Archangel Protocol

by Lyda Morehouse

  The mouse's black eyes narrowed, and he darted up my leg. His claws, like needles, scratched my thigh. I tried to bat him off me, but he was too fast. Finding the exposed flesh of my hand, he bit down with sharp teeth.

  Opening my eyes, I cried out in pain and grasped at the virtual wound that throbbed far too realistically. I pulled the LINK connection from my temple. The snap of electricity arched between the filament and my receiver, as I severed the active connection, but it was nothing compared to the sharp pain in the soft flesh between my thumb and forefinger.

  I could have killed myself disconnecting like that, but Mouse's bite surprised me. Subconsciously, I'd gambled on the fact my connection, though open to the LINK, was more with the uniform. Though I could feel a headache starting, I was lucky.

  "He bit me; Mouse bit me." In the light streaming into the open trunk, I inspected my hand. Turning it over and over, I checked for some mark. Of course there was nothing, but, as I wiggled my fingers experimentally, I could still feel the phantom teeth marks.

  Pulling the lid into place one more time, I frowned. Stretching the aching muscles of my hand, I began to understand the seriousness of the page's warning about the LINK-Michael. Before now, the LINK had been exclusively virtual. Jordan Institute must have come up with LINK technology that not only could access emotions, but also exact pain centers. Having stolen that technology, Mouse had the ability to do real-time damage to his enemies. But, could he kill?

  The damage I had done to the FBI agents was slightly different. After all, they were completely cybernetically enhanced; their entire body pulsed through complex interconnects of biology and computer technology. When I had "stopped" them, I had severed the line of communication between computer and synapses. I still wasn't certain how I'd done it; apparently, Jibril's biotech came with a few built-in miracles.

  As a kid, I'd heard stories of people who had scared themselves to death or died of loneliness. After my battle with Phanuel, I was beginning to believe that was possible, at least in part. I could have stayed caught in his web of fear until my heart burst or I starved to death. If the LINK-Michael's purview was violence, perhaps Mouse intended to send enough anger over the LINK to cause a riot, or worse.

  I shook out my hand. The soft flesh still throbbed. Clearly, since Mouse had the precision to send pain to specific nerves, the LINK-Michael might be able to tell the brain to shut down its involuntary functions, like breath and heartbeat.

  "Damn," I whispered under my breath. If Mouse could send the LINK-Michael to stop a person's heart, he could kill anyone on the LINK. I had to locate the page and find out whom he thought Mouse might target ... besides me.

  One answer sprang to mind. Mouse was clearly in league with Letourneau, and, right now, Letourneau's greatest enemy was his opposition in the presidential race – Rabbi-Senator Grey. From all the advertisements I'd seen, the public outcry for a real-time debate was high. If Letourneau was in fact a virtual personality as some people suspected, then he would need a distraction tonight. LINK-Michael was scheduled to wreak havoc tonight at prime time. Not a coincidence, obviously.

  The tow truck slowed. I moved the latch as far down as it would go without connecting to the lock. Loud clanks and clunks signaled the car being released from the tow truck. An engine revved, and the truck sped away.

  When I felt that I was alone, I released my death grip on the latch and opened the trunk a sliver. Bright, artificial light stabbed my eyes. I blinked away the watery tears and strained to hear voices. The impound lot appeared quiet and empty.

  I stretched out my back, only to recoil quickly in pain. The ride had been rough, and my body protested every bump and tensed muscle. Pulling my legs over the lip of the trunk, I swung them back and forth. Pins and prickles danced along the pinched nerves.

  As I'd hoped, the tow truck had taken me to the district police impound garage. Cars, most of them old and battered, stretched along the floor. Fluorescent bulbs snapped in the rafters. Somewhere up there a number of electronic cameras buzzed near the light like flies, sweeping the garage for activity.

  I had to hide from them. Letting gravity do most of the work, I let myself stumble to the ground. Ignoring the pain, I shut the trunk and wedged myself under the car. Plascrete was rough and cool against my cheek. The thick, warm smell of old batteries mingled with the scent of rubber tires. I barely fit in the space between the tires and the electric rail connection, but tightness felt oddly comforting.

