The rain started up again, and my hair was soaked by the time I got back to the office. Though much of the sky was blocked by traffic tubes, water found a way to ooze though the holes to reach the ground. Ten minutes to spare, but Michael was there already. He leaned casually against the door. The tip of his broad shoulder covered part of my name and title stenciled on the frosted glass. The moisture in the air made his hair curly, but otherwise he was dry as a bone. Either he drove, or he'd been waiting a long time.

"You ready? The LINK awaits."

"Deal's off," I growled as I stomped up the stairs. I muscled past him to unlock the door. "Somebody is on to us."

He sprang upright with the speed of a snake. "What are you talking about? Who?"

"I don't know, but the preacher seemed to know a lot of details, too many details. I can't risk it. Not even for ..." – the LINK – "... for Danny."

The key didn't seem to fit. I jangled it angrily, trying to force it. The lock finally clicked open. I swung the door wide, with the intention of slamming it back onto the hinges with a lot of force. Tracking my thought process, Michael caught the edge of the door with enhanced speed.

"Deidre, be reasonable." His fist gripped the door over my head. The muscles in his arms jumped at the constant pressure I applied. "I understand your fear. You're taking a lot of personal risk, I know. But there's more than you at stake here."

"So you've said." I leaned harder on the frame. The door creaked, but his grip never wavered.

"You don't believe me."

"I don't even know who exactly you're working for, Michael. Why should I trust you?"

"Because it's the right thing to do," he said firmly. His gray eyes searched out mine. "And because I can give you what you need – access to the LINK."

My mouth went dry. Swallowing hard, I lied bravely, "That's not enough."

"So you're telling me if I walked away right now and you never got connected – you could live with that?"

"I'd have to, wouldn't I?" I said, but I couldn't look at him. I eased up the pressure on the door, then let my shoulders drop. "It'd be better than selling my soul."

"But would it be better than saving it?"

In his voice there was a whisper of something familiar: a warmth, a sense of Tightness I hadn't felt since the LINK-angel Gabriel appeared on the LINK. The LINK-angels had appeared one by one, each bringing with it its own emotional aura. Unlike Phanuel, who appeared to people individually, Gabriel had been simulcast on all frequencies. Strength and power were the purview of this one. He was the enforcer. We felt the righteous burning of his sword as it bored through the LINK'S collective consciousness. Every LINK-angel's eyes were molten cores of light and right. The face before me had a similar conviction. His eyes glowed with a shimmer of the fierce fire I had seen and felt in the LINK-angel's visitation.

After what I had learned about Jordan Institute, I was beginning to believe that the LINK-angels might not be the miracles everyone claimed them to be. I didn't really think it was possible, but Michael insisted that the LINK-angels weren't real, that there was someone, a human hand, behind their appearance.

I decided to play a game with him.

"You're a LINK-angel, aren't you?" I asked.

Michael jumped back as if I had slapped him.

I'd hit a nerve. "Let me guess ..." I was running with it now, hot on a hunch. "That's the connection to your reputation. If the LINK-angels are constructs like you say, one of them was modeled on you, wasn't it?"

Michael stood stock-still and didn't reply. Still, I felt encouraged to go on.

"That's why you're so certain that the angels are frauds," I said, "and why you won't tell me who you work for. It's him. It's Letourneau. You're ratting him out. That's why you want me to do it ... because you can't without implicating yourself. No wonder pressure has been coming from all sides. So tell me, are all the angels cops?"

His face was wide with surprise. I couldn't tell if I'd played him right yet or not.

"No." He schooled his expression. "Definitely not."

"But, I'm right aren't I? You're one of them ... an angel."

"I am the archangel Michael."

"What a coup." I beckoned him into the office. "I was never the best catechism student, but that means you're number one, head honcho, right?" He nodded. I looked him over. If he was the mastermind behind the LINK-angels, I'd have to reassess my impression of his intellect. Looking at his wide-eyed expression, I was having some trouble.

"So how'd you do it? I mean, to fake something like that has got to take some major equipment, major programming."

Michael hovered in the doorway and gave me an anxious look. "Do I have to remind you we have an appointment to keep?"

"Cool your heels, angel boy, I haven't decided anything yet." Walking past the broken cup on the floor, I deliberately hung up my coat and settled behind the desk. "Sit down. We have to talk."

"Is this really the safest place ... ?"

I smiled patiently. "One of my best-kept secrets" – I pointed to the ceiling, and whispered – "Unitarians.

They have an office upstairs. The door says antiques, but it's a front. They've been running some kind of underground railroad for outspoken secular humanists, radicals, and scientists. They have more jamming devices and security taps than the FBI, CIA, and NSA combined."

He nodded, although he continued to look doubtful. Cautiously, he lowered himself into the seat across from me. He sat stock-still, but I could tell he was uneasy. Cop or soldier reflexes held him tightly under control. Like a mental fencer, he was trying to give me the smallest target possible.

Michael was smarter than he'd led me to believe, that much I could give him, but the image of super-hack still didn't fit him. With his fortysomething stability, he was atypical of the local variety of wirehead genius I'd busted down in my time. Arrogant, yes, but his was a physical prowess, not a mental one. Usually LINK-hackers couldn't keep the wicked glee out of their voices when they talked code. Michael acted like he barely knew it existed. More than that, he seemed embarrassed when I guessed he was augmented. If he was an ex-soldier, his hardware was the kind of equipment that gave pimply-faced netfreaks wet dreams.

"So," I had to ask, "you're the disc-jock behind the LINK-angels, eh, Michael?"

"No." he said slowly, as if carefully choosing each word. "Letourneau is the man you want."

"He's a wire-wizard, then? Are you saying the candidate actually got his hands dirty this time? I thought the only code Letourneau knew was the neo-Nazis' secret password."

Michael snorted. "I don't know about that. All I know is that I can't have other-Michael besmirching my name."

"The other Michael? Your replacement?"

"My nemesis."

"So ... someone took your place on the project?"

"Something like that."

The muscle in his jaw flexed and his eyes narrowed. I sat back in my chair. Over the pillar of my fingers, I asked, "So, this is about revenge?"

"No," he pronounced carefully, "vengeance."

"Okay." I stretched out the word to let him know I didn't agree, but I wasn't going to argue. Michael was a cop: it wasn't my place to remind him that it was a thin line he was walking. Besides, if he'd gotten mixed up with Letourneau, then he'd already crossed over once. He was trying to work his way back, and for that I had to respect him. "If you were replaced early on in the game, how much do you know? Can you bring Letourneau down with what you have?"

"I can, well, no I can't." He couldn't contain his energy any longer; standing up, he began to pace. "The question is subtlety. It must be seamless. The hand that guides shouldn't be seen – everything must appear to have cause and effect. It's the only way to change the popular view. People don't believe in miracles anymore."