask. "Kind of tawdry, don't you think?"

  "I'm an eternal optimist." I shrugged.

  My saucy comment was rewarded with a genuine smile.

  "Someday, Dee ... maybe you and I will both get lucky ... real-time." He wagged his eyebrows at me suggestively. "Got to run. I've got info to sell. I'll have the page ring you about the boomerang source, okay? Usual channels though, don't expect a telephone call. Sheesh."

  After rolling his eyes at me, he was gone. When I found myself still smiling at the blank screen, I reached over and flicked the phone off.

  Mouse's boomerang was my ace in the hole. The boomerang program was, as Mouse would put it, one wicked string of code. It followed a trace back to its originator, slammed them with a simple but irritating virus, and then returned with the information. Now, I just hoped Mouse would see fit to be generous with whatever information the boomerang provided; I was fresh out of good bartering material.

  I smiled. Mouse was a paradox. With one hand, he raked in the dough through illegal, and often amoral, information brokering. Meanwhile, as if the right didn't know what the left was doing, the other hand busily redistributed that ill-gotten gain to the less fortunate around the globe.

  Mouse provided wet ware or exoware to anyone, anywhere, no questions asked. Also, he allowed free access to his shadow of the LINK – mouse.net. If people were as creative and devious as Mouse himself, they might hack their way onto regular LINK channels, but more often they were content to talk amongst themselves. This irritated the international governments and Christendom especially. Not only was mouse.net not regulated, Mouse's people also did their business with their own strange barter system, which operated independently of any economic system. Fortunately for Mouse, he was clever enough to remain mostly harmless. Though many governments might prefer to shut Mouse down, his subscribers were mainly outcasts with little or no social, economic, or political power. Just to be safe, Mouse always buttered his bread on both sides. A great number of countries also owed him for information bought and traded.

  The media tried to label Mouse a subversive rebel, but they'd misunderstood his motivations. From what I had learned when Danny and I pursued him, this generosity was a tenet of the Muslim belief in almsgiving. Though if the rumors were true about Mouse's misspent youth, almsgiving was the only part of his religion he followed with any kind of seriousness.

  I pushed the chair away from the desk, and walked over to the coffeemaker. I poured myself another cup of coffee. Holding the warm mug in my hand, I breathed in the aroma. The coffee jock called it Sumatra, and next to romances, it was my other great addiction. Unlike any other coffee, it tasted just exactly like it smelled. The wind pushed a sheet of rain against the window. I took a long draught of my coffee and sighed contentedly. The old building's creaks and moans helped numb me to the silence.

  I turned back to my desk with the intention of returning to my romance novel and letting the words fill my head for a while. Just then, a burst of lightning illuminated the office in a pale, bright flash. Against the wall, enormous wings fluttered. I cried out in surprise. The cup in my hand fell to the floor with a crash. The silhouette stretched from one corner of the room to the other. Before I could discern the rest of its shape, the shadow image vanished.

  Black wings ... black, like the ebony feathers that bore Phanuel through the LINK. He was the first LINK-angel to appear, like a shadow that crawled out of the world's collective unconscious. A dark, fluttering thing – his presence at a LINK node would cause mass panic. Unlike the others that would follow, Phanuel did not broadband. Instead, he chose to visit individuals and corporations separately. He never spoke; rather he was seen and felt. I was still a cop when Phanuel came to the police frequency. Though some claimed to, I had never seen his face, just blackness that danced at the edge of my consciousness and haunted me for a week – like a shadow on the wall.

  The room was empty of illusions now, but I felt an old chill go down my spine. I pivoted my head in the direction of the window, hoping to catch a reassuring glimpse of a fleeing pigeon. There was nothing I could see, so I moved cautiously closer to the rain-streaked window. Long lines of yellow-green light from the traffic tubes above made a crisscross pattern on the darkened windows of the rain-soaked buildings across the way. The storm-darkened skies heightened the oddness of the color of this near-street level, until everything seem bathed in puce.

  I scanned the area, searching along the eaves for signs of a nest, but the shadows were long and it was impossible to discern much of anything. "Big crow," I told myself, though I hadn't seen a bird since the war thanks to the proximity of my office to the glass city that was once the Bronx, victim of the Medusa bomb. Still, I hoped aloud, "Or a raven." Anything but Phanuel.

  My computer beeped. I scurried over to the desk to check my monitor, ignoring the broken mug on the floor. At the far right-hand corner of the screen, a mouse icon bli
nked at me. I clicked on it, and a window popped up. The text read:

  Deidre, where on earth did you find this rust bucket? Man, it's no wonder you never hang ten out here anymore ... can't be much fun surfin' without a decent 'board.

