"I never want to leave you."

I put my finger on his lip, hushing him. "I appreciate the sentiment, Michael." I tried to ease the harshness from my words with a smile. "But I should warn you, I don't go for that kind of devotion, even from men who aren't angels."

With a frustrated laugh, he shook his head. "Okay," he said around my finger. Taking my hand in his, he kissed my finger. "I'll see you in ten minutes."

"Ten." I smiled after him.

From his place in the buffet line, Raphael watched Michael go like a jealous lover. Then, our eyes met. Raphael stepped out of line and headed for me. I quickly gathered up my plates and tray: I had a sense Raphael had questions for me I didn't want to answer. I could feel Raphael's eyes on my back as I pushed my way to where the Malachim were gathering up dirty dishes. I dumped the contents of my tray in the bins and headed for the door. A hand on my shoulder stopped me.

"Deidre." Raphael's voice was loud in my ear.

"Raphael." As I turned, I put on a friendly smile, which faded when I saw the stern look in Raphael's eyes.

"What's going on with Michael?"

I considered batting my eyelashes and playing the fool, but as fire flashed in Raphael's eyes, I reconsidered. "Well ... Michael's in a kind of crisis, I guess. He's doing a lot of thinking."

"Michael? A crisis?" Raphael's tight anger softened into concern. "What kind of crisis?"

"I think I'm pregnant."

Raphael's dark brown eyes widened, and his frown deepened. The sun-cracked lines of his face drew in tightly around his mouth. "I see. Congratulations, then."

"You're surprised, too?" A sense of relief filled me. Maybe I wasn't part of the divine plan, after all. "Michael says the child isn't necessarily the messiah. What do you think?"

Raphael's jaw flexed, and the Christmas lights in the ceiling reflected in the silver in his hair. "What do I think? I think this is crazy, and you must be some kind of woman to pull Michael from the path."

"I'll take that as a compliment. What about the baby, Raphael? Is it possible?"

He shrugged. "In the beginning, there have been other children with the Sons of God, none of whom became 'messiahs.' " His eyebrows drew together fiercely. "But no archangel was involved in that."

"What about Jibril and Mary?"

"Ah, the great exception." Raphael shook his head and smiled. "But, even though he talked about his father in heaven, if you recall, the only title Jesus claims for himself is 'Son of Man.' "

This conversation was getting away from me. I could feel my pulse quicken. "Wait a minute. 'Exception'? Are you telling me there are messiahs other than Jesus?"

Raphael shrugged. "Finding messiahs and angels is the easy part, Deidre. Truly listening to them and discerning the truth? That's what's difficult."

The Gorgons being mostly nocturnal, Michael and I managed to avoid running into any of them on our way through the glass city. I shifted my backpack, so that it stopped rubbing my shoulder blades. I'd packed Danny's Bible, a water bottle, some food, and a few barter items in case of trouble.

"The city is beautiful in the daylight," Michael said.

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.