"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 asked.
"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:
o'malley@vatican.va
"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."
Antitov@mousenet.com
"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."
Bryson@LINK.com
"Doubting Thomases! How can either of you deny what all of us experienced? It was a miracle – plain and simple."
Gross@LINK.com
"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."
Antitov@mousenet.com
"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."
Bryson@LINK.com
"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."
goldman@LINK.com
"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."