  Boomerang came back empty-handed. Only happened to me one time before ... when I tried to source a LINK-angel. Guess that means God is tapping your line, girlfriend. Seems like strange behavior for an omniscient deity, but, hey, I'm just a page. I'm not even technically sentient, why would I even pretend to understand the mind of God?

  Allah akbar, the Mouse.

  The window disintegrated pixel by pixel. Despite the holes, I read the words over and over again, until there was nothing left. My mouth felt dry. My hands shook. I turned my monitor off. The darkened office was becoming a tad too quiet for my tastes. What had seemed cozy now felt haunted. It was time to get out and walk around. Checking my watch, I decided I had plenty of time to spare before the meeting with Michael. I popped open the bottom drawer of my desk and grabbed my shoulder holster and, after a brief hesitation, the romance as well. With the gun safely tucked under my arm, I headed for the door.

  * * *

  Excerpted from the LINK-angel site, 2075

  LINK-ANGELS, A BUDDHIST'S VIEW:

  Buddhism demands that we have no blind faith.

  Therefore, I think it unwise to dismiss the LINK-angels completely without first applying the tenets of wisdom and compassion. The term "angel" and their traditionally Christian appearance are somewhat disconcerting to many Buddhists. Yet their message, the idea of a Second Coming, is not unknown to our philosophy.

  In the history of the Mahayana Buddhists there exists the idea of the maitreya, or "Future Buddha" – a second Buddha that would come and purify the world. It was also believed that the first Buddha prophesied the coming of the second.

  Letourneau could be a bodhisattva, or even, one supposes, this Second Buddha. In some ways it is even easier for a Buddhist to accept the possibility of divine enlightenment to be bestowed upon a mindful individual. We do not have to believe that the man himself is a god, only that his ideas are enlightened. I am not suggesting that Letourneau is that man, however, only that is possible and certainly could fall within the realm of our belief system.

  * * *

  As to what the LINK-angels are, on the other hand, it is much more difficult to ascertain. Turning again to the Mahayana Buddhists, we find the idea of the Buddha as the manifestation of a universal, spiritual being with three bodies: the Body of Magical Transformation, nirmanakaya, the Body of Bliss, sambhogakaya, and the Body of Essence, dharmakaya. The angels could be a representation of the Body that exists in the heavens, the Body of Bliss.

  "Bodhi" or "budi" means "to wake up." Perhaps the LINK-angels are a wake-up call to all of us to return to our more religious roots.

  Chapter 5

  Over the dissipating storm clouds, a blood-red moon rose low on the horizon and loomed large behind the city skyline. Through the plastic sheath of the walkway I could see it clearly. Full and round, it capped the rooftops like a bowl or, I thought with a shiver, the glow of an exploding Medusa bomb. From the elevation of the skyway, I could see the reddish glint of what had once been the Bronx, but was now a crystal necropolis.

  It was that bomb, more than even the angels, that made converts out of a secular society. Though I was only a teenager, I was part of the youth war effort and had signed on to be in the cleanup crew at ground zero; our standing orders were to shatter anything on the streets that looked even vaguely human. Thanks to the Medusa, the Bronx was glass as far as the eye could see. Most people had time to evacuate, but hundreds were frozen as they tried to escape the blast. Crystallized faces, locked in silent screams, stared accusingly as if daring us to desecrate their graves.

  "Would you like me to pray with you, sister?"

  A voice at my side startled me. I shook off the memories that had flooded my mind. I glanced over at a short woman in the deep purple cassock of the Church of England. She stared up at the moon like I had. Auburn hair touched the tip of her shoulder and framed her round face like a lion's mane.

  I smiled down at her, since she was several inches shorter than I. "I wasn't praying ... just thinking."

  She laughed softly. The corners of her eyes crinkled slightly. "There isn't a person alive who doesn't look at that moon without a little prayer in their hearts."

  The newspapers had been heralding the blood-red moon as a sign of the Second Coming, of Letourneau's divinity. Quieter voices suggested it was simply the Canadian forest fires that caused this phenomenon.

  "What if it's not a sign of the apocalypse? Maybe the moon is red just because of the prevailing easterlies?"

  "Nature is part of God's plan," she said simply, as if people suggested heresy to her every day. "Nothing that happens is 'just' science, sister. All of it reveals the hand of God."

