GREY CALLS FOR AN INVESTIGATION
The press conference was set up in a makeshift tent outside the front lawn of the sealed and gated home of Reverend-Senator Etienne Letourneau. Though wind and rain buffeted the gathered members of the press, hot coffee and chocolate was served. More than fifty representatives from competing stations attended this impromptu conference, which was the largest of its kind since before the war.
Mingling was encouraged before the event began, and this reporter met some virtual colleagues for the first time in the flesh. (Enter here for full-body experience.)
Once Grey arrived excitement could be felt in the air. At first proper protocol proved difficult as reporters shouted out questions simultaneously. Grey's aides, however, were prepared to deal with the chaos and managed the event with ease.
Rabbi-Senator Chaim Grey called for an investigation into the identity of his opponent. "A recluse cannot properly run this country. Letourneau is too much of an unknown. With me, I'm WYSIWYG, what you see, is what you get. Granted, I'm not as fancy and slick as my virtual opponent, but I am real, solid, present, and willing to be accounted for. Where is Letourneau? Why won't he face me? What does he have to hide?"
Grey announced that he has requested that an outside agency investigate the nonvirtual life of Letourneau, as, Grey said, "Did you know? The Senator doesn't even have a single parking violation?" Grey gestured to the house behind him and the gravel road that wound up the mountain. "How does he leave here without a car? Yet he has never applied for a driver's license."
John Taylor, reporter for the Chicago Sun, remarked that it was possible that Letourneau had drivers to take him where he needed to go.
"Yes," Grey responded, "but his whole life? Anyway, I searched for other things and found no college records, medical records, nothing."
Though a Letourneau supporter in the audience pointed out that Letourneau lived a healthy life and had an advanced degree from Columbia, Grey retorted that it was awfully convenient for Letourneau to have gone to college almost exactly twenty-one years ago, and to be one whose records were destroyed in the Medusa blast.
"I want to know if my opponent is real or imaginary," Grey said bluntly.
Chapter 20
"I should have recognized that brimstone stench when we first met," Michael said.
"I am a humble servant of my Lord," the preacher insisted, his gaze shifting to Michael.
"That was always your excuse," Michael said. Switching off his holographs, he materialized out of the bricks. The gathered crowd shouted in surprise. "And to think I complimented you for giving Deidre solace. What were you doing there every day? Trying to break her spirit?"
"I ... I ..." The preacher's whole body trembled. His knees wobbled, and his eyes rolled up into his head.
"Leaving so soon?" Michael asked, as the preacher stumbled and fell off the crate. "The fun was just starting."
"We'll meet again." A hiss, like air escaping a punctured tire, carried the words to my ear. With that, the preacher collapsed.
"Please tell me that wasn't demonic possession," I said, as I accessed the LINK to place an anonymous call to the hospital. I knew Michael would scoff at my compassion and tell me, "he'd live," but in the last year I had grown attached to the Revelation preacher, whether or not Satan possessed him.
"Sorry, Dee, it was. That's why I didn't recognize him earlier. Morningstar was hidden inside that body, like wearing a mask."
"How is that different from what you are?"
"This body was forged for my use alone. It's the one I always use." Touching his wrist, Michael engaged the holographic armor. I watched a hole open in his chest and sky poke through. Then his legs faded into the sidewalk. "Let's go."
"You seem more yourself," I said.
"It feels good to be moving, doing something. It's how I'm meant to be."
I nodded. The sky darkened to a greenish tint as we approached the edge of Harlem and traffic tunnels began to sprout above us like green-gray arms of a millipede. "What was the preacher, er, Morningstar doing here? Do you think he was following us?"
"Hard to say. It's possible that Morningstar just invested the preacher with a bit of his spirit and sent him on his way like a windup toy."
"Can he do that? I thought miracles were too costly."
"For me," Michael grunted fiercely. "Morningstar is yetzerharah; he is a dark angel, turned away. He has all his angelic powers, but no moral restrictions."
"It doesn't pay to be good, eh?"
