Fallen

by Claire Delacroix

  Did he dare to trust his instincts?

  Rachel had warned him about becoming emotionally involved with humans. She had said that his desire for Lilia was clouding his thinking. Instead of pursuing Lilia, he should focus on finishing the job that Rachel had started.

  What had been Rachel's mission?

  He could only think of one way to find out. Montgomery didn't miss the irony that he had to break the rules himself, just as Lilia did, to set things right.

  He had to ask angels for help.

  But first, he had to talk to Lilia about her proficiency awards in Dissection and Vivisection.

  Evening had fallen by the time Lilia left the circus. She wasn't sure whether she'd lingered over the tea table because she liked Stevia or because she had so little enthusiasm for the company of her fellow Nuclear Darwinists.

  The evening ahead lacked a certain promise.

  Lilia stuck to her principles, avoided the conveyors, and walked all the way back to the hotel. The lobby bar was filled with Nuclear Darwinists, mixing and mingling, and the din was considerable.

  The last thing Lilia needed or wanted was cocktails, canapes, and chitchat. Her feet were sore, her back ached, she was hot and sweaty, and that dog poop seemed determined to cling to her shoe until the end times. She took one look at her fellow convention attendees and gave serious thought to going home, right then and there. After all, she had no leads left and big fat zip as proof that her instincts about Gid had been right.

  But then, that had never stopped her before.

  She could duck past registration, snag her bags, and head for the station without anyone knowing the difference. It was a tempting proposition, but that was, of course, when she was spotted.

  "Lilia! There you are!"

  Lilia knew without turning that it was Blake Patterson, Gid's old roommate and quite possibly the only person at the conference who would have hailed her with a friendly voice. He was also the only attendee she couldn't ignore.

  Blake was a sweetie, despite the fact that he had a talent for finding Lilia at her worst. She was convinced that it was compare and contrast, like brides insisting that their bridesmaids wore dowdy dresses. When a person needed to look good, as Blake Patterson always did, that person needed to know where to reliably find a contrasting accent.

  Enter Lilia Desjardins.

  "Lilia! Over here!" Blake shouted across the lobby, then waved a drink just so Lilia couldn't miss him.

  Or maybe to make sure that no one else in the lobby missed Lilia. She felt the hostility as her fellows noticed her, felt the temperature get downright frosty in the lobby.

  The disapproval being exuded in her direction was just what Lilia needed to put some bounce back into her step. Her mother had always said that Lilia did best with an obstacle to overcome. She squared her shoulders, smiled, and pushed through the crowd toward Blake as if she was queen of the prom.

  It was hard to miss Blake: he was six foot six, blond, and tanned, Adonis in the flesh. The tanning alone must have cost him a fortune at the spa—given the endless cloud cover over the Republic since the nukes—and Lilia always wondered how deep he was in hock. He was turned out splendidly on this occasion, per usual, and Lilia's bedraggled state did make the perfect contrast.

  Even so, his sartorial flair lifted Lilia's spirits. It was refreshing to find a man who dressed like a peacock in the midst of dozens of scientists and math geeks who seldom surrendered their lab coats. Blake was wearing a cherry red zipped jacket and black pants fitted to show his long legs to advantage. His blond hair came to his shoulders and had been styled to look as if he had just sauntered in from a beach. His smile was so bright that it could have fueled the hotel's elevators.

  He wrinkled his nose at her embellished shoe when she reached his side, then shoved a glass of something bubbly into her hand. "You're a wreck," he declared. "But I love you anyway." He gave her a trio of air kisses, alternating cheeks, a welcome that Lilia enjoyed more than she might have expected.

  "Brilliant of you to suggest renaming the award for Gid," he breathed into her ear. "I hear the Council of Three approved it outright."

  "There is no Council of Three," Lilia teased, then took a sip of wine. It was cold and hit her empty belly like a jolt of lightning. "We used to argue about that in the dorms all the time."

  "No, you used to speculate on who the members were," Mike MacPherson corrected. Gid's other longstanding roommate, Mike was standing behind Blake.

  In his shadow, so to speak.

  In contrast to Blake, Mike had gone with the safe male option of a navy blazer with taupe pants. His dark hair was touched with a bit of silver at his temples. Mike looked like the persistent researcher he was, the one who put in long hours in the Institute's research labs, pursuing drug patents and making money for the team. Lilia had always known she could have liked him better if he had changed jobs.

  At least he'd ditched the lab coat for the festivities. Mike had also gotten a buzz cut since the last time Lilia had seen him.

  Which might have been at her wedding. After all, no Nuclear Darwinists had come to Gid's memorial service. Lilia had no doubt that her conflict with the Society was responsible for Gid not getting the send-off he deserved.

  Both Mike and Blake had earned their sixth degree and had the commemorative tattoos on their foreheads to show for it. Blake had chosen the eye in the pyramid, the Masonic symbol that had once appeared on Republic currency. It was a popular choice, as was the lotus mandala chosen by Mike.