  I shut my eyes and opened my connection to the armored suit cautiously. I ran a diagnostic and swept the area for any sign of Mouse. The LINK access door had been closed, and the uniform's interior appeared completely blank. As the search program completed, my avatar slid to a corner of the uniform. The search program illuminated the body of a mouse, lying flat on its stomach. I knelt to get a better look.

  Closed, dark eyelashes stood out against the white fur. The little furry body was racked with deep, shallow breaths.

  Page? I was certain Mouse would not leave an avatar behind inside the uniform. Since the LINK-door had been open when I off-lined, it would have been easy for Mouse to escape without being damaged. Besides, a non-AI avatar cut off from its host normally dissipated. Yet, Mouse had surprised me in the past, so I remained careful. Page? Is that you?

  The little rodent shivered, and its eyes fluttered open. Dee?

  It's me, Page. You're safe inside the uniform again. My hand stroked the fur on the image's back. I couldn't feel anything, as the action was virtual, but I hoped it gave the page comfort. It seemed to, as he stopped visibly shaking.

  Mouse betrayed me completely, he said with a ragged breath.

  You and me both, I assured him. You said the LINK-Michael is a killer. Who does Mouse want dead?

  I ... I don't know.

  Do you think it could be Grey?

  I ... The page couldn't finish his thought; he was obviously strained. I felt bad for trying to pressure him.

  I stood up. Rest here, Page. I'll figure it out. Just take care of yourself.

  The page didn't respond, but I could see his breathing even out. With one last caress, I disconnected.

  The next thing I heard was an urgent, hushed noise.

  It took me a second to recognize the sound of my name. "Deidre."

  I opened my eyes to see Michael crouched low, peering under the car. His hair was only slightly mussed, as if pulled askew by a slight breeze. On my body, I could smell the sweat and wet trunk. With a snort, I realized the worst aspect of keeping the company of angels: compared to them, you always looked like hell.

  "You okay?" he asked.

  "Why do I always have to ask: where were you? I thought you wanted to tag along to the meeting with Mouse to watch out for me. Instead, Satan came to my rescue."

  Michael smiled. "I distinctly remember you saying you were tired of me rescuing you."

  "Hmph. That's not much of an excuse." Even though I scraped painfully along the rough floor, I let Michael pull me upright.

  "I'm sorry," Michael said. "I was on the roof. I saw the cops approach and was headed back toward you to warn you, when you came barreling down the road."

  I smiled. Looking around, my eyes caught sight of a roving camera. "What about the security cameras?"

  "We'll be all right."

  "I thought miracles were too costly."

  He smiled. "They are. I took care of things the old-fashioned way – I bribed someone."

  We headed for the exit, and Michael held my hand. I shook my head, but gave him a smile. "My hero."

  Michael squeezed my fingers tightly in response. Calluses I hadn't noticed before rubbed against my palm. There was something more solid in his grip, and I thought I felt sweat tickling between our entwined hands.

  As we slipped through the gate, I caught a whiff of the smoldering smell of scorched metal. Someone, Michael I presumed, had cut the lock with a laser. The area where a guard normally stood just inside the doorway was conspicuously empty, an
d through the window I could see the blank screens of the video recorders. I wondered how Michael's friend would explain his absence and the destroyed chain.

  "Where are we going?" Michael asked.

  Pushing through the double doors, we entered an enclosed walkway. "To the Grey-Letourneau debate," I decided. "The page told me that Mouse is going to unleash your nemesis tonight at 0:00 GMT. That's when the debate is scheduled. Since the page told me that this Michael was a killer, my guess is he intends to assassinate Grey."

  Checking his watch, Michael said, "It's after five o'clock now. That give us less than an hour."

  I started to log on to the LINK to confirm, but, remembering the page, I stopped just in time.

  "This is it then," Michael said quietly, sadness deepening his tone. Before I could ask him what he meant, Michael handed me a bundle of brown material he'd picked up when we passed the guard booth. "Put this on," he said.

