Archangel

by Mich Moore

would head home to their respective countries while the bulk of the group would pack up their equipment and belongings and fly to the new Archangel facility in Sault Sainte Marie, Michigan. Mumm champagne and light conversations passed easily from person to person. At one large table, Allan Chang was holding court with the Lincoln Hills team.

  He held a Styrofoam cup aloft. "I want to give a toast!"

  The others raised their own cups.

  "To the engineers who created the MIT and the DAT. HIP-HIP! HOORAY!"

  Everyone in the lounge joined in. "HIP-HIP! HOORAY!"

  "And to my son, Allan, Jr., who just got accepted at Oxford!"

  The men erupted first into disbelieving gasps and then into full-throated cheers.

  Powell looked dubious. "Allan, are you sure? I thought—How'd you pull it off?"

  Chang noisily gulped down his drink. "To be honest, I think Hillary bribed them." He grinned devilishly. "But, hey! HE'S IN!"

  There were happy whoops and yays.

  Bautista grabbed a fresh bottle of champagne and started to pour another round. Broussard waved him off.

  "I'm driving back home in a few."

  "Hey, can I get a ride?" Bautista asked.

  "No, thanks."

  Bautista encouraged Chang to refill his cup. "Hey, you guys going to the after party?" Management had decided to throw some serious money around and put on a Hollywood-style wrap party for the Redstone workers. Set designers had arrived two days before and transformed the complex's main square into an outdoor discotheque that would have made anyone who had lived through the Eighties proud. It came complete with live bands, deejay cages, multi-leveled dance floors and food courts.

  "It's mandatory, right?" Broussard asked.

  "Only if you want your paycheck," Chang answered truthfully.

  Broussard slapped his thighs and stood up. "Then it's settled. We're all going!"

  "HURRAH!"

  Broussard made a pit stop at the men's room and then headed for the main staircase that would take him down to the building's main lobby. Music—heavy electric bass guitar, jangling voices, loud clapping—boomed rhythmically against the walls. Curious, he followed his ears. Ten doors down was the employee gym, and there he found Z, Kwolski, and the six DATs committing the most terrible crimes against dancing. Rick James was rocking the house, and man and DAT were thrusting hips and strutting legs all over the place. Broussard watched the scene for exactly five seconds before dissolving into uncontrollable laughter. Z stopped his artistic spasms and turned the music down. He beckoned Broussard to join them.

  "Come on! Join us!" Z and Kwolski were both flush and sweaty. All of the DATs ran over and crowded around Broussard, their comm boards ablaze.

  "Uncle Neal!"

  "Uncle Neal!"

  "Uncle Neal!"

  "Uncle Neal!"

  "Uncle Neal!"

  "Uncle Neal!"

  Broussard greeted each one with a hug around the neck and a kiss on the cheek. "Just what are you folks up to?"

  "We're studying p-funk music this week," Kwolski piped up earnestly. "And today we are learning how to dance the funky chicken."

  "Oh, is that what that was?"

  "Yes!" Z replied joyfully. "We tried the tango, but Mr. Chang does not want them to perform standing upright for now. I guess he has some religious concerns."

  "That would be Allan." He looked at each of the bright faces turned up towards his own. "Well, guys," Broussard told them, "if we're ever in a dance off with the Advance South, I think we've got a shot."

  Z made a mock sad face. "Okay, you are having us on. But this is actually a serious exercise. The fact that they can be induced to dance is really quite remarkable, because they appear to be doing it out of a form of enjoyment. But this information is important because it also shows us that they can be distracted from their tasks when exposed to a particular set of note patterns. We're aware of some of them, like the F-major chord, but there might be others. If our opponents came to know of this vulnerability, then they would certainly exploit it."

  "Like kidnap them and make them perform in talent shows?"

  "Ha-ha. You are such a kidder." Z asked Kwolski to take the DATs back to the other side of the gym.

  When they were safely out of earshot, Broussard became serious. "All joking aside, I agree with what you and Kris are doing. To be honest, that oddity didn't look like a hazard, but you're right. It can be. It just didn't occur to me. Like a hundred other things." He folded his arms across his chest. "Tell me something. We built the darn things. Why are you so interested in them?"

  "Because we want them to succeed. And on many levels. We would hope for the DAT and the Archangel programs to produce good citizens for America and other countries."

  Broussard frowned some. "Come on, now. They're just smart weapons. Tools."

  "Really?"