Michael's frown smoothed out. "There are rewards ... but they're rarely earthly."
We entered the abandoned subway at the edge of Harlem. Since all of the traffic and pedestrian tubes had moved to the upper levels for safety and comfort, the old public transportation tunnels had fallen into disrepair. I walked down the concrete stairway toward a dark, gaping hole.
Our flashlights revealed a turnstile at the bottom of the stairs. Michael vaulted over the steel bars easily, while I crawled much less gracefully over them onto a large concrete platform. The remains of antique vending machines stood along the walls, their glass fronts smashed and the contents robbed. The curly steel holders inside the machines cast strange shadows on the wall as the beam from my light passed over them.
Across a chasm, I could see a faint light where another set of stairs led to the opposite side. I whistled lowly under my breath.
"Subway cars must have been huge," I said, pointing to the expanse between the two platforms.
Michael jumped down onto the rails. I peered over the edge nervously. My flashlight revealed a jumble of rails and dust, three feet down.
"Come on," Michael said, "I'll catch you."
Unable to bring myself to jump, I sat on the edge of the platform and lowered myself. I scraped my back and butt on the concrete as I slid to the ground. Michael steadied me as I tried to find footing on the rails. Slick with dampness, the cavity stretched ahead for miles. Ahead, in the distance, I could see the twinkle of Christmas bulbs dancing along the side of the wall where emergency lights must have hung.
I looked up, surprised that there was no rail at the top of the tunnel, like there was in the traffic tubes.
"How did they used to get electricity to the cars?" I wondered out loud.
"Something called a third rail, if I remember correctly," Michael said.
"Huh," I said, checking my compass and map. Finding the right direction, I headed along the underground passageway. Long ago, someone had started the process of removing the tracks. I stepped cautiously over the pile of rotting ties, moving deeper into the shaft.
Some Gorgon gang had marked this territory as theirs with a slash of color on the wall. I let my fingers trail along the rough surface, avoiding a makeshift camp in the center of the tunnel.
"It's hard to believe people live here." Pulling off his helmet, Michael appeared to grow out of a broken crate.
"I suppose it's better than the glass," I said: I switched off my armor; we were unlikely to run into anyone here. I shrugged out of the confining helmet. The air held a wild, almost swamplike odor. I took a deep breath of cool air and tried not to taste it.
Michael nodded, running fingers through his curls to shake them loose from his forehead. He fell into step beside me. "Why did you agree to meet Mouse alone?"
I stretched my neck until I could feel my muscles pull slightly. "I didn't want to bring any more trouble to the Malachim."
Michael nodded. "You think Mouse is dangerous."
"I'm just not sure."
"Go on," Michael said encouragingly. Our boots made a sucking sound as we walked.
"Daniel said when he ... killed the Pope, he felt disconnected, like a place on the LINK, but not. That sounds a lot like Mouse's hub."
"You were there. That's when you found Phanuel?"
In front of us, a small section of the tunnel's ceiling had collapsed. Tentacles of rebar coiled from the wall, and shafts of sunlight cut through the darkness like knives. I l
eaned into Michael for support as I clambered over the slippery debris.
"Yeah," I said, once we'd picked our way through the mess. "Phanuel was acting as Mouse's guardian. Even though I was in read-only mode, he blocked me. I was almost caught."
"I don't know very much about the LINK, but ... is that possible?"
I shook my head. "It shouldn't be. Unless Mouse found a way to trap consciousness remotely." A shiver ran up my spine at the thought, and I blew a snort out my nose to hide my discomfort. "Again, though, that should be impossible. Despite advances in biotechnology, we still know so little about the soul, consciousness, or how the brain works. No one even knows if the soul is something separate from the body ..." I looked at Michael apologetically. "Well, I suppose someone knows. Is it, Michael? Is our soul eternal?"
He stared at me with that same uncomfortable look that he gave me when I asked him if Daniel was in heaven. He shrugged almost imperceptibly, and said, "I have been here since the beginning. My soul is certainly long-lived if not eternal."
