Archangel Protocol

by Lyda Morehouse

  "Is this really the safest place ... ?"

  I smiled patiently. "One of my best-kept secrets" – I pointed to the ceiling, and whispered – "Unitarians.

  They have an office upstairs. The door says antiques, but it's a front. They've been running some kind of underground railroad for outspoken secular humanists, radicals, and scientists. They have more jamming devices and security taps than the FBI, CIA, and NSA combined."

  He nodded, although he continued to look doubtful. Cautiously, he lowered himself into the seat across from me. He sat stock-still, but I could tell he was uneasy. Cop or soldier reflexes held him tightly under control. Like a mental fencer, he was trying to give me the smallest target possible.

  Michael was smarter than he'd led me to believe, that much I could give him, but the image of super-hack still didn't fit him. With his fortysomething stability, he was atypical of the local variety of wirehead genius I'd busted down in my time. Arrogant, yes, but his was a physical prowess, not a mental one. Usually LINK-hackers couldn't keep the wicked glee out of their voices when they talked code. Michael acted like he barely knew it existed. More than that, he seemed embarrassed when I guessed he was augmented. If he was an ex-soldier, his hardware was the kind of equipment that gave pimply-faced netfreaks wet dreams.

  "So," I had to ask, "you're the disc-jock behind the LINK-angels, eh, Michael?"

  "No." he said slowly, as if carefully choosing each word. "Letourneau is the man you want."

  "He's a wire-wizard, then? Are you saying the candidate actually got his hands dirty this time? I thought the only code Letourneau knew was the neo-Nazis' secret password."

  Michael snorted. "I don't know about that. All I know is that I can't have other-Michael besmirching my name."

  "The other Michael? Your replacement?"

  "My nemesis."

  "So ... someone took your place on the project?"

  "Something like that."

  The muscle in his jaw flexed and his eyes narrowed. I sat back in my chair. Over the pillar of my fingers, I asked, "So, this is about revenge?"

  "No," he pronounced carefully, "vengeance."

  "Okay." I stretched out the word to let him know I didn't agree, but I wasn't going to argue. Michael was a cop: it wasn't my place to remind him that it was a thin line he was walking. Besides, if he'd gotten mixed up with Letourneau, then he'd already crossed over once. He was trying to work his way back, and for that I had to respect him. "If you were replaced early on in the game, how much do you know? Can you bring Letourneau down with what you have?"

  "I can, well, no I can't." He couldn't contain his energy any longer; standing up, he began to pace. "The question is subtlety. It must be seamless. The hand that guides shouldn't be seen – everything must appear to have cause and effect. It's the only way to change the popular view. People don't believe in miracles anymore."

  "People believe in the LINK-angels," I countered. "Isn't pulling off miracles your whole gig?"

  "That's exactly why I can't just pull the plug on them."

  "You could do that?" My eyes were wide.

  "Only the mind and will of Man is beyond my purview."

  I sputtered. Now he was acting like the wireheads I knew, with their I-rule-the-world-by-my-genius-alone attitude.

  "Right," I said sarcastically. "Come back to Earth, Michael. You're taking this archangel role too seriously. Anyway, if that were true, why would you need me?"

  "I can't expose my involvement ... not until the very end."

  "I get it," I said. "If you're the first Michael, you can't afford to have Letourneau find out you intend to rat him out, not until showtime."

  He nodded, and stopped pacing.

  "Where am I at the end, when the curtain comes down, Michael? Center stage?"

  He crossed his arms in front of his chest. He stood with his legs slightly apart, like an athlete. The line his body formed was arrow-straight. My mind returned unconsciously to the vision of the LINK-angel with the flaming sword. I swallowed hard. He said, "You think I'm looking for a scapegoat."

  "I do," I murmured.

  "I have no intention of making you the fall guy." His voice was assuring. "When this is through I promise you that you will be revered."

  "More likely I'll be burned at the stake. Mike, you've got to respect my position here. I need something concrete, some proof that you really can bring Letourneau down before I invest in this caper of yours. If the LINK-angels are a fraud, and I help you expose them, I'm going to be one hell of a lot less popular than I am now ... and I'm already as far down in official approval as I care to go."