  Z called the DATs back over. They came running, stopping to pop a hip joint or skid on the glossy floor whenever they thought that they could safely perform the maneuver. Soon Broussard was once again surrounded by the six AIs. They began to nuzzle their cold noses against his arms and hips.

  "Hi, Uncle Neal." Miss Sharon was already trying to pull him aside, away from the others.

  Daniel pleaded, "Please stay and dance with us."

  "Are you going to visit me and my parents today? I have a new toy," Pete said.

  "Uncle Neal, I do not enjoy the funky chicken dance," Miss Colleen said.

  "Uncle Neal, where is Uncle Eric?" the unpredictable Vernon asked.

  "Uncle Neal, can you take us outside to the sun?" asked Miss Connie, who was always ready to challenge any other DAT for dominance when she wasn't lying near-comatose in a sunny spot.

  Z was smiled Broussard. "Yes, from one perspective they are tools. As we all are. But look at them. Aren't they also your nieces and nephews?"

  Broussard looked embarrassed. "Well, I don't know about that—"

  "Neal," Z said. "Neal, you see them as something that you helped build with your hands. They see your hands and see the hands of their beloved uncle. They have the ability to love."

  Broussard put up a hand to Z's words. "No. No way." He started to backtrack towards the door.

  "And because they have that ability to love you, they do love you. Why not love them back?"

  "Um, Z, I've gotta run. We'll discuss this later, okay?" He waved good-bye to the DATs and exited the gym.

  Broussard drove the short distance back to his house in Avondale, deliberately keeping his mind blank. There he showered and then changed into a light wool suit, tie and Armani loafers. Avondale had an excellent touchless car wash, and he stopped there to get his car cleaned up. Feeling generous, he tipped the dryers ten dollars each. Then he got on the road to Huntsville. The traffic was surprisingly light, and he pulled into Grace's driveway one hour later. She met him at the front door in a filmy gown that accentuated her curves. Her hair was swept up in a chic bun. Hues of lavender and rose colored her brow and cheeks and tamed the brilliance of the jewels at her ears. She twirled like a princess before him. "How do I look?"

  He grinned. "Baby, one look at you would slay the bitterest of dragons."

  She dashed into his arms and he held her tight.

  They wasted little time dawdling in Huntsville. They were back at Redstone, oblivious to the gray-bottomed cumulus clouds gathering in the south. Within the hour they were passing through Redstone's security gate and hunting down a parking space in the crowded parking lot

  Broussard practically jumped out of the car and ran around to the other side to open the passenger door. He extended his hand. "Miss Montgomery, I would be honored if you would accompany me for an afternoon of merriment and song."

  Grace took his hand and stepped out of his car, letting the folds of her gown rise up and down her shapely legs. "Mr. Broussard, I would be honored to accompany you."

  He curved his arm, and she lightly placed one bare hand upon it.

  They walked this way un
til they reached the outskirts of the party and the energy of two-hundred-plus pushing and pulling bodies forced them apart. They managed to rejoin near the outskirts of the main square where people were boogying down to "Na Na Na (Kiss Him Good-Bye)." Broussard grabbed Grace by the hand and led her to the center of the dance area. Soon they were bopping and weaving with the best of them. As the band revved up to the final choruses, Broussard raised his face and arms to the heavens and shouted from the tops of his lungs, "HEY! HEY! HEY! GOOD-BYE!"

  They danced two more fast songs and then a slow one before forcing their way over to one of the far-flung, mobile mini bars for cool refreshment. The band's decibel level became quite bearable, and they could hear each other speak in normal voices.

  "What'll you have?" he asked.

  Grace fanned her face with her hand. "A Coke, please. And maybe a napkin or two!"

  "Coming right up!" He placed the order with the bartender.

  Afterwards, they made their way to one of the few empty tables and sat down. There they drank thirstily as they surveyed the action.

  "Looks like everybody's here!" Broussard said.

  "And then some. We sent out invitations in Avondale, too. I guess they like a good party as well as the next town."

  Broussard was nodding to the beat. "Me, too." He scooted his chair closer to hers and was about to place his arm around her shoulders when a ghost wearing a cheap suit materialized right before his very eyes. He gave a great start. "I don't believe it!"

  "Hey, Mr. Broussard." It was Officer Stewart from cell block A.

  Broussard stood and the two men embraced. "This is unreal! How did you get here?"

  "Remember Dina Hodges?"

  "Of course!"

