Michael nodded, but said nothing.
I stared out at the crowd. People held each other and wept openly. Daniel was dead. I tried to feel angry or sad, but nothing came. I had reconciled myself to his loss a year ago, when we were separated by his prison sentence. This was different, more permanent, but I couldn't dredge up any feeling. That scared me.
"Was it all an accident?" I wondered aloud. Hugging myself, my eyes stayed riveted to the grieving Malachim. "Or destiny?"
Michael was quiet for a moment. Then, looking up from his brooding, he said, "Her thoughts translate into my action. But, I'm like an arrow shot into water. She can see Her target through the ripples, but the water is deep and the current strong. The arrow doesn't always stay true to its course."
I shivered. Michael didn't usually talk like that. His eyes seemed unfocused, far away. To break the spell, I forced out a chuckle.
"Yeah, right. What is this, 'Zen and the Art of Mastering Freewill'?" More seriously, I added, "But since we're on philosophy, riddle me this, Michael: what's with the He, She, They business?"
Michael shrugged. "God is difficult to describe in human terms. I use what feels appropriate, whatever fits the situation."
I grimaced at Michael's inability to give a straight answer. "But which is correct?"
"All of them. None. How should I know?"
I let out an exasperated snort. "But, you've met God."
"Not the way you're thinking." Michael smiled sadly. "I am God taken form, but then, so are you."
"You seem different, Michael. Are you okay?"
"I've been thinking about the end. I don't think I'm really ready. I ..." His gaze flicked over to me, then out to the crowd. "After you left the church, I spent a lot time waiting for you to come back. It was the first extended period of time I spent here alone, just thinking – testing out my own feelings, my own motivations."
Before he could continue, Rebeckah entered the hall. The mood of the crowd shifted with her presence, like light coming into focus through a lens. Things began to happen. People wept more openly. As Rebeckah moved toward the doors, people touched her and held on to each other. They pressed closer, and Michael and I were swept into the center of bodies. I floated in a sea of embroidered yarmulkes and covered heads. I felt exposed and disrespectful.
Seeing us, someone handed Michael a skullcap and a scarf for me. He put the cap on deftly, as though he had done it many times before. I had expected him to look silly – the formality of the yarmulke clashing with the leather jacket and jearis – but he didn't. It transformed him into something even more beautiful than the Italian cop who disrupted my Saturday, what seemed so long ago. Before my eyes, Michael became a kind of Jewish prince. He was one of them, and I was suddenly the only outsider.
"Michael," I whispered, as we moved through the doors, "I'd like Daniel's Bible."
"Of course," he said. Reaching in his pocket, he handed it to me. "I'd forgotten all about it."
I nodded. The weight of the Bible in my hands wasn't nearly as substantial as I'd hoped. Prison issue, the book was small enough to fit in the back pocket of Michael's jeans. A greenish brown recycled plastic cover bent easily in my grip, and I tugged at its edges as we made our way into the theater proper with the others.
The Malachim had draped the room from floor to ceiling with protective material. A musty smell hung in the air, like the dust of an old library. Some raw glass was still visible, but the protection would be sufficient for a short ceremony. My fingers brushed along the fabric as we walked down the aisle. Soft, it felt almost like satin – smooth and cool.
Michael and I stood where directed. Even the seats had been draped with the armored material. I looked up at the stage, which had been left untouched and glittering. Its brightness was strangely compelling, perhaps because the dark cloth made the place seem smaller. The theater held us closely, like the walls of a womb.
Rebeckah came in carrying Torah scrolls. At least, I assumed it was Rebeckah by the way she walked. In full uniform, including the helmet, her features were obscured. I assumed she wore the helmet in order to keep her head covered; the uniform and a scarf would probably look odd.
All eyes followed her as she climbed the half-finished set to the second tier. There, she sat on a frozen chair in full view of the auditorium. She cradled the scrolls in her arms lovingly, her head bowed. A rabbi came in next. Suddenly people were sitting down; a beat behind, I joined them.
