Mutated by generations of radiation and inbreeding, the Gorgon temperament was considered unstable at best. As a cop, I had been instructed never to engage them hand to hand or when they were in a pack. I had seen the body of a fellow officer mauled by Gorgons: he was hardly recognizable.
The boisterous pack moved closer until they were nearly to the edge of the cab that I was crouched behind. I felt over the armor for a weapon, anything I might be able to use against them if need be. My fingers found a thigh pocket. Clumsily, I ripped open the flap. My hands closed around ten small coins. Through the gloves, I could feel their distinctive size and shape. I had an idea.
I hesitated only a moment before pressing the off switch on the armor. Despite my bravado, my knees shook as I stood up, and I nearly dropped the Bible.
It was a crazy gamble. I knew that Rebeckah kept Gorgons in her employ, but even if these particular ones knew where the new headquarters was, they could just as easily lead me into a cul-de-sac and rend me to pieces.
I tossed the coins at the Gorgon's feet. With a clattering, the copper skidded along the smooth glass street in all directions.
"There's more where that came from if one of you is willing to lead me to the new Malachim headquarters."
Four pale faces stared at me. White hair shone in the moonlight, giving the Gorgons an ethereal quality. None of them moved. I thought for a second that maybe they were ghosts or a mirage.
One of them, his greenish blue eyes locked on me, dropped to a crouch slowly. His body flowed like quicksilver along a tabletop, beautiful and chaotic. When his fingers brushed the coin, things exploded. In a flurry of fangs and sharpened fingernails, the rest of the pack launched themselves at him and the remaining money.
The first Gorgon hit the pavement with a smack. Straddling him, his attacker elbowed his face into the street. Glass shattered. Blood seeped into the cracks on the street. A groan of pain mingled with a growl of violence. In a smooth recovery from the blow, the first Gorgon drew his hand back into a fist and undercut the jaw of his attacker. One of the remaining two Gorgoiis collected coins. Seeing that, the two who had been fighting each other descended upon him.
Like a mirror image of myself, a female stepped back a pace from the others. Her eyes were also riveted to the savage tangle of men, but, unlike me, she smiled to herself like a child enjoying a game.
Noticing my stare, she said, "If this is the beginning, what's the rest?"
Blood spotted the street as the Gorgon's blows continued to break the glass sheathing of the ground beneath them. "I don't know," I said, my voice wavering in shock.
"You don't know? How come you said there was more where this came from?" she asked calmly, as her friends fought each other between us.
"Oh." I shifted my focus to her eyes. I concentrated on ignoring the sounds of battle around us. "I meant credits."
She nodded pleasantly. This conversation was surreal. I could see the three men in my peripheral vision. The first one's face was crisscrossed with bloody slashes where his face had hit the glass. I tried to stay focused and not to jump at every growl. Indecision or fear would kill any deal, and I knew it. I stared at her, unmoving, as she weighed the merits of my offer.
"How much?" She sounded interested.
"Fifty." I had at least that many credits in my account. Of course, I had no idea how I would get hold of my debit card. It was back in Eion's church with the rest of my things. I'd figure out the logistics if she accepted.
One of the Gorgon men escaped out from under the other two and bolted into an alleyway. With a joyful yelp, they leapt after him.
"Christendom?" The female asked.
I shook my head, hoping this wasn't a deal-breaker. "Um ... no, US."
We watched each other. A strangled cry in the distance made me jump.
"Okay." The female Gorgon shrugged. "I'll take your fifty."
She gestured with her head to follow her. I nodded in agreement, but my feet were rooted to the spot. I'd thought I'd been cool through the whole fight, but I noticed I held the Bible to my chest like a talisman. I took in a ragged breath.
"Come on," she insisted. Looking me up and down, she added, "You don't want to be here when they come back, do you?"
I shook my head. Gingerly, I stepped across the chasm – of blood and broken glass to join her.
"Are you a girl?" The Gorgon asked as I fell into step beside her. Her hand reached out to investigate my arm, but quickly retracted when I turned sharply to look at her. "Like Rebeckah?"
I consciously reminded myself to breathe in and out. My frantic heart rate dropped slowly.
"Um ... you can't tell?" I asked, but then realized the uniform hid what few curves I had.
The Gorgon shook her head. "I thought you might be, but wasn't sure."
I pulled my helmet off. It seemed disrespectful to keep it on while talking to her, despite the radiation threat, like wearing sunglasses indoors. After putting the Bible inside, I tucked the helmet under my arm.
She watched me curiously, her head tilted to the side like a dog. I felt foolish, but I held out my hand to her and introduced myself. "I'm Deidre."
She took my hand and gave it a shake – a weak attempt, barely brushing my fingertips. I had the sense she had never engaged in the custom of handshaking. She said, "They call me Dancer."
I doubted the reference was intentional, but there was something about the Gorgon that reminded me of Degas. Though unadorned, her features were delicate, like the deceptively simple-seeming brushstrokes. The long lines of her body held majestic grace. "I can see why," I said, relaxing.
"You can?" Dancer smiled. Self-consciously, she ran her fingers through her short-cropped silver hair. On me such an action would have done further damage to a haircut already resembling a rat's nest, but Dancer's hair mussed pixielike and adorable. "Really?"
"Yes, really." Her charm was infectious. The strangeness of the Gorgons' fight seemed like years ago. Though the woman before me was clearly capable of survival, I found myself wanting to take care of her. "Dancer, where do you sleep? Are you getting enough to eat?"
Dancer smiled. "Oh, sure. The service tunnels are a great place to eat. Restaurants throw away all sorts of good stuff. You'd like it," she said.
I made a face. "They're supposed to compost."
"Yeah, but Kick says that compost chutes cost money, and people don't like to spend money, which I don't understand because I love to spend money." She shot me a hopeful look, under a veil of silver eyelashes. "Fifty credits is a lot of money."
"I guess so." Though part of me knew I was being conned by a master, I resolved to find a way to make sure she got more than fifty once we got back to headquarters. "What are you going to spend it on?"
"Oh. Lots of stuff. Candy bars and Christmas lights – blue ones, I like the blue ones best. Yeah, I'd buy a whole string of dark blue lights. Or maybe something plastic, or ..." – her eyes sparkled at the idea – " ... a shirt that no one else has ever worn. But, you know what I'd really like to do?"
I couldn't help but encourage her. "What?"
"Walk in the front door of one of those tunnel restaurants."
I held on to my smile, even as I felt the edges twitch. One look at that silver hair of hers and the manager of the place would call the police; she'd never get served. She'd end up spending my fifty credits for bail, or they'd confiscate the card as stolen property.
"Don't look so sad, De ..." Fumbling with my name, Dancer accidentally made it more personal. "Anyway, it's okay. I know I can't go in the other tunnels, the outside tunnels. It's just a dream."
"I'm sorry," I said. "That's a good dream."
Dancer nodded vigorously, but her face was scrunched up. I left her to her own thoughts. As we walked along, my armored boots made a soft squishing sound. Dancer, I noticed, wore heavy-traction mountain-climbing boots. She must have picked them out of the trash or stolen them.
"Do you spend a lot of time in the service tunnels?" I a
sked.
"They say it's better for us than the glass, but I don't know." Dancer was still brooding. As we walked, she stared at the ground. "The tunnels are all cramped and dirty. At least here there's sky."
"Is that what the Christmas lights are? Like stars in the sky?"
Dancer brightened instantly. "Oh!" She beamed up into my face and took my hand. I tensed, but I made a conscious effort to relax. Her invasion of my space was innocent. I let my hand be held. She continued to smile at me. "Yes! That's what they are – stars!"
"And those black boxes?"
"Are stars," she said again, as though testing the sound of the words together. "Are stars."
Dancer was too excited by my metaphor to concentrate on where I wanted the conversation to go next. I let it go for the moment. She continued to mutter about twinkling stars and Christmas lights. She led me down a narrow alleyway. Someone had made a fire in a glass-sheathed garbage can. The flickering flames threw long shadows, around the narrow space. The contrasts of deep darkness and glittering glass were arresting; it was almost beautiful.
"We can't take down the boxes," Dancer said suddenly. "Even though they get in the way of the pretty light. The boxes are Mouse's. He gets really mad if you mess with them. So, we just go around them."
"Mouse's?"
"Uh-huh." Dancer nodded, letting go of my hand to wipe her nose. "Kick says he remembers when Mouse paid a bunch of us to put them up. I say he's lying; Kick's not that old."
"How old would you have to be to remember that?"
"Way older than Kick," Dancer asserted with a little pout. "Way. You'd almost have to be one of the first ones."
"You mean one of the first Gorgons?"
Dancer stiffened. She stopped walking and looked into my face, searching. I could see tears starting to form in her eyes. "I'm not a Gorgon. I'm not so ugly that I turn people to stone, am I?"
"No," I said. "You're beautiful."
She blinked back her tears. "Oh."
"If not ... that ... then what should I call you?"
She looked confused and vaguely frustrated by my request. Finally, she said, "Dancer."
Shaking my head, I smiled. "Okay, Dancer. I'm sorry I said that."
"Okay," she said, and we started walking again. We left the maze of alleyways to turn onto a main street. Dancer trudged along, lost in her own thoughts. Then, she peeked up at me, curiously. "You're funny, you know? Sometimes you say the prettiest things. It's kind of like a riddle, but it makes more sense. I wish I could talk like that."
"Where did you hear the story of Medusa and the Gorgons, Dancer?"
"One of you. A Malachim." She gestured at my armor. Then noticing the helmet tucked under my arm, she asked, "How come the black wing? What does that say?"
"Vengeance," I read, showing her the helmet.
"Sounds bad." She said seriously. "What's the book?"
"It was a gift from a friend. It's a Bible."
"Oh," she said, but I doubted she understood the significance of the book. Then she stopped suddenly and stood more erect. Her whole body seemed to quiver, like a horse testing the wind. Her head snapped up, as her eyes scanned the sky.
"Helicopters?" I whispered. Perhaps Dancer's hearing was better than mine and she could sense the whirring motors where I heard only our tense, short breaths. "Should we look for cover?"
She said nothing, just continued to stare at the sky. I followed her gaze. The flat roofs of the glassed buildings cut sharp edges into the night sky. The earlier cloud cover had lifted somewhat, and I could see a few faint specks of stars.
"Someone on the roof?" I asked, growing uneasy.
From absolute stillness, Dancer collapsed to a crouch. In the sudden movement, the metal buckles of her combat jacket clanged against each other. Her attention focused on the corner. A knife appeared in her hand.
"Someone's coming," I narrated for the still-silent Dancer.
* * *
excerpt from LINK discussion alt.religion after the LINK-angel's first appearance:
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"Emotions aside, there is something seriously wrong with the LINK-angels. For one, despite the fact that most people have come to believe it to be true, there is no biblical evidence to support the idea that angels, particularly archangels, have wings. Wings were based on a medieval presumption that heaven was up, a la Dante's Celestial city, and that in order to travel back and forth, angels needed wings."
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"A clear thinker in the Vatican? Father, I'd watch your broadcast were I you. You're not likely to keep your collar at this rate."
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"Doubting Thomases! How can either of you deny what all of us experienced? It was a miracle – plain and simple."
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"Bryson is right. The angels are what they are. The time for arguing is over. Anyway, it's just as likely that the angels showed themselves the way they knew they'd be accepted."
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"Oh just admit it, padre. You don't want to deal with the fact that your assumptions about God were WRONG. God is everything the common, unschooled, unwashed masses always thought, and that sticks in your pompous educated craw."
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"Hear! Hear! Jesus was a champion of the common man. It's very possible that he would come back the way the common man would prefer to see him."
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"Pardon me, but I don't think that Jesus has anything to do with angels. I have to agree with the Father. Angels have existed in traditions other than, and older than, Christian. But, what I'm most shocked to discover, if the LINK-angels are a true sign from above, is that they're all so white. The neo-Nazis and white supremacists are going to have a field day with this little tidbit. Made in His image, eh?"
Chapter 18
I tossed the Bible at my feet and jammed the helmet A down on my head. I touched the on button at my wrist to engage the holographic armor. The pinpricks of light came to life with an ozone crackle just as Michael stepped around the corner.
I was stunned to see him here, of all places. I wondered if he had somehow followed me in the ethereal plane or used a miracle to bring us back together. Despite everything, I was glad to see him.
"Michael!" I shouted. Michael turned toward the sound of my voice, but froze when he saw the Gorgon crouched in the middle of the street. I quickly powered down the suit. The hologram disappeared with a sizzling snap. I pulled off the helmet to show him my face.
"Deidre!" Michael started to step toward us, but stopped at the low growl in Dancer's throat.
"Dancer, he's a friend," I said. "It's okay. Relax."
The knife vanished. Dancer straightened slowly, with a careful precision that reminded me of someone uncocking the hammer of a gun. Michael came forward, and she backed away. "What's wrong with you?" I asked her. "I told you it was okay."
Dancer shook her head. "He's come for me already?"
"Who?"
Dancer pointed at Michael. "The angel of death."
The darkness shrouded Michael's features and gave his silhouette mass. The glass behind him glowed coolly.
I put my hand on Dancer's shoulder. "No," I said, "this one came for me."
"Okay. Good. But, can I have my fifty credits before you die?"
"Sure." I turned to Michael. "Pay the woman."
Reaching into his leather jacket, he pulled out a credit counter. He held it out for Dancer to take. She stared at his hand for a long moment before snatching the card. I never saw anyone run so fast. Before I could say goodbye, Dancer melted into the warrens of the glass city.
"Poor girl," I said to the space where Dancer used to be. "You sure spooked her, Michael."
"With such a short life span I imagine they try to avoid angels." Reaching down, Michael picked up Daniel's Bible and slipped it into his pocket.
Stepping nearer to him, I scooped his hand into mine. His skin was cool and dry. I rubbed his k
nuckles with my thumb, trying to impart my warmth.
"I suppose they do," I said quietly, a tacit acceptance of all that he was. "Michael, Daniel is dead."
I half expected him to say "I know," but he just nodded slowly and squeezed my hand. He murmured, "I'm sorry."
"Did an angel come for him?" My voice sounded much smaller than I intended. "Tell me Danny is in heaven."
Michael hesitated. I saw the muscle in his jaw flex, but then he looked down at my hopeful face. His eyes softened, and he whispered, "Deidre ... of course he is."
I didn't ask Michael how he found me, or if he knew where we were going. We started walking, and I held on to Michael's hand as tightly as I held on to his lie.
The first silver light of morning was breaking the night sky as we reached Malachim headquarters. I didn't ask Michael how he knew where the new headquarters were or how he even knew that I'd been heading there. If it was one of his angelic powers, the truth was, I just didn't want to know.
The Malachim had regrouped in an abandoned warehouse at the edge of the blast line, on the far side of the glass city from the stadium. The efficiency of Rebeckah's people amazed me. In the time it took us to engage a US Marshal and the cops, the rest of the Malachim had gutted the old headquarters and moved everything to a new location.
As Michael led me deeper into the complex, I saw the hollow sadness I felt reflected on the faces of Malachim passing us in the hallways. Soon I found myself avoiding people's eyes, afraid of the accusations I might find there.
"As soon as everyone gathers," Rebeckah said coming up beside us, "there will be a memorial service. Probably this afternoon." I almost didn't recognize her voice. Her usual commanding tone was worn and scratched.
Archangel Protocol Page 24