  "I can offer you two things, Deidre." Michael leaned over the desk. We were face-to-face. "First, the LINK." His gray eyes locked on mine, and I tried to keep the deep desire from surfacing. I quickly shut my eyes before he could sense my desperation. It was too late.

  "I know exactly how much that means to you, Deidre. You've lived in silence a long time, shunned by the community you swore to serve and protect ... a system that betrayed you and Daniel both. And, that's the second thing I can offer. If you help me expose the LINK-angels, I promise to use whatever power I have to help clear both of your names."

  "The LINK and my reputation back." I opened my eyes slowly. "I guess you know how to make me an offer I can't refuse, don't you?"

  "We can still make the appointment tonight." He held out a hand.

  "Are you sure you're not the Devil himself come to tempt me?" I smiled weakly and took his hand. A brilliant warmth enveloped me. It was as if, outside, night had become day, and the sun had broken through the clouds.

  "Yes," his voice floated into my consciousness, "of that I'm certain."

  * * *

  Excerpt from the New York Times multimedia, 3-D graphics interface, from April 1, 13:05:76, ... text– or audio-only format available for the user-impaired.

  April 1, 2076 13*05*28

  CHRISTENDOM NODE, PARIS.

  A real-time assault was carried out against the Paris node earlier this morning. Though hardware damage was sustained during the attack, emergency sysop crews from the French Christendom Commonwealth were able to reroute the systems through a provincial backup power source in a matter of hours.

  The shock of the sudden loss of LINK functions sent seventy-two people into severe cyber-trauma. Hospitals are overloaded, but no cyber-related fatalities have been reported thus far (hot-link to continually updated hospital reports).

  Traffic control also suffered during the LINK-attack. Twenty-three accidents happened as a direct result of cyber-trauma. Miraculously few people were seriously injured. French Traffic Control sysop, Andre Montenque had this to say, regarding the surprisingly low number of serious accidents, "The French, we're already crazy drivers ... If nothing, we know how to drive defensively."

  Experts have also reported surprise at the low number of cyber-trauma and cyber-shock victims. American biotech surgeon Christine Robinov, who was instrumental in aiding damage control during last month's attack in Helsinki, explained, "The only people affected dramatically by this kind of hardware terrorism seem to be those engaged in some form of multiprocessing. High-level system operators and LINK-maintenance workers – anyone who can't make a quick node transfer – are the ones we see most in the hospital."

  No group has claimed responsibility for the Paris attack, but Christendom spokesperson Shelia McEvers believes this to be the work of the LINK-terrorist group known as Malachim Nikamah. (hot-link here to discussion of the Malachim Nikamah, and their history of terrorism in Christendom and beyond.) "The method is very similar," she said. "Cruelty like this could only come from a non-Christian group like the Malachim shel Nikamah. Who else would do this kind of crazy, destructive thing?"

  The Nation of Islam cautioned the Vatican regarding issuing broad statements against non-Christians, but joined in denouncing today's attack. Both superpowers donated extensively to the relief fund, (hot-link here to see actual donations sent.)

 
The French government has increased security around its hardware nodes and cautioned other governments in Christendom to do the same. Any citizen wishing to route through French nodes must follow the international law of full-disclosure. The French sysops have announced a radical change in its on-line policy: absolutely no handles will be accepted, even those with proper visa handshake packages. This new policy also disallows access from any addresses ending in mousenet. (hot-link to related articles, "Commercial Handle-Users Outraged at French Node Policy" and "Russia Angry at Mouse.net Exclusion.")

  French president Anton LeLand told real-time reporters, "This kind of terrorism is the work of agents of the Antichrist. They must be stopped."

  Chapter 7

  Michael let us in the apartment complex and led me down a flight of stairs. I stayed two steps behind him. Parking up a couple of levels was my idea. Bad enough I had to park my classic in Hell's Kitchen, the least I could do was stow it in the slightly more affluent upper levels.

  At apartment 301, Michael stopped and knocked once. Without waiting for a response, he entered. I hesitated only briefly before following him through.

  "Gabe?" Michael called out. Water came on in the back of the apartment. Followed by the clinking sound of someone doing dishes. Michael headed toward the sound. "Gabe?"

