I would have pulled the wire from my receiver in a New York minute if I hadn't thought the shock of resurfacing from outside the LINK would kill me instantly. Despite my fear, I frowned: that was another inconsistency. Mouse.net was outside of the LINK. No LINK-angel should be here, much less acting as a directory guardian.
Dark wings fluttered loudly as Phanuel moved closer. I could smell the odor of funeral incense and freshly upturned earth. Involuntarily, I looked up into his eyes, mere inches from my own. The sockets were bruised and sunken, and I could see something white squirming in their depths. I gasped and stumbled backwards. Cobwebs licked at me, and I swam frantically through their gossamer threads.
Phanuel did not follow.
When his shadow no longer blocked me and the shine of the LINK appeared overhead, I realized I'd escaped. I'd fallen into another directory, one that, apparently, Phanuel didn't guard. Quickly, before some other apparition could appear, I leapt out of Mouse-space onto the LINK.
Something tingled in my stomach, like nerves. I shivered, and tried to relax, but I felt the eyes of Phanuel on my back. There was another presence here, something alive. Perhaps it was Page coming back or even Mouse logging on, no doubt alerted by whatever breach in security had triggered Phanuel. I was curious, but I resisted the urge to look back, afraid I'd see the apparition on my heels.
As the babble of commerce surrounded me, I let out a relieved breath. I was safe in the crowd. The pulse of buying and selling that flitted through the virtual air energized me. Real time was a window to the right. Before I succumbed to the temptation of a new car, I dived through the gateway and off-lined.
The sun had set completely. Despite being encased in the uniform, I swore I could feel the coolness of the evening kiss my shoulders. As a full moon shone through a hazy sky, the truck rumbled through the glass streets on its reinforced tires. No sound echoed above the explosive engine. There was something peaceful about the night – I could almost imagine the call of a bird or buzz of a cicada. A pleasant thought, but I knew the city was dead. The Medusa-glass shimmered in the moonlight as a deadly reminder.
After my adventures on the LINK, my head thudded dully. I breathed in deeply, savoring the exhausted feeling that cramped my limbs. The armor felt heavy, and the LINK connection buzzed with spent energy, like muscles twitching after a long walk.
I rolled my head to one side, to work out the kinks in my neck, and felt the give of something soft and yielding. I was cradled in someone's lap.
"She's awake, Commander," an unfamiliar, masculine voice said through the helmet's intercom. "Or, at least she's moving."
I sat up, pushing blindly against the soldier for purchase. Having been without electricity since the war, the Bronx was preternaturally dark. Here and there a light twinkled and refracted prismlike from a Gorgon's flashlight or campfire. Even through the uniform's filters I could smell an odor of urine and rot that signaled a nearby Gorgon encampment. Down an alley, I glimpsed the retreating silver of Gorgons scattering at the sound of the truck's explosive engine.
"Dee?" It was Rebeckah.
I yawned as I switched on my intercom. "Present and accounted for. Sorry about the little nap. I ran into a bit of trouble and had to go deep."
She had no sympathy. "Deep? I'd say you went deep. You were totally unresponsive. You're damned lucky you didn't wake up in a Dumpster, Dee. I thought you were arrested."
As if in response to the tone in her voice, all the aches and pains of deep LINK work suddenly assaulted me. Sweat tickled the short hairs at the back of my neck. I desperately wanted to pull off the restrictive helmet and grab a breath of fresh air to clear my pounding head.
"Mouse has an angel infestation." I stifled another yawn. "What do you make of that?"
There was a beat. Rebeckah's voice was tightly controlled, as she asked, "Is the meeting set?"
I nodded. Then, I realized Rebeckah couldn't see me; I was still invisible. Despite the fact that my mouth felt filled with cotton, I managed to say, "Yeah. All set."
"Good. Now, I'm warning you. If you fuck around like that again, Dee, that's it. You understand me? We pull out; you're on your own."
"Got it," I said. I heard a soft click in my left ear as Rebeckah changed to a private channel. I ground my teeth in anticipation. I was about to get my head served to me on a platter. I cringed, waiting tor the scathing words.
Instead, Rebeckah's tone was soft, almost tender. "You've got a serious problem with the wire, Dee."
"What? Fuck you," I said through clenched teeth. "Just what the hell you do you mean by that, Rebeckah?"