"You're an archangel, Michael. What about the human soul?"
"Millions of people of a thousand different religions think it is," Michael said, quietly.
"Is that your answer?"
The tunnel narrowed and split in two. From my guess, we'd reached Central Park. We headed down the left passageway. Here the tracks were in better condition. The ties were set at a distance uncomfortable for walking, and my stride alternately hit the gully between the boards or on top of them. When I shortened my step I hopped along at a slow, awkward pace. I lurched forward like that for a while, then gave up in favor of doing a balance-beam act on the rails near the wall. Even though it was long dead, I carefully avoided the third rail.
"If . . ." Michael said, glancing at me out of the corner of his eye. "If it is possible to separate the soul from the body, does Mouse have the tech to do it?"
"Are you telling me it is?"
"I'm asking a hypothetical question."
I smiled. "Ah-ha." I slid off the rail, but recovered my step smoothly. "Well, even if he did find a way, Mouse would need a computer the size of ..." I trailed off.
"What?" Michael prompted.
"Mouse has a computer the size of the world; he's in every hard drive in existence. Plus," I told Michael what Dancer had said about the black boxes, pointing up at one. Thoughts formed as I spoke. "If Dancer is right, and those boxes do belong to Mouse, well, I think he might be siphoning off power from the main city grid. That, combined with the LINK'S power, could be the energy LINK-angels needed to perform their miracle."
"What do you mean? How is he part of the LINK?"
As we continued deeper into the channel, I explained the mouse.nest virus to Michael. "I'd always wondered," I added, "why Mouse's name was in English when he's from Cairo. Mouse, the computer mouse, is one of those words imported whole, to distinguish it from the native language's furry version."
"He's a clever adversary," Michael muttered, almost disappointed.
"You were hoping things would point to Morningstar?"
He shrugged. "I know how to fight Morningstar."
"True enough." I nodded. "I still don't want to believe it's Mouse behind the LINK-angels, but I can no longer deny the possibility. Still ... Why? Why would he do it? What does he get out of it?"
We'd reached another section of tunnel illuminated by flickering Christmas lights. In the weak light, I could see Michael's tired smile. "Besides power?" He shook his head. "We should also ask ourselves why would a Muslim work to prop up a Christian belief in the Second Coming?"
"Yeah," I said, extending my arms for balance as I walked along the rail. "Letourneau has a reputation as a right-wing fanatic. I just can't see Mouse and Letourneau conspiring together."
"You've met this Letourneau guy?" Michael asked. Moving smoothly, Michael didn't seem to have the same trouble walking along the tracks as I had.
"No. Well, not in the flesh. He conducts most of his business via the LINK. Rumor has it he's holed up in Colorado on a fresh-air farm."
"He does everything via the LINK?"
"Yes, you Luddite," I said. "Most people do. Politics is especially easy to conduct virtually."
"So, Letourneau could be anybody," Michael said, as we passed a poster announcing the upcoming debate between Rabbi-Senator Grey and Letourneau. Some Gorgon or, more likely, a politically minded Malach must have posted it for the benefit of others that might pass this way. The poster showed the usual picture of Letourneau's avatar, with a red "no" symbol slashed over his face. The words said, "No more virtual vitriol. Real-time debate: 7:00 EST, August 30, 2076!"
I stopped in front of the poster. "Today," I said. "I guess people will find out what Letourneau really looks like today."
"Do you think he's been a pretender this whole time?" Michael said, as we started walking again. "Some teenage girl in her mother's basement playing pretend senator?"
"There are rules against that, but if you're a good enough hacker you can run under an assumed name ... for a while. LINK-vice usually catches up with people who do that." I shrugged.
"If they commit crimes under the assumed name," Michael said. "Right?"
"I suppose. But, if that's the case, Letourneau has been running a tight scam for a long time. He's a public figure."
"But, it's possible."
"After meeting you," I said, "I'm beginning to believe anything is possible."
Flecks of light shimmered on the planes of his face, but Michael's eyes were swallowed by darkness. Only the tips of his eyelashes shone in the dark hollows. Michael's mind seemed far away.