  "Well, I guess she saw me on PeopleScope and sent me a message about the party. I called her back and she sent out plane tickets for my parents and me the next day." He pointed to an elderly couple sitting stiffly together at a nearby table. "That's them."

  "They don't look too happy," Grace commented.

  "The music's too loud. And Mom's arthritis always acts up when rain is coming." Stewart tried hard not to stare at Grace. "It's nice to meet you. My name is Les Stewart. Mr. Broussard and I met in Nevada."

  He and Grace exchanged polite handshakes. "It's a pleasure," she replied. "You worked at Lincoln Hills then?"

  Stewart was startled. "Oh. Um, yeah. I didn't know if he had told you about that."

  Grace beamed at Broussard "Yes. He's told me everything."

  Broussard was still looking dumbfounded. "I never knew you had a first name."

  "Yeah. All of the guards did. I guess you heard about the Zycks."

  "No. What happened?"

  "Well, you knew that Lincoln was invaded, right?"

  "Yes. Well, I think so. I wasn't able to get the newspapers every day."

  "Hmm. Well, they got busted in about a week after I left. Really tore up the place. Put down all of the hard timers first. Guess you dodged a bullet there." The wind picked up and carried away Broussard's response. "It was weird at the Hills, though. Normally, the guards are left alone. But I guess the Zycks were a little too gung-ho. They found them together outside the mess hall. Sharon still had her finger on the trigger of her .44."

  Broussard turned thoughtful. "Yeah, well ... I always figured they'd go out in a blaze of glory."

  They allowed a moment of respectful silence to pass.

  Broussard broke the solemn mood. "You look good, man! Grew a proper moustache and everything."

  Stewart colored slightly. "I'm using herbs now. I guess it's working."

  So, how are things in New Mexico?" the engineer asked.

  "Great! Lots of peace and quiet."

  "Oh? Well that can't be too good a thing for a hired gun like you."

  "Don't worry," Stewart replied. "We've still got enough crazies to keep us busy."

  "Are you still doing bird calls?"

  "Naw. I was getting complaints from my neighbors so I gave it up. Not worth the bother."

  Broussard pulled up an empty chair. "Stewart, why don't you stay a minute? Mike and Eric will want to see you."

  Stewart laughed. "I doubt that." He moved off towards his stiff parents. "It was good seeing you again, Mr. B." He gave Grace a wink. "Nice to meet you, ma'am." And then he cut loose a loud, long whistle of appreciation.

  As soon as he was good and gone, Broussard turned to her. "Stewart did amazing bird calls. That one was the mating call of the lonely southwestern desert hourly cop."

  Grace giggled.

  Not more than five minutes later, Bautista and Powell showed up and took seats. Bautista was alone but Powell had apparently goaded one of the Amazonian administrative assistants, Jackie, into being his date for the afternoon. The look of displeasure on her face was proportional to the look of satisfaction on his. After proper introductions, Grace saw two female VIPs mingling nearby and excused herself from the table with the promise to Broussard that she would be back soon for "one more dance."

  As the men chewed on petty grievances about management, Broussard would occasionally sneak a peek at her, watching her chat up the two bejeweled matrons. It was obvious to anyone paying attention that he wanted her back at his side.

  Bautista nudged Powell. "Looks like true love to me," he crooned tenderly.

  Powell stroked his chin. "Mike, I think that I'd have to agree with you there."

  Broussard shook his head. "You're both wrong!"

  The other two men began to gently rag on him.

  "But," Broussard continued, "she is a pretty neat lady. And she'd make a good woman for the right man."

  Powell snickered into his drink. "Yeah, if that man didn't mind sleeping with one eye open."

  Bautista giggled. He had passed pleasantly buzzed an hour ago.

  Broussard eyed them. "What are you talking about?"

  Powell motioned towards Grace. "You know."

  "No, I don't know. Tell me."

  The alcohol had made Bautista's tongue a fool. He gave his friend a playful punch in the arm. "Man, you know that she popped her husband last year."

  The words rang out like the gongs of doom. Broussard stared at them blankly. "What?"

  Bautista came to his senses through the alcoholic haze. "Oh, shit. Man, don't tell me you didn't know. Wow." His old friend was mortified. "You two were spending so much time together, I thought she would have told you by now. Neal, I'm real sorry."

  The engineer looked as if he had just been gravely wounded.

  Powell sniggered. "Well, well, well. Our Boy Wonder turns out to be a dufus after all."