"You know what I mean." Her voice was a hoarse whisper. "When this is done, I want you to see someone. Join a twelve-step program or something. Promise me."
"I'm not a junkie."
"Most people can handle it, Dee. They can walk around, live normal lives, all the while hooked into the LINK. Why is it you come out loopy every time you LINK up? Why is it you pass out cold?"
"It's not every time ... only Mouse's -"
Rebeckah cut me off before I could continue. "I'll tell you why," she said. "You're too into it." She jabbed her finger too fast for the holographic armor to keep up, and a wave of rippling skyline punctuated each word. "Too into it. You get wrapped up in every sensation; you have to follow every info stream. You always had that tendency – hell, I'm sure it's part of what made you a great vice cop, but now it's out of control. You're out of control, Dee."
The truck's engine rumbled and sputtered like my mind. I looked around the truck, searching to connect with her invisible eyes. I needed to see if she really meant what she said. Futilely, I scanned for a trace of her face in the emptiness.
I had to admit that Rebeckah spoke some truth, but the LINK wasn't the cause of that slow, twisting feeling that haunted the back of my mind lately. It wasn't the old desperation to know everything – to be a part of it all – that drove me away from reality this time. Now it was the complexity of real life that scared me.
My mouth worked as I tried to find a way to explain everything, to absolve myself, but no words came. I frowned at the corner where I imagined Rebeckah sat. Something more than her fear of my old habit was eating at her. I pressed the switch in my glove to hail her on the private channel again. When I heard her connect, I asked, "Have you lost people to the wire lately, Rebeckah?"
The line hissed quietly.
"You have, haven't you?" I said. "What happened?"
"It was ugly. I don't want to talk about it."
"Ugly?" I repeated, surprised. When I was on the LINK-vice squad, I saw all of the worst forms of wire-addiction from blank coma cases to fried burnouts. Drooling, shivering, emaciated, unwashed junkies were unattractive, sure, but so ugly that Rebeckah, woman of steel, didn't want to talk about it? "What do you mean, 'ugly'?"
"I said no, Dee."
I sat up straight. My palms pressed into the uneven surface of the truck bed as we bounced down the street. Old cop instincts tingled. Somehow this rash of wire-addiction among the Malachim was connected to something bigger. Despite her adamancy that I leave her alone, I had to press her for details. "This is important."
Rebeckah's voice was as brittle as ice. "We had to put him down."
"You're saying you killed a man?" I repeated stunned.
"Yes." Rebeckah's answer was simple and to the point, and gave away nothing.
The intercom crackled as I waited. Smog hung thickly in the air, and no stars were visible. The black of the night sky reminded me of Phanuel's wings – dark and impenetrable.
"There was no other choice," she said, finally. "I should have thrown him out the door when it started. Kicking him out would have saved his life, but I screwed up. He was a good hacker once, a good man, and I wanted to respect that. I thought the way to do that was to let the decent man inside fight his demons. I should have known that with a junkie, that's a fool's hope. He became obsessed. First the lying, then, hiding his use ... the list goes on. Typical, re
ally. Finally, he crossed the line. He came to me, demanding an upgrade to feed his addiction. When I refused, he threatened to expose us all. I thought he was bluffing. Two seconds later, he hot-LINKed our location to the police frequency. When he started naming names, I shot him."
"Jesus Christ."
"My mistake cost a man his life. I'll never tolerate a wire-head in my ranks again, you got that?"
"Got it." A sane person would have stopped there. After all, my college roommate had just admitted to murder. Instead, I added, "How many others did you expel after him, Rebeckah?"
"Two more, all in a matter of months."
"Huh." I'd asked the question mostly out of the old habit of leaving no hunch untried. "Do you think maybe they came across something on the LINK that changed them, infected them?"
"Like what?" Rebeckah's voice was curious.
"This is totally off-the-wall, but Daniel and I were working on a tech-theft case involving software that manipulates the brain's pain and pleasure centers. I've been thinking ... maybe whoever discovered those parts of the brain came across others, like: obsession ... lust ... maybe even the awe of seeing an angel."
"I don't understand," Rebeckah said. "What are you saying exactly?"