  Her eyes flicked over my dripping raincoat. She started past my eyes to my temple. I flushed; I hadn't realized that I'd been rubbing the implant again. "Do you need a safe place to stay tonight?" she asked. "Maybe some access to a little white noise?"

  White noise was a common treatment for info junkies, since it sated their need for constant input. I pulled my hand from my head and backed away. "No thanks. I'm okay."

  She nodded at me as if she didn't believe me, but wasn't going to push it. The look in her eye begged me to take that first step and admit I had a problem.

  "Before you go, Sister, may I ask you a question?" I asked. She looked puzzled, but nodded. "Do you work with the mentally ill?"

  "Of course. It's part of my outreach."

  "Ever heard of a company called Jordan River Health Institute? They're no longer in business, but they were a year ago."

  She looked surprised, then said, "Actually, I have. Several of my parishioners were scheduled to receive some of their biosoftware. Jordan never delivered."

  "Do you remember what the software was supposed to do?"

  "I'm not entirely sure, but ..." Her eyes looked up and off to the right as she accessed her LINK-memory. "I think it was supposed to help patients suffering chronic pain. Somehow the software was supposed to stimulate or manipulate the pain and pleasure centers of the brain."

  "Really?" Subconsciously I reached for pen and pad then I realized I'd forgotten it. Since the excommunication, I'd been forced to take paper notes like my P.I. ancestors. I'd just have to remember this bit of information. "Do you think they'd actually found the emotional centers of the brain?"

  "I doubt it," the nun said. "I mean, I guess I always assumed that's why the orders were never filled. They made promises they couldn't keep." She looked as though she were about to go on, but then stopped. "Why? Why do you want to know all of this?"

  "Ghosts. I'm trying to put some ghosts to rest."

  "Good luck." Her voice was quiet and, rather than press me, she moved away. "Your church may have abandoned you, Deidre, but God has not."

  Startled that she had recognized me, I murmured, "Thanks."

  Watching her leave, I felt envious. She had capital letter Faith. I always tried really hard in church to feel the Holy Spirit in me. I never got even a tingle, except when my feet went numb from sitting on them. Next to me in the pew, Eion glowed. The only time I even came close to feeling that kind of fulfillment was when Daniel and I successfully collared a LINK criminal. Eion swore to serve God; I swore to "Serve and Protect." It had been a good balance.

  My nose caught a whiff of something delicious. The smells reminded me that my earlier attempt to eat had been rudely interrupted. Following the odor, I made my way to a bustling deli. The holographic marquee advertised great food first in English, Hebrew, and then Yiddish.

  I went inside. The low-level conversation noise filled my head, and I let out a long sigh. This was the perfect place to relax until it was time to meet Michael. I ordered a couple of potato knishes from the counter and jockeyed for a position at a table near the window. I
retrieved my paperback from my coat pocket. The older gentleman seated next to me raised his eyebrows curiously at the sight of a hard-copy book, but he smiled as if pleased that someone else still made the effort to bother with print. He toasted me with his coffee cup, and I reciprocated with a knish salute.

  I fingered through the dog-eared pages searching for where I'd left the intrepid heroine hanging. Ah yes, I smiled, still arguing with the enigmatic, but darkly handsome hero. Deeply into the novel and just starting my second knish, I heard someone shout my name.

  "Deidre!" A hand touched me familiarly on the shoulder. A dark-eyed woman with a crew cut stood next to me. A white patch of scar tissue interrupted an otherwise perfectly shaped eyebrow. It had been almost twenty years, but, despite the new haircut, I recognized Rebeckah immediately.

  "I'd ask you to join me, Rebeckah, but ..." I gestured helplessly at the crowd.

  A meaningful glance at the man in the seat next to me was all it took for her to commandeer a place at the crowded counter. While her attention was elsewhere, I unobtrusively slipped the paperback into my pocket. Once she'd settled herself, she asked, "It's been a while. How are you?"

  "Holding up," I managed to say around a mouthful of knish. "You?"

  "Fine." She said absently, watching the door.

  I thought about asking her if she was planning on coming to our college's next reunion, but even if there were going to be one, neither of us would go. Rebeckah was underground these days with the Malachim, and I was off the force, excommunicated.

  She watched me eat in silence. After inhaling the rest of the potato pastry, I cleared my throat. "You've always been shitty at small talk, Rebeckah. This meeting isn't a coincidence, is it?"

  "My mistake. I thought you came here to talk to me."

  I raised an eyebrow and looked around the restaurant. Could Rebeckah be implying that this little deli was the headquarters of the Malachim? I decided not to ask. She might not appreciate us being overheard.