  Michael didn't invite me to follow him into the kitchen, so I closed the door behind me. I heard the lock engage automatically. A large tricolor flag spanned two windows. The top edge was held in place by several thumbtacks. It did double duty as a curtain, although not very well. Light from the passing cars flashed through the threadbare material, first brown, then yellow and green. The pattern seemed familiar, but I couldn't be certain. Pan-African or some such, I decided, as I scanned the rest of the apartment. "

  The walls were as thin as the cloth, and street noise filled the tiny apartment. Gaudy wallpaper peeled away from the edges of a water-stained ceiling, and a single bare lightbulb hung dangerously overhead. Despite the harsh light it cast, the apartment felt homey. Brick-and-board bookshelves lined most of the walls and under the windows. Five worn but comfortable-looking chairs circled about a battered end table. The smell of dark-roasted coffee wafted in from somewhere and mingled with the strong aroma of curry.

  I snooped around for something that resembled bio-tech equipment, though I would have settled for anything made in this decade. The only thing I saw was dusty hard-copy tomes on Islam, the Bahai movement, versions of the Koran, political history, and Malcolm X. Not one medical journal among them. As a roach scuttled along one of the bookshelves, my stomach fluttered. My only hope was that a sterile lab was hidden behind one of the bookshelves, like something out of James Bond.

  An eruption of masculine laughter came from the kitchen. Through the rumble of their voices, the words were impossible to distinguish. The sound had an odd pattern and cadence. It was fast-paced and rose at the end of phrases – definitely not English.

  Just as I was ready to burst in and introduce myself, a black man stepped into the hallway. His skin was a well-worn, walnut hue, so deep it almost seemed to glow. A dazzling smile still graced an open and expressive face. Dark brown eyes twinkled when he saw me. Salt-and-pepper hair was cut short on the sides. He wore a loose-fitting, button-down shirt and jeans, and looked like the farthest thing from a biotech.

  "I'm Jibril. You must be Deidre." He smiled again, this time just for me. He took two steps, closing the distance between us, and extended his hand.

  "No, I must be crazy." I took his hand and pumped it once, grinning maniacally. I noticed a bright flash of something embedded in his forehead between the eyes. "You have one of those new microchip tattoos?" I asked.

  Jibril nodded sagely. "Would you like to see it?"

  I'd always been curious how those things worked, so I said, "Yes."

  He closed his eyes for a moment, and the chip began to glow slightly. When I stared at it, I saw a swirling, gilded script moving from right to left between his eyes.

  "It's beautiful," I said. "But I can't read the words. What does it say?"

  Strolling out of the kitchen, Michael leaned against the doorframe. " 'There is no God, but Allah,' " Michael translated, " 'and Muhammad is the prophet of God.' "

  "Heckuva statement," I breathed.

  With a hardy laugh, Jibril clapped me on the shoulder. "You're right, Michael. Definitely refreshing."

  "Didn't I tell you so?" Michael smiled. "Deidre is a regular firebrand."

  Our brief dash in rain had soaked Michael's leather jacket. He stood so close that I could smell the musty, wet odor. The curls of his hair hung enchantingly over one eye. I wondered how it would feel to reach up and run my fingers through it.

  I cleared my throat, and a soft punch to his arm hid my growing embarrassment. "You getting sweet on me, big guy?"

  Jibril bright grin faded. "My prince," he said, arching his eyebrow.

  "A discussion for another time." Michael glared at Jibril. Though his tone was light, the smile he gave Jibril held a trace of tightness.

  "Of course, but ... If you want to talk about it, I've been there, you know."

  "Who could forget," Michael said with a smile.

  "Yes, well." Jibril coughed out a little laugh. Turning to me, he brightened. "You came here for something. Let me get it for you."

  I frowned. Jibril made it sound like the LINK was something he could just pull down from his bookcase and hand over. " 'Get it for me'? Shouldn't we prepare for surgery or something?"

  "You'll see." He smiled cryptically. Jibril walked over to the flag-draped window. Kneeling next to the bookcase underneath, he retrieved a small wooden box. It was plain dark wood, perhaps mahogany. There were no markings on it whatsoever, and it was about the size of an old cigar box. He pulled out something small and shiny. He replaced the box, and returned to my side. His hands enveloped mine. His skin felt dry against my sweating palms.