"I'm not sure yet, but I think there's a connection between the tech-theft case and the LINK-angels. Maybe the person who stole from the Jordan Institute is using the emotional aspect of the tech to cause the mass euphoria ... or the fear," I added, thinking of Phanuel, "that the angels' cause. Maybe this person can also heighten other emotions, like the ones that cause wire-addiction."
"How is that possible?"
"That's the part I'm not sure of yet. I'm just running on a hunch right now. And, I suspect the angels are a construct" – I smiled although I knew Rebeckah couldn't see it – "just like you always thought they were."
"So, you think my hackers ran afoul of the LINK-angels?"
"If they're not for real, it'd make sense that they'd target you," I said. "After all, that's part of what you do, isn't it? Debunk their magic?"
The truck rumbled to a stop. Unprepared, I slid into an invisible Malachim. The toolbox opened up seemingly on its own. Rebeckah said, "We'll talk more about your theory later. On the belt pack there's a sonar. It's approximately two fingers from the buckle on your left. You might want to turn it on; otherwise, you'll lose us when we enter the stadium."
I mumbled a thanks, feeling for the switch. A loud ping sounded in my ear when I found it. The helmet's visuals sprang to life, widening to a 360-degree view. At every ping, a ripple of light moved around me, illuminating the shadowy figures of the Malachim.
A queasy disorientation threatened to blur my vision, until I noticed the glowing crosshair moved as I moved my head, distinguishing "ahead" from "behind." Despite the focus point, I nearly stumbled when I took my first hesitant step. This was going to take some getting used to.
Rebeckah's voice startled me. "Raphael and Sharron will check in every half hour from a nearby hideout. If something goes wrong, they have instructions to abandon us, and we'll be forced to make our way back to headquarters on foot. If the FBI or anyone else has followed Daniel, it's likely they'll have sonar and infrared. Don't assume you're invisible standing in center field. Always have good cover. Copy?"
"We copy, Commander," the team leader said for the Malachim.
"I understand," I said.
As the truck pulled away, I stood before a partially crystallized Yankee Stadium. The next ping of my sonar showed the Malachim moving toward the service entrance. I followed them.
The Medusa-glass had drawn an uneven slash in the center of the stadium, dividing it almost perfectly in half.
In places, the deadly crystal escaped its bounds and seeped under the folds of the curtain facing that decorated the upper rim of the ballpark. Glass crackled in the mortar between stones.
I followed the Malachim around the stadium until we reached the section of the arena that remained mostly untouched by the Medusa bomb. Moving cautiously into the building, the Malachim set up guard posts at every entrance as though following a predetermined plan. I stumbled less gracefully behind, admiring their cohesiveness and trying not to destroy it.
My body still felt heavy from my adventures in mouse.net, and my brain struggled to make sense of the wide-angle view the helmet provided. Just when I felt I'd gotten used to aiming for the crosshairs, we encountered stairs. The Malachim moved easily up them and took positions on the landing. I stood motionless at the bottom of the concrete-block obstacle as my resolve wavered.
Seeing the stairs and the wall behind it, the floor and the ceiling simultaneously, my eyes didn't know where to focus. I flailed my hand out until I connected to the railing. Once my hand wrapped around the solidness of the rail, I felt my center of balance returning. I shut my eyes and made my awkward way up the stairs.
The Malachim waited patiently, but I felt like a rookie again – I was obviously slowing them down. When my shuffling feet encountered no resistance, I opened my eyes, sighing in relief. I'd reached the landing and looked out an opening that led into the ballpark's central space.
I stood in position. The blip of the sonar steadied as the last of the Malachim settled into their places. Through the mesh of the fence, I could see the remains of the field. Years of neglect had sprouted tall grasses and a flowering tangle of weeds. A frozen crescent of shorter bluegrass, frosted by the bomb blast, stood in testimony to the original glory of this place.
I sat on the bleacher and waited. The smog had cleared somewhat, and I could see a hazy moon. As a thin cloud floated by, I thought of the Sunday school image of Heaven's cotton-candy landscape. Angels, real angels, were nothing like those harp-strumming, navel-gazing, billowing-winged cliches. No wonder Michael was pissed at the propagation of the LINK-angels myth. I tried to imagine the Michael that I knew sporting a halo and strumming a golden harp. My mind refused to see him that way. Instead, all I could visualize were narrow stripes of sunlight across his bare chest. I remembered the brightness in his eyes like molten steel. There was a majesty about him, but it was nothing Sunday school had ever prepared me for.