"Yisgadal vyiskadash shemey rabo," The Hebrew sounded like nonsense to my ears. Next to me, Michael followed along flawlessly. "Be'olmo di'vero chir'usey ..."
I let the sounds wash over me. I looked down at Daniel's Bible in my lap. My hands, in their usual way, smoothed and tugged at the book, as if of their own accord. The plastic frustrated me. Encasing a sacred text in the waste from a thoughtless generation offended my sensibilities. It was too close for comfort, reminding me of my own false faith.
I'd asked for the Bible with the hope of feeling less like a stranger, to find some comfort in what was supposed to be the center of my spiritual life. Looking at the book now, I knew I'd feel even less at ease in Eion's church ... my church. That an angel of God sat next to me did little to bolster my faith.
Michael's existence should be proof positive that God watched over us and that what many believed about the universe was true. It was not enough for me. I felt as though there was something missing, something deep inside me that remained empty.
Tears surprised me by splattering wetly against the Bible. Even my tears were a sham. There was no grief for Daniel in them. I cried for myself, for my own death. Tears I should have wept a year ago rolled down my face in an unstoppable tide.
A part of me died when the dark veil of excommunication fell, shroudlike, over my days. Yet, even before that, I was never whole. I forever sought to fill the void in my heart with action or distraction. First, by immersing myself in the LINK, almost to the point of addiction, and, then later, by throwing myself into my career. My life was the opposite of Michael's: only marking time and place, a heavy, slogging clay bereft of the lightness of spirit.
People were standing again, and I struggled to my feet. Daniel's Bible slipped out of my lap, but I caught it before it landed on the floor. I leaned heavily on the cloth-draped chair in front of me. Under my weight, the Bible bent to the contour of the seat.
Like the Bible, I lacked a hard back or something in me that would not bend under pressure. I lost Daniel the first time because I didn't have anything solid to hang on to – no faith, no trust. Instead, during the trial, I relied on the facts, and what I so nobly believed to be the truth. The truth, I was beginning to understand, was more than just the sum of the facts. If I'd had faith, I could have made the leap beyond the facts, to something solid, unchanging.
When I chose not to betray Michael and Jibril to the FBI, the LINK had miraculously reactivated. "By an act of faith, it is done." Too bad my act of faith had come too late for Daniel.
Michael tugged on my arm. I looked up from my reverie to see that I was the only one still standing. I quickly dropped into the seat. I considered LINKing into a translator so that I could better follow the service. My fingers touched the filament, but stopped. Like Michael, I rarely allowed myself the luxury of uninterrupted thought. I consciously resisted the urge to plug in and lose myself in the motions of someone else's ritual.
Instead, I flipped open the Bible, hoping to find something Daniel had marked as meaningful. Being a Red Letter version of the New Testament, all of the words of Jesus were highlighted in the text. Parchment-thin, the pages were made with low-grade recycled newsprint. I flipped randomly, hoping to find the notes Daniel had promised were inside. There was nothing except the printed word. I flipped more frantically, but still found nothing.
Rhythmical sounds of Hebrew drifted through the auditorium. When Daniel told me he had notes hidden in the Bible, I'd hoped for a journal of thoughts in the margins, or even cryptic, insane scrawl. There
must be something I wasn't seeing. Then I noticed dog-ear folds marked certain pages. Maybe, given time and energy I could put together Daniel's puzzle.
"Faith," I whispered to myself. "Have faith."
The service had apparently ended, as people were standing up and quietly making their way out of the theater. I cradled the Bible in my arm. Even though I suspected it was useless, it was all I had left of Daniel. I followed the others numbly, letting the tide of people push me along. I wasn't even conscious of Michael following me until he took my hand.
"You okay?" he asked. "You look shell-shocked."
I gestured weakly with the Bible. "Do you believe in the idea of a holy madman?"
"Why?"
"Daniel's Bible. He seemed so lucid when we met, but ... just Iook at it, you'll see." I offered the Bible to Michael.
Pulling away from the shuffling crowd, we stopped near the holo-pictures again. Michael leafed through the pages. I scanned the room, as I waited for Michael's solemn agreement of Daniel's insanity.