  "What the hell is this?" I demanded, searching his brown eyes. He was focused on something far away.

  "It is done," he said, pressing the hard, round object into my palm. He squeezed my hand tightly and shut his eyes.

  A loud rap startled me. Still holding his hand, I felt Jibril jump in surprise.

  "FBI!" An angry voice shouted from behind the door. "Open up!"

  Michael looked at me. "Were we followed?"

  "Oh shit!" I tried to squirm out of Jibril's grasp. Jibril held my hand firmly. I couldn't escape his grip without relinquishing my hold on the strange, metallic object he gave me. Despite the object's apparent uselessness, I couldn't bring myself to let go. I tried to will my fingers to release. My mind refused to obey. If that thing could somehow reconnect me to the LINK, I wasn't about to lose it – no matter what was at stake.

  "Are you crazy or something?" I barked at Jibril, trying to catch his eye.

  "It is as Allah wills it," he said as he watched the door with a dreamy expression.

  Michael grunted. "God has chosen the FBI as Their agents? I'm in the wrong profession."

  I squirmed in Jibril's grip. "Let go of me." I gestured with my knee.

  Michael held up his hands. "Relax, Deidre. Don't do anything rash. We've done nothing wrong. What can they do?"

  "It is as Allah wills it," Jibril repeated calmly.

  "We're coming in!" A muffled command came from behind the door.

  "I'm going to open the door," Michael said with a quiet conviction. "Show them that we intend to cooperate."

  " 'Cooperate'?" I repeated, stunned. "Good Lord, you are a country bumpkin, aren't you? You don't cooperate with the FBI. They'd just as soon shoot as not."

  Michael stopped in front of Jibril and me. "What do you suggest we do? Run? I might have been a smalltown cop, but I know enough to realize that if those agents are doing their job, every exit is covered. We wouldn't get far. Gabe is right. It's out of our hands."

  "Not if I can help it." I slammed the flat of my foot into the most vulnerable part of Jibril's body: h
is knee. With a yelp, he let go of my hands.

  The apartment door strained under the pressure of someone's body or a battering ram. Wood began to splinter. They would be through the door in a second. I pocketed the metallic object Jibril gave me and reached for my Magnum. Michael grabbed my elbow before I could even pull the gun out. "That would be really stupid, Dee. You know that."

  "Let go of me," I demanded, sizing Michael up for my knee trick.

  Following my gaze, he said, "Don't even think about it. What do you think you're going to do with that gun anyway?" His smile was as tight as his grip on my elbow. "You're one tough woman, Deidre McMannus, but not even you could hold an entire battalion of FBI agents at bay with a measly six rounds from an ancient projectile weapon."

  The door slammed open so hard the doorknob punched through the thin plaster wall. A black uniform stepped cautiously into the room. Bright yellow block letters spelled out fbi on his ball cap. A badge was printed on the tee shirt underneath his heavy leather jacket. Seeing me, with my fist in my pocket, the agent raised his assault rifle.

  "Play it cool," Michael whispered to me. "We didn't do anything wrong."

  "I didn't, that's for sure. What about you? What about him?" I jerked my head in the direction of Jibril, who had propped himself up on the chair and was rubbing his knee. "What have I been aiding and abetting this time?"

  Two more uniforms gingerly stepped around the shattered doorway. As I stared down the barrel of a gun, my feet felt rooted to the spot. Sweat pricked under my arms. Michael let go of my elbow, and raised his hands.

  "I'm a cop," Michael said calmly, as if his announcement of that fact would diffuse everything. "Take it easy."

  More black– and yellow-clad men streamed in the door, like a horde of wasps, followed by uniformed police.

  When I saw the police, I relaxed a little. With effort I let go of the Magnum, and put my hands up. As a uniform passed near me, I asked, "You boys got a warrant?"

  He looked over his shoulder at the FBI, then walked away. The police moved about the apartment. I could hear doors popping open as they methodically checked the other, rooms. Someone grabbed Jibril, shouting, "Get your hands behind your head. Down on the ground. Move it!"