I nodded as we paused a moment on the bridge into Harlem and let the sun wash over us. The sun warmed me, dancing on the waves beneath the steel-and-glass trusses of the bridge. I held my breath to the stench of the river, and savored the sensation of leaving behind the glass for the concrete of the city.
In another ten blocks, we could enter the relative safety of the skyway system. I headed down Fifth Avenue, toward Central Park. Michael followed, now dressed in an Israeli uniform. He was really beginning to look the part of a warrior prince. The blue-screen blue brought out the olive in his skin, and the sunlight caressed the soft curls framing his hard-angled face.
In a matter of blocks, people began appearing on the streets. The on switch of the holographic armor sizzled as I flipped into virtual invisibility. Despite a noisy startup, the holographic defense settled into a quiet operating hum, clearly more happy mimicking concrete than glass. We stuck close to the walls to avoid conflicting my overtaxed armor.
Harlem had achieved another kind of renaissance, this one of a more scientific bent. Because of Harlem's proximity to the glass city and lack of law-enforcement presence, many rogue scientists had taken up residence among those too poor to move away. I'd heard about the street culture that had emerged here, but, as a cop, I'd never been privileged to witness it firsthand. Indians, Asians, Blacks and the occasional white face sat on stoops and congregated just outside of bustling street cafes, talking. Regardless of nationality, white lab coats were the fashion. Along with the mussed hair and dark-framed-glasses look, men and women proudly strutted in their professional regalia. Unable to discuss certain sciences on the LINK, like geography and biology, which might clash with Biblical interpretations, those living here had reverted to an old-fashioned forum – the coffeehouse. There were hundreds of restaurants, cafes, coffeehouses, and bakeries up and down the street. By the looks of the crowds, the restaurants were open twenty-four hours. Everywhere I looked the conversation was heated. People gesticulating in the air on the corner. Inside one storefront, a group was hunched over someone drawing frantically on a paper napkin.
Bicycles and battery-powered vehicles filled the streets. On the roof, someone experimented with gliders. The constant movement and activity around me made me jittery.
The skyways had been built to absorb human noise, but here every action had a reaction, and the buildings bounced every noise back onto the street. The chaotic energy frightened me. As I slipped past a bakery filled with shouting voices, I made the sign of the cross. It was these sorts of people who created the Medusa bomb and brought about the end of hundreds of lives. Yet, there was undeniable energy here. Every excited voice echoed a primordial heartbeat that filled the streets.
As we approached the entrance to the service tunnel, I noticed a commotion. Just in front of the tunnel's opening, a ragged man stood on a crate. His hair stood on end, and he wore pin-striped pants and a terry-cloth robe. His gestures were more wild and frantic than those of the Harlem residents, but his shouts were evenly paced, almost rhythmical. Most of the scientists on the streets ignored him, but a couple of interested people had gathered around to heckle.
"You should accept Jesus Christ as your personal savior," the preacher shouted. "Science is sin, and you will rot in hell for your injustices against humanity."
The crowd let out a muffled laugh. "And what of Kali?" someone asked. "What does She say about science?"
Invisible, Michael and I slid along the wall. I moved slowly, as my helmet's sensors informed me that the holographic armor was approaching overload. The processors' hiss sounded loud to my ears, but no one seemed to notice us creeping forward toward the door.
"Jezebel."
As if someone had called me by name, I froze.
"Jezebel." The name slid from between the preacher's chapped lips like a lover's caress. When I looked up, his bulging eyes stared directly at me, pinning me to the wall. The people who had gathered stared in our direction as well, though less focused.
I recognized the preacher. This was the same man who'd set up shop outside my office every day like clockwork since the excommunication. I'd never really looked at him before, but his whiskey-scratched, rasping voice was familiar enough.
"Morningstar," Michael said.
Excerpt from the New York Times, August 24, 2076. This transmission was recorded at 1500 in Colorado. It is available on the Times' main page. The Times recommends Virtual Reality replay for best results.
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.