  Unraveling the cloth, I realized it was a trench coat. I shrugged into it, happy to be covering the stained and dirty uniform. One swish of the hem proved that the long material easily covered the bulky armor. "You've thought of everything haven't you?"

  "Not everything. If we're going to save Grey from the LINK-angel, I'm going to have to contact the other archangels." Michael gave me another mysteriously sad smile as he pushed the button for the elevator.

  "Okay," I said. "What's wrong?"

  The door slid open with a ting. With a mock bow, Michael held the door for me. "It means I'll have to go back."

  "Why?" I asked, stepping into the elevator.

  "To assemble all of the archangels at once we need a miracle. If I go back, I can do that."

  Cringing at the slight drop when Michael added his weight to the car, I held my breath as the doors swooshed shut. Michael pressed the button for the sixty-first floor, the public transportation level. From there we could catch a taxi, ride a bus, hop a bicycle, or take the El to Carnegie Hall, where the debate was scheduled.

  "Can't you use another miracle without going back?"

  "I could." Michael agreed, a sneer tightening his handsome face. "And become a dark one. I don't really think this is the best time for me to be switching sides, do you?"

  "No." I watched Michael, who glanced patiently at the numbers scrolling on the display. The elevator slowed suddenly, and my knees buckled a little. "But, I don't get it. I thought your whole reason for being here was to stop this LINK-Michael. Why can't you use your powers to that end? Why does God make it so difficult to be good?"

  "To make it worth it."

  I rolled my eyes. We reached the sixty-first floor, and the door opened up to the public-transportation tube. The light was brighter here, augmented by fluorescent strips along the upper curve of the tunnel.

  Shops lined the narrow walkway, and a crowd of people flowed around me. I was constantly amazed at the bustle of the city. Despite the fact that most people carried their offices in their heads, New Yorkers seemed to have an innate need to be on the move. After fighting our way to a city bus shelter, I plopped unceremoniously onto a bench and grumbled, "If being good means having to take the city bus, I can see why Satan is so much more popular."

  Michael slid a credit counter into the ticket dispenser and punched in our destination code. His fingers jabbed at the keypad, and his face held a tight grimace. The machine spit out the tickets. When he moved away, other bus riders moved in to use the dispensers. Standing over me, he shielded our conversation from the gathering crowd. "I have struggled this whole time to be normal, human, mortal; all you seem to want is empty drama and quick fixes."

  "That's not fair," I said. "I never asked for the LINK miracle or the one that healed me. What I want right now is to save Grey and come up with a way to stop Mouse. This is the first miracle I've asked for."

  Michael's eyes watched the tips of his shoes, and the muscles of his jaw flexed. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he glanced up at me. His eyes were full of guilt. "Deidre. I'm afraid to go back ... I think it would mean the end for me. ..."

  A thrum reverberated in the shelter. I felt a pressure against my back and spun around to see a woman throwing herself against the shatterproof plastic. She was shouting; the muffled sounds were filled with incoherent rage. The woman stood in the middle of the walkway. Her hair was a mass of tangles, and her face crumpled into a tight frown. I would have thought her a relative of the Revelation preacher, but, despite her wild expression, her clothes were neat and trim. She wore a power suit of bright blue, but there was blood from her nose on her blouse. As she ran at the shelter again, I backed away.

  "What the hell is going on?" I asked. People around me stared in horror and confusion.

  I caught a businessman's eye, and said, "You, call the police."

  Michael gripped my shoulders protectively. The woman crashed headlong against the plastic again, leaving a smear of blood. The plastic began to buckle, and this fueled her anger. The woman scratched and tore at the indentation she'd made like a wild dog.

  People in the shelter screamed and scattered. A mother and child huddled in the farthest corner.

  "Where are the police?" I muttered, looking around for another exit. "She's going to hurt herself."

  An angry roar erupted at my side. Turning I saw the businessman I'd talked to clutching his head. Then, lifting his fingers from his eyes, he glared at me with pure hatred.

  "I'm going to kill you!" the businessman screamed, spittle flying from the corners of his mouth. He launched himself in my direction.

  With a rush of air, Michael stood in front of me. One strong punch sent the possessed businessman sprawling backward. Another thrum echoed in the confined space, as the woman continued to beat against the bloodied plastic shield.

  Ignoring his rapidly swelling jaw, the man in the business suit staggered to his feet. His eyes stayed locked on mine.

  Michael pointed to the ticket dispensers. Catching his meaning, I scurried to the protected alcove between the two machines. I slid sideways between the humming dispensers and rested my arms against the cool metal.

  The bus shelter erupted with noise; shrill screams of terror turned to guttural cries of anger. Around Michael's bulk, I could see all the eyes around us filled with dark emotion. The woman who'd been huddling in the corner with her child leapt up. The child, too young to have a LINK implant, looked bewildered.

  "Michael," I said, "it's the LINK-angels. We've got to get out of here."

  Turning to face me, Michael's arms were around me in a second. "I will do it. For you. Shut your eyes, Deidre."

  "Why? Wha ..." My words were swallowed by a torrential wind. Lightning stabbed my eyes.

  "Shut your eyes, Deidre," a calm voice intoned, as I felt myself rising, as if separating from my body. I had the distinct impression that if I were to look "down," I would see my body crumpled in the bus shelter. "We're going back."

  " 'Back'? Back to heaven?" Panic made my voice tight.

  * * *

  Bob Courtland reporting in real time from Manhattan, in front of Carnegie Hall:

  Bob:

  "Thanks H.C. The crowd here is enormous. There are people stretching in both directions for kilometers on the pedestrian tube near the main entrance to Carnegie Hall. Police have had to arrest an unconfirmed number of adults who were attempting to gain foot access to the vehicle traffic level apparently trying to be the first to witness what type of vehicles in which the presidential candidates will arrive. To say the mood here is chaotic and exciting is an understatement."

  H.C.:

  "Tell us a little bit about what's happening down there, Bob."

  Bob:

  "Well, it's amazing. People have unplugged in a serious way. I've been talking to some of the crowd and several have said they joined the crowd just out of a need to be with other human beings on such a historic moment. Let's talk to this young lady. Hello? This is Bob Courtland from LINK-politics, can I ask you a few questions?"

  Woman:

/>   "Wow. The Bob.Courtland.pol LINK? You look so much shorter in real time. Do you think Letourneau is shorter than he seems in VR?"

  Bob:

  "It's hard to say. Is that why you're here today?"

  Woman:

  "I guess. I heard about all the people gathering here and I thought maybe it was some kind of sign or something, you know? I mean, if Letourneau is the Second Coming, then, maybe this moment is like the whole sermon on the mount/bread and fishes thing. Who would want to miss a thing like that? I mean, I want to be able to tell my kids I was there, you know?"

  Bob:

  "Thank you. Let's ask someone else. Ah, here, excuse me, sir, I'm Bob Courtland from LINK-politics, can I ask you a question?"

  Man:

  [waves] "Hi, Mom."

  Bob:

  "What brought you to Carnegie Hall today, sir?"

  Man:

  "I'm a big Grey supporter, see?" [points to tee shirt bearing slogan "Grey in 76 – REAL people's choice!"] "I've been to every one of Grey's talks. It's kind of an event, you know, getting out and meeting realtime people. I used to be this total plug-head, and I've had this epiphany, see? It's time to unplug and experience real-time real life ...

  Bob:

  "Uh, right. Moving on ..."

  Chapter 24

  Flames licked and danced along the deep green bay leaves without burning through them. I found myself on a rocky desert plain; various hues of browns and yellows extended to the horizon. Above, the sky was cloudless. Heat brought prickles of sweat to my body, and the air was still. The crackling snaps of the fire were the only sound.

  Michael stood in the center of the shrub. Like wax, flesh dripped from his body, sizzling and spitting in the fire. His expression was sad, yet peaceful. Michael's hands stretched open in supplication; his posture reminded me of Joan of Arc at the stake. Light, as sharp as a laser beam, punched through the skin over his heart. Tears of pain and joy evaporated in the heat 'I am, who I am.' "