I stretched my toes, anxiously watching for a sign of Daniel's approach. A sound at the gate broke my reverie. I sat up and strained against the darkness to see any sign of Daniel. The shadows confounded me. Though I wanted to shout, I kept my voice a soft whisper of hope: "Danny?"
Rebeckah's command crackled through the intercom. "Front gate, confirm."
"Bogey confirmed, Commander. One man in a trench coat headed to the bleachers."
"Track him, front gate. It could still be a ruse."
When I saw a form coming up the stairs, I stood up. He wore a trench coat, but, even in the pale moonlight, I could see the brilliant orange of prison trousers beneath.
"It's him," I said, as I made out the black buzz cut.
"I've got him on scope," Rebeckah said. "I'll track him from here, front gate. The rest of you, keep your eyes open for others. If it's feds, they could also be in armor, so keep your infrared and sonar on."
I touched the button on the inside of my sleeve. "I'm decloaking."
"Keep your com connected, Dee. If you remove the helmet, take the external wire that fits in your ear, all right?"
"Got it, Chief," I said, as the helmet came off. I tossed it on the bleacher. The holographic defense returned to blue-screen blue. As I tucked the com in my ear, I waited for Danny to notice me.
He was leaning over the edge of the fence, looking out at the wild weeds of the former ballpark. The coat hung loosely on him, making him look thinner. His hair was a close-cropped helmet, and the ears he normally kept hidden stuck out. Even from behind, the haircut made him look vulnerable.
Finally, he turned toward the bleachers where I stood, my arms out. His eyes widened as he took in the Israeli uniform; then, finding my face, he smiled.
"Hey, Danny boy," I said, my voice catching in my throat.
"Dee." He to
ok the stairs two at a time, and nearly bowled me over as he wrapped me in a crushing bear hug.
He smelled strongly of antiseptic, and my cheek prickled where the short hairs of his neck scratched me, but I held him firmly, until my ribs ached and a tear squeezed out of my eye. "Danny."
"Dee." He murmured in my ear, "You look good."
I pulled out of the embrace. Tugging the collar of his trench coat, I gestured at the orange of his prison clothes. "I wish I could say the same about you."
He laughed deep in his throat. "We're both dressed a bit different than the last time we saw each other." His fingers brushed imaginary flecks off the shoulder of my uniform. "So, what? Your old roomie finally talked you into joining her crazy rebels?"
"Oh, and what about Kantowicz?" I said, smiling. "You must have made some Malachim friends inside."
"My cellmate had the connections," Daniel said with a crooked smile. "I just took advantage of an opportunity."
"I'm glad you did," I said. "It's good to see you."
"Really?" In his voice, I heard all the same doubt and anxiety I had felt when anticipating this meeting.
"Yeah." Though my tone was light, I realized I still gripped his jacket. I felt a bit awkward holding on to him so tightly, but couldn't will myself to let go. I was afraid that if I loosened my hold on him, he might slip back into the ether. "Jesus, it's good to see you."
"Hey." He stepped away, and I was forced to let go of his jacket. He cautioned, "No cursing now. God has spoken to me, you know. I'm one of the chosen."
* * *
Archived excerpt from www.vatican.va, from July 7, 2075. Appears here in translation from the original Spanish.
The Papal Position on LINK-angels
The appearance of the LINK-angels is to be regarded as a miracle and a direct sign from God, Our Heavenly Father. As the biblical flood warned the Children of Israel of their arrogance and sin, so the LINK-angels warn all of God's Children that we have strayed from the path of righteousness. Secular governments have led only to chaos and wars. The Revelation of John says, "Blessed and holy are those who have part in the first resurrection. The second death has no power over them, but they will be priests of God and of Christ and will reign with him for a thousand years. When the thousand years are over, Satan will be released from his prison and will go out to deceive the nations in the four corners of the earth – Gog and Magog – to gather them for battle." The Medusa bomb, the hydrogen bomb before that, and all the engines of secular war were clearly designed by agents of the Prince of Darkness. A God of Love does not condemn his children to a death so vile as that of the Medusa bomb. The dead shook the very heavens with their silent cries, and the archangels have responded.
Archangel Protocol Page 21