  "Hi, Mike," Lilia said and Blake jumped in surprise.

  "Mike! I didn't see you," Blake exclaimed, predictably. Mike and Lilia exchanged rueful glances, because they had both been there and done that before, then clinked glasses.

  "He's such a diva," Mike muttered.

  Lilia almost spewed her drink. "Good thing we love him as much as we do," she whispered.

  Mike grinned. "Doesn't mean we'll vote for him, though."

  "I heard that," Blake protested. They drank and conversation stalled. Lilia felt Gid's ghost sidle up beside them. If the others had the same sense, no one mentioned it.

  They drank.

  "You two always took bets on who was Council of Three," Mike said brightly after a long moment.

  Lilia rolled her eyes, even as she recalled Doc Mina's comments. "No one ever admits that the Council exists."

  "But Lilia always managed to persuade me she was right and took my money anyway," Blake said with a smile. "You lie well enough to be a politician, my love."

  "Is that a compliment?" Lilia asked. "Or does that mean that since you declared your candidacy, we can't trust you anymore?"

  Blake, to her surprise, didn't smile. "Tell me then, can I count on your vote?"

  Lilia looked at him hard. "I heard you'd gone over to the dark side. I'd hoped it wasn't true."

  He had the grace to flush. "Okay, the Society isn't perfect, but I believe change is better accomplished from the inside. Running for Society president is the best way I know how to do that."

  "Wrong, Blake. It's an empty position, everyone knows that." So much for prudent. The sparkling wine was already loosening her tongue. "The Council of Three make all the decisions, whoever they are these days. If you want to get anything done, you should run for the Council."

  "Lilia!" Blake chided as only he could do. He'd make someone a good mother one day. "There is no Council of Three. That's just propaganda perpetuated against the Society." There was no conviction in his tone, so Lilia pushed. Mike watched.

  "Be serious, Blake. Remember who you're talking to here. Who's running the show, if not the Council?"

  "The nominated Board of Governors ..."

  "... are a bunch of yes-people. Don't pretend you don't know the truth, not with me. We both know that you need to get on the Council of Three if you want to have a real say in things." Lilia took a gulp of wine. "Even better, you need to be the One."

  Mike muttered a curse and excused himself. Blake looked
a bit twitchy as he checked to see who might be listening. Then he shook his head, lowering his voice again. Lilia had the bizarre thought that they were leaning together like lovers and wanted to laugh. "That's not how it works, Lilia. A position on the Council of Three is an appointment, granted to those who have served the Society. Running for president is a start."

  "You know a lot about this process."

  He shrugged. "You were the one who used to speculate..."

  "No. That was based on zero information or, at best, gossip. You sound as if you have hard data now. Where do you find out this stuff? Who's on the Council now, anyhow?"

  "Lilia, we shouldn't be talking about this. There are things that shouldn't be said, not if you want to get ahead..."

  "Or elected for Society president."

  "Or that." He gave her a stern look. "Don't mess with the Council."

  "What do you know?"

  "Nothing. Just leave it, Lilia." Blake threw back the rest of his drink. "For your own good."

  Interesting. Mike arrived then with refills—both Lilia and Blake fell on them as if they were parched.

  She snapped her fingers, trying to recover the conversation's earlier playful tone. "Which reminds me, Blake." He looked at her warily. "You never did pony up that last fifty creds you owed me."

  "For what?" Mike asked.

  "I challenged him to prove that Doc Mina wasn't the master planner in charge of the Council of Three, and he never did it."

  This time, Mike snorted his wine.

  "I don't think we should talk about this," Blake hissed.

  Mike continued as if he hadn't heard. "Did you hear, Lilia, that Rhys is lobbying for your ejection from the Society over those angel-shades? He says you were hunting illegally."

  "There's a case of the pot calling the kettle black," Lilia retorted and snagged herself another glass of bubbles. Hers had emptied with remarkable speed. She winked at Blake. "Rhys never did anything legal in his life. Hey, maybe he's Council of Three. What do you think, Blake?"

  "Just leave it," he said through his teeth.

  Lilia exchanged a glance with Mike. "Preelection jitters," Mike whispered and they nodded conspiratorially.

  "Tell me, Lilia, why is it that I'm expecting a show when you present that award?" Blake asked.

  "From me?" Lilia tried to look innocent and was sure she failed. She was better at demure than innocent.

  The two friends exchanged knowing glances.

  "Hurry, hurry. Get your tickets early," Mike said, sounding like a circus hawker, and Blake laughed. Lilia was relieved to see his easy charm make a reappearance.

  "Speaking of a show." Blake nudged Mike. "Show Lilia your tattoo."

  Mike's neck reddened and he averted his gaze. "I don't know ..."

  "Lilia, you'd better insist," Blake said.

  Mike just got more red.

  "Tattoos are forever," she replied. "There's always time."

  "But you won't be able to see it once the hair grows back."

  Lilia wondered whether she really wanted to see the tattoo.