The Christmas lights twinkled against the ceiling like stars. I wondered what people would do to celebrate my baby's birthday. "Michael, Raphael was surprised."
"Ha?" Michael blinked away his thoughts, as if having to consciously focus on me. "By what?"
"That I was pregnant."
"Deidre!" Michael stopped walking and put his hands on his hips. "Why did you tell him that?"
I let him fall behind and kept trudging forward. "I didn't know it was supposed to be a secret. I guess I figured he would already know."
"How many times do I have to tell you it doesn't work that way?"
I stopped walking and hopped off the rail. Straddling the ties, I faced him. "Are you telling me Jesus wasn't planned?"
Michael stood motionless, like a stone. The lights danced around him, twisting his shadow against the wall. "I'm not always privy to the divine design, but this I know for certain: messiahs are an earthly concept."
"I don't believe you."
Michael nodded, a small smile playing at the comers of his mouth. "So you have some blind faith after all."
"I guess I do."
"Deidre, you've met three archangels. A Christian." He laid his hand on his chest, to indicate himself. "A Muslim, and a Jew. If one messiah was the only true messiah, how could that be?"
I remembered the funeral, and the ease with which my Christian angel had donned a yarmulke and spoken Hebrew. "Michael, you're a Jew, too."
When I looked back to Michael, my breath caught. The same gray eyes stared back at me, but Michael had transformed. Bearded, turbaned, and darker-skinned, I barely recognized him. He held a curved sword in his hands, which gleamed wickedly in the bright light.
Wings, like peacock feathers, shown an iridescent blue-green, and in each "eye" a human face was visible. With each gust of air that swelled at the tiniest flutter, I could hear the moans of a thousand souls.
The discordant voices groaned in unison and swelled. I made out the words: "I am also Muslim."
"Oh ... okay." I stumbled backwards over the rails until my shoulders pressed against the wall. I screwed my eyes shut and reminded myself of the necessity of breathing. I drew slow, ragged breaths, one at a time, and tried to banish the terrible vision from my mind.
"Deidre." The screeching souls were gone from his voice. I heard only the gentle bass I'd grown to expect from Michael's
lips.
A hand on my shoulder made me jump, but I kept my eyes shut. "Was that your true face, Michael?"
"No. Wings, like messiahs, are a human invention."
Slowly, I opened my eyes. The Christmas lights had returned to their normal, dim flashing. Michael, too, had assumed a form I felt more familiar with. I brushed my knuckles along the strong planes of his cheekbones, feeling the rough warmth of his olive skin.
"Did you pick these features because you knew I'd be attracted to them ... feel safe with them?"
"You're looking for guile where there is none." The gray eyes that earlier, and in my dreams, haunted a monster's face implored me to trust them. "I hadn't met you before, Deidre. How would I know what you'd like?"
I nodded, letting my hand drop. "I ... I'm having a hard time with this, Michael. I'm finding that at the core of my being I do have a shred of faith, and that faith tells me that if God is going to take the time to send an angel, He doesn't do that without a plan ... despite what you've assured me."
"Very well." Michael nodded. "I am a defender of faith, not its destroyer."
"You sure about that, big guy?" I was tempted to remind him he wasn't doing much for my faith – a moment ago he implied that Jesus wasn't the messiah, one of the core tenets of my belief system. However, I didn't especially want to dwell on that revelation myself. I pulled a smile out of somewhere, and said, "Come on. We're wasting time."
I hobbled along on the tracks until the frustrating pace forced me up onto the rails again. Balancing on the narrow steel beam, we moved more quickly through the tunnel.
"What are you going to tell Mouse?" Michael asked. His voice steady, he anchored me in the present. "Are you sure you're not walking into a trap ... that you don't need me?"
I smiled at him even though I doubted he could see me. "Of course I need you. Who couldn't use an angel at their side? But Mouse is expecting me to be alone."
"I don't like it. I'm worried about you."
Archangel Protocol Page 28