When he raised his eyes, I gaped at him mutely. I couldn't explain why I'd reacted that way. The feeling was silly, and I was losing control of this conversation. So, I grabbed the novel and tossed it into the bottom drawer of my desk. I kicked it shut with the toe of my shoe. "Bad habit." I shrugged.
Michael lowered his eyes. That slight smile turned up the corners of his mouth again. "Tell me something, McMannus. Are you still Catholic?"
"Does the Pope shit in the woods?" I fired back.
His gray eyes flashed up at my words, pinning me under a harsh glare. Determined to stay on top of the pecking order we seemed to be establishing, I stared back just as hard.
"So what does my faith have to do with anything?" I asked. "What? Are you one of the New Christian Righters out proselytizing for Letourneau? I always figured the force was crawling with Letourneau's minions. Listen, Officer, I have less than no time for you if ..."
"I'm not," he cut me off. "Though in a way, it's Letourneau that brought me here."
"Well, if he's involved, I'm not," I bristled. "The good senator has caused me enough trouble."
"I know he has," Michael said quietly. He stood up, careful not to disturb the photo. Michael moved over to the window and looked out between the dusty blinds. He pushed the slats down with a finger. He had to be thinking hard about something, because the only view out my window was the unimpressive back alley of an abandoned Western Union. Truth was, most things were empty and derelict on this level, my office being one of the few exceptions.
"If not one of Letourneau's lackeys, then what are you?" I asked Michael's back.
"Just a messenger," he said absently, still watching the alley.
"Oh yeah? Well then, what's your message?" "It's not for you," he said in a low voice. Michael squinted as though tracking the movement of someone outside. Pointing out the window and down toward the street level, he asked; "Is that man often there?"
"Who? A scruffy-looking soapbox preacher?" I asked. When Michael nodded, I checked my watch. Sure enough, the time read quarter to four. "Like clockwork. He's the only other guy besides me who works on a Saturday afternoon, I swear."
"Damn," Michael said through clenched teeth. Though he'd whispered, the curse cut through the still office air like a knife.
"Is that why you're here? The preacher? I can attest he's pretty harmless." Uncomfortable with the silence that had settled in the room, I asked, "So, if your message isn't for me, who is it for?"
"Why does he come to your office window? He's not going to get much of a crowd back there." Hooking his thumb toward the street, Michael turned toward me.
"He doesn't want a crowd. He wants me. When the window is open, I can hear him harping about heretics and all that. He wants to save me, I think." I shrugged. "Nice thought, but it gets old, you know?"
Michael smiled.
I crossed my arms in front of my chest and let out a long breath. "Even though his rants sometimes irritate the piss out of me, I'm grateful for his persistence. At least someone thinks I'm worth saving."
"Why wouldn't you be?"
"You ever use that receiver in your head?" I asked him, tapping the hard, dead pellet at my temple meaningfully. I smiled to take the sting out of my tone.
"Martyrs and saints are rarely understood in their own time."
I sputtered out something between a choke and a laugh. "You're joking."
Michael shrugged and turned back toward the window. "Eternal consequences," he repeated.
I gave in to a chuckle I'd been trying to hold back. "Oh, I get it now. This is some kind of sales pitch. Cop salary is still that bad, that you have to work door-to-door for some shady 'indulgence' company, eh?"
He turned back to give me a patient smile. "No, but I am here on personal business. Listen, I'm willing to barter."
"Barter." I sighed. "Just what I need."
I shook my head and walked back behind my desk. I'd been excited at the prospect of a live client, but at the mention of the word "barter" the ache returned to my temple. I bit my lip to keep from scratching at the receiver.
"Maybe you can't afford me," I told him. "I only work for credits," I added to the lie with a flourish. "And, I mean Christendom credits, not the local variety Free State crap."
He looked around at my shabby office. "I think you might be interested in my barter."
"Oh yeah?" I sneered back, offended that my desperate straits were so blatantly obvious that he didn't even pretend to believe my lie.
"I can offer you the LINK."
I suddenly forgot how to breathe. Then, the insanity of his offer pushed a stream of words out of my mouth in a rush. "Impossible. No bio-hack in the world could bypass the meltdown trigger, and, if you're talking external mode, I'd be just as toasted. The feedback loop alone would kill me." As an afterthought, I added, "Not to mention the fact that it would be totally illegal."
"But if I could do it ... ?" Michael's eyes twinkled.
"You'd be a god and I'd be your slave." I coughed out a laugh and dropped into the chair. I twirled a mouse-pen through my fingers. "But, you can just keep dreaming, big guy. You might as well offer me the moon."
"That would be a bit tougher," he admitted with a smile, but his tone was serious.
Michael's eyes still held that "I've got a secret" look, and my disbelief eroded. I dropped the pen and my flippant attitude. "You're serious."
"I am."
"Christ," I breathed, my mind reeling.
"It would be worth a lot to you, wouldn't it?" Michael asked quietly.
"You have no idea," I said. My voice sounded like sandpaper. The desperation in it reminded me of the urgent whine of the wire-junkies begging for access on Forty-second Street. I had to try to pull myself together; otherwise, this guy would think he could walk all over me. More than that, I hadn't seen the goods yet. I cleared my throat. "Presuming you can perform this little miracle, what exactly are you expecting in exchange?"
"A LINK-hack." Michael's eyes watched my face.
I looked over his shoulder to where the certificate of merit hung on the wall. I'd gotten that honor for successfully collaring a wire-wizard named Weasel, who was terrorizing the LINK. Michael was asking me to become what I used to hunt when I was on the Tech Vice Squad. He was asking me to break the law.
"Is that all?" I gave a relieved laugh. "Hell, I could do that in my sleep. What do you want, Officer? Access to the department's slush fund? A peek at an Internal Affairs file? What?"
I tried, unsuccessfully, to keep my tone light. My finger stroked the lump of the receiver.
He scratched the short hairs at the back of his neck. "I want you to help me bring down the LINK-angels and expose Letourneau as a false prophet, a pretender."
His face scrunched up, as though preparing for a bad reaction.
I gave it to him. "What? Are you insane?"
"You heard me."
"The LINK-angels, fake? That's not possible," I told him flatly.
He nodded. I stared at him incredulously. The LINK-angels were a bona fide miracle. It wasn't just that they looked like angels. After all, anyone could assume any type of avatar out on the LINK. The thing that made LINK-angels different is they broadcast emotions, feelings. As a former tech-cop, I knew sending emotions via electrons was as unlikely an alchemist's attempt to turn lead to gold. The equipment needed would fill more than just one person's head. The human mind was still enough of a mystery that even if we had the technology to link to the emotional centers, sending something coherent was another matter. All that either party would most likely receive was a garbled jumble of images, sound and smell – as the bard might say, "full of sound and fury, signifying nothing."