  She also wondered where it was.

  She didn't even want to think about how Blake knew about it.

  "Is this going to be in violation of S&D?" she asked.

  "You won't believe what this fool did when he got his seventh degree," Blake said with a shake of his head.

  The tattoo was on the crown of his head, on the seventh chakra to commemorate the seventh degree. Lilia exhaled in relief and Blake gave her an odd look.

  "Where did you think it was?" he demanded. When Lilia blushed, Blake laughed. "Mind in the gutter."

  "Hazard of early widowhood," Lilia replied, then wished she hadn't. Gid's ghost seemed to get more tangible.

  "Bend over and let me see," Lilia said to Mike.

  He ran his hand over his head. "The hair's growing in, anyway."

  "Quit stalling." Blake put his hand on the back of Mike's neck and pushed his head forward.

  On the crown of Mike's head, visible through the short hair of his buzz cut, was an ever-smiling cartoon character.

  Lilia was so surprised that she laughed out loud. "Not Orv the Orange? You put Orv on your head?"

  "Isn't it insane?" Blake demanded. "The man passes his seventh degree, earns a reputation for exceptional lab work, and gets a cartoon character on his head to commemorate his achievement."

  "Hey, it's not just any cartoon character," Mike protested. "This is Orv the Orange, official mascot of the Society of Nuclear Darwinists' Sunshine Heals program, beloved by children throughout the Republic ..."

  "See?" Blake interrupted. "Now he even talks like a publicist. Maybe the tattoo is messing with his head."

  "Maybe the ink is dripping into his brain," Lilia suggested.

  "Maybe it's the spirit of Orv himself," Blake said.

  "It is Orv," Mike insisted as he put his hand over his heart. "He casts sunshine into my life with his very presence."

  Lilia and Blake groaned.

  "You're going to need a better story on a date," Blake said.

  "Only if she shaves my head," Mike replied.

  Lilia held up her hands. "I do not want to hear the rest of this conversation." She looked at Mike and giggled as she had a thought. "You'd better hope you don't ever go bald."

  Mike shook his head. "Come on. Don't be so tough. Even Gid had Orv tattooed on his first chakra ..."

  Blake slapped Mike's back abruptly and the other man fell silent, his neck turning ruddy.

  "Sorry," Mike muttered and they drank in silence.

  They stared around themselves, desperately seeking a topic of conversation other than Gid or the Council of Three. Lilia thought it couldn't be more awkward, then Blake gave a low whistle.

  "Praise be to the pseudoskin," he breathed as he looked at the hotel entrance. Lilia knew immediately who had arrived.

  Funny how things seemed to look up whenever Montgomery appeared.

  X

  Lilia watched Montgomery seek her in the crowd, felt his gaze lock on his target, then watched him stride directly toward her. He looked as grim as a reaper. She was surprised to feel her body respond to his presence, even though his evil twin was missing in action.

  It had to be the pseudoskin. She tossed back the rest of her wine and met him halfway.

  The pseudoskin was a marvel of modern technology, one that turned anyone remotely buff into a superhero. Half an inch thick, the pseudoskin was a slightly stretchy polymer embedded with lead mesh. The best pseudoskins required a body scan for the fitting, and were cast for the individual wearer. The matrices of the layers of lead mesh were computer-designed to overlap and create a radiation barrier. In the best suits—like Gid's first-string suit and undoubtedly the one Montgomery wore—the protection was equivalent to being encased in four feet of lead.

  But so much more flexible. A pseudoskin fit like one's own skin—albeit a thicker and heavier version of the body's natural protective layer—hence the name.

  Codpieces of reevlar, a dense inflexible synthetic resin that was virtually impermeable, and thorax guards of the same material completed the ensemble for both genders. The plan was to protect the reproductive jewels, so to speak, as well as the thyroid, those being the parts of the body most enthusiastic about sucking up radiation. In practical terms, people didn't wear the thorax guards much outside of very hot zones because the reevlar weighed so much.

  Lilia found it funny how few men took chances with their codpieces: they wore them all the time. Any suggestion that this practice was overkill was greeted with hostility. She routinely abandoned hers, because, well, there wasn't much left to protect in that particular vicinity.

  Montgomery didn't waste any time on formalities. "Where were you this afternoon, Ms. Desjardins?"

  Lilia glanced to his ear stud, firmly in place, and wondered at his game. "Sightseeing. Why?"

  "I'll ask the questions, Ms. Desjardins." His tone was firm but it was the coldness in his eyes that concerned
Lilia.

  "What's happened?"

  He flicked her a quelling glance, one that didn't quell her one bit.

  "If you're asking questions of a citizen, you have an obligation to tell that citizen why," Lilia continued, hating that she always seemed to be reciting law code in this cop's presence.

  He eyed her for a second, then abruptly displayed his palm to her. The full-color image was of the receptionist at Breisach and Turner, eviscerated exactly the same way as Y654892.

  Lilia had to turn away to keep her drink from ending