  Broussard surged out of his chair towards the other engineer. Powell rose to meet him. Broussard then threw a hard right hook that landed solidly on the other engineer's chin. When he tried to sock him again with his left, Powell moved sideways and then walloped him in the gut. Broussard doubled over in pain. Bautista dragged Powell away. All the while Powell was saying, "No hard feelings, Neal. No hard feelings."

  Broussard managed to stagger over to a chair and sit down.

  "Neal?"

  He did not need to look up. He knew who it was.

  "Neal, are you all right? What happened?" Grace was hovering close by, her voice breathy with concern.

  "I'm fine." He straightened up. "Just keep moving." He looked up at her still lovely face.

  "I'm sorry?"

  "I don't need your help, Grace."

  "What?" Confusion and pain were revealing themselves across her fair brow. "Neal, what's wrong?"

  "I know, Grace."

  Her face fell and her eyes became twin pools of liquid. "Neal, please—"

  He stood and willed himself away from her. "I trusted you." He held up his clenched fists. Several small streaks of Powell's blood were on his knuckles. "You were supposed to cleanse me."

  The woman held out pleading arms. "Please! Let me explain—"

  Broussard shot out of his chair, angrily pushed his way through a few bystanders, and then d
issolved into the crowd. Bautista, who had been watching, chased after him. They ended up on the opposite side of the square, near the entrance to the parking lot. Here there were several empty tables and a great deal of peace and quiet.

  Broussard slumped into a chair. His hand was still drawn up against his midsection. Bautista pulled up a chair beside him and sat down. The wind was starting to pick up, and it blew his long hair about his shoulders.

  "Neal, you hurt? You need a doctor or something?"

  "No." Broussard kept his head down and mumbled, "I need a drink."

  "No sweat, buddy. What you want? A beer?"

  "Scotch."

  "Okay. Gotcha! I'll be right back." Bautista stood and scanned the heavens. Wide screen clouds—tens of kilometers high and fairly boiling with potential energy—had moved in from the south and now stood menacingly over Avondale. "Hey, look at that! The air is green! Psychedelic skies, man!"

  Broussard didn't budge.

  Bautista was gone and back within five minutes. He sat down again and set down three drinks on the table. "The guy at the bar is an asshole. He was only gonna let me have two. I almost had to threaten to lay him out."

  Broussard wordlessly picked up a cup and took a few sips from it.

  Bautista pulled on his ponytail and looked around. Some of the partygoers were filing out and piling into their cars. Bautista frowned. "This party's tanking. Why don't we go back to my place? Watch some TV? They've got this crazy show about these stripper nuns in Spain. You wanna check it out? Or we could go to Harvey's and play a game of pool. Or ... " Bautista eventually talked himself out.

  They drank in heavy silence.

  Bautista looked uncharacteristically concerned. "Hey, you okay?"

  "Not really," Broussard admitted.

  "You mad at Miss Montgomery?"

  "For being a cold-blooded killer? Who am I to judge? No wonder we clicked." He hung his head down between his shoulders. "I deserve this."

  Numerous squirrels emerged from the parking lot and raced past them, headed towards the complex.

  Bautista sighed. "Neal, you know why I went to prison?"

  Neal shook his head.

  "There was this girl, Beth. We'd been dating since middle school. I was crazy 'bout her, but her parents were old-school and wanted her to date some Ivy League punk. Didn't want no community college Flip sniffing around. I did everything I could to make 'em accept me, but they weren't having it. So we're going back and forth and it's the Chinese New Year, and I wanted to do something spectacular. So me and my brother make this swirling dragon. It's real pretty. All the kids were using them. Done right, they're beautiful. And I knew that if I could pull it off I'd be king for a day. So I build the thing and give it to her brother as a gift for the whole family and go home and wait for the praises, you know. Then my brother calls and tells me that something went wrong with the dragon ... that Beth and her brother were at the hospital in bad shape ... ." Bautista paused. "Then I find out that Beth's mom is telling the cops that it was a bomb and that I'd meant to kill everybody at the house. I freaked. I mean, who was going to believe my side of the story? So I called my dad, and he got me a gun and enough cash to get to Manila. The next thing I know Five-O is ramming my front door ... . Somebody shot at me and I retaliated... . I know: stupid."

  He sucked in his lower lip. "I took two rounds in the chest. Almost died. Eleven months later I'm standing in front of some judge, and he's telling me that I'm this psycho killer and