"This is a great gift," Michael said, handing the Bible back to me.
"Yes, yes. But there were supposed to be notes in there from Daniel," I said, flipping the book open again to show Michael the empty pages.
"Have faith." Michael put a hand on my shoulder. "Things may yet reveal themselves. We should join the others and give Rebeckah our condolences."
"Sure," I said, though I didn't really feel like being with other people. I followed Michael through a series of smaller and smaller hallways that snaked toward the back of the theater. As we passed an open door, I looked in. Piles of material and rows of finished costumes hung on racks, untouched by the glass. That not-unpleasant musty smell hung in the air, as we continued through to the back stage.
The Malachim had transformed the prop shop into a reception area. A couple of Gorgons were still setting up chairs and smoothing out tablecloths. There were others, like Matthew, who were non-Jews, but friends, and part of the Malachim cause, all doing their part. Rebeckah had gathered a family around her, and I suddenly realized the depth of her sacrifice.
The smell of roasting potatoes made my mouth water. I hadn't realized how hungry I was. I settled into line behind Michael to get some food. Once my plate was full, I continued following him to a table. I was so anxious to eat that it took me a beat to recognize Raphael as he stood up with open arms to greet us.
"Rafe!" Michael said, putting his plate down to clasp Raphael in his arms. As the two men held on to each other, the world seemed to stop. The sounds of the gathered Malachim hushed, and a noise like wind around gables whispered in my ears. A welcoming feeling crept through my toes, warming me. When they separated, my heart ached almost physically. The room filled with the echoes of chatter again.
A chirping noise broke my concentration. At the second ring, I realized it was my phone. I put my plate down.
Over Michael's shoulder, Raphael eyed me curiously. Very few people used phones anymore. "Excuse me," I said, turning away to answer it.
A hand on my shoulder prevented me from moving away. Michael asked, "Are you sure you should?"
"This thing is a lot less traceable than a LINK-up. Besides," I said, as the phone rang again, "I'm curious."
He raised his eyebrows at me, but let me go.
Pushing the video and voice button, I said, "Hello?"
"Hey, Dee, it's me." Mouse's voice was almost a whisper, and he gave a little embarrassed wave to the screen. The video was a grainy black and white. On the wall behind him, I could see graffiti splashed in a crazy conglomerate of halftones.
"Are you in a public access booth?" I was startled, I didn't know any of those were still functional. "How?"
"Hot-wired." He shrugged, as if it were something he did every day. Ironically, the image chose that moment to waver. "I'm embracing my roots: phone phreak."
I smiled. "I'm impressed."
With a nod of agreement, Mouse took the compliment in stride. "Nice uniform. You convert?"
I shook my head. I opened my mouth to explain how I ended up with the Malachim, but when I thought of Rebeckah, no words came.
"Uh-huh," Mouse said, interested, but not pushing it. "So, did you ever catch up with that escaped fox?"
Danny. Of course, Mouse wouldn't know. "Have you talked tp your page yet?"
"No. And, that's the other thing: I come back on-line, and everything is in chaos. No page in sight. Worse, someone breached my inner sanctum. My hub, Dee, my hub. I swear, if some two-bit hacker spiked me, I'll burn him."
I mustered all my courage and said, "Maybe you should send Phanuel after him."
The card I played made an almost audible snap hitting the table. Mouse's expressive face turned to stone. The only part of him that moved was his eyes, and they danced. Letting out a long, thin breath, he said, "I see." His voice was even and measured. "We should meet in person, don't you think?"
* * *
Excerpt from the New York Times, August 23, 2076
Grey demands REAL-TIME
NEW YORK NODE. The presidential campaign reached a fevered pitch today as Rabbi-Senator Chaim Grey demanded a real-time debate with his opponent Reverend-Senator Etienne Letourneau (New Right).
"If the public is as willing to elect Letourneau as the polls show," Grey said during a regularly scheduled virtual debate at the New York node, "then they should demand to see how he reacts in real time. Though it is true that Letourneau could perform most of his presidential duties via the LINK, it is equally true that he might be called upon to act as an ambassador to a country that has no LINK access, or that an emergency situation could arise where LINK access is damaged to a certain section of the population. If Letourneau is the man you want, then call him down from the mountain to face me."
In a bold move, Grey, who had previously been unwilling to sling mud, continued to hammer Letourneau 's reputation by saying, "Look at his track record. Letourneau has never shown up at a single session of Congress in real time."
Letourneau responded by reminding the Rabbi-Senator that thanks to the progressive and populist Gates Act from the turn of the century the question of residence was determined both by real-time address and electronic. Letourneau assured the gathered crowd that he qualified as both a resident of Colorado and of Washington DC.
He finished his remarks by saying, "Rabbi-Senator Grey continues to show what a Luddite he is. He doesn't stand for LINK progress. He stands for a regression into a Stone Age era."
However, in opinion polls taken after the debate, Letourneau dropped in popularity by twenty percent. Grey and Letourneau are now almost evenly matched. (Hot-link here for exact numbers and methodology.) The pressure on Letourneau for a real-time debate has escalated rather than diminished.
Shelia Brown, a longtime supporter of Letourneau, logged on to the post-debate to say, "I just want to see if Etienne is really as handsome as his avatar." Brown's post touched off a flurry of spam, all of it echoing similar thoughts. The responses ranged from strong Grey supporters to the most rabid New Righters. One respondent, who asked to remain anonymous, asked, "What if Letourneau looks nothing like his avatar? It's, like, totally possible he's a woof-woof, you know?"
Many Grey supporters raised the question of honesty. Joss Feinstein said: "All this resistance to a realtime debate makes me wonder what Letourneau has to hide."
So far, there has been no response from Letourneau's office.
Chapter 19
Mouse's black eyes bored into me. I found myself shaking my head. "No, I don't think so."
The shadow of a smile on Mouse's face held no warmth.
"No, really," he said. A shaft of dusty sunlight illuminated the access booth, and Mouse's smile transformed into something light and feathery. I was almost seduced.
"I think we should," Mouse continued. "It'd be fun. I'm in New York, as it turns out. I'd love to see where you live. Sounds like there's a party going on." He craned his neck, trying to see around the edges of the view screen.
"Celebrating Daniel's return?"
"Something like that," I muttered. I'd have to get rid of the wristwatch phone. If Mouse knew enough about old tech to hot-wire a public access terminal, he'd be able to trace the satellite signal. The Malachim had just relocated, and, besides, I'd already brought enough hardship down on Rebeckah. This one I'd do alone. "I'm reconsidering, Mouse. Let's meet. My office is in Manhattan, Lower East Side. Give me a couple of hours. I want to say good-bye to Daniel."
"Okay," Mouse said with a frown pulling at his brow. "How about noon?"
High noon? Noon seemed far too much like a showdown at the OK Corral.
"No," I said, giving in to my superstitious instincts. "I need more time than that. How about one?"
"I guess I can waste time in the city. I've got some friends to check in with. Hey, then," he said, continuing the pretense of pleasantness, "I'm looking forward to it, girlfriend. It's been a long time."
"It has." Genuine feeling crept into my voice. Though he was never exactly a friend, I was fond of Mouse. Now, I wondered how long he had played me, and how much of the game he was into. "See you."
"Ciao," Mouse said, disconnecting the line.
When I turned back to the table, Michael was watching me suspiciously. I squeezed in between him and Raphael. Michael handed me my plate of food.
Raphael saluted me with a glass of milk. "As you prophesied, we meet again."
"I told you I was in the center of things," I said, stuffing potatoes into my mouth. "Where do you people get this great food?"
"We have a strong and supportive Diaspora."
"So it's not manna from heaven?" I said around another mouthful.
Raphael breathed out a short laugh. "We should get rid of her, Captain." Over my head, he said to Michael, "She knows too much, and she's far too cheeky."
"I happen to like it." Michael smiled, but imitated Raphael's clipped, military tone.
"You would," Raphael grunted. "As I recall, you were fond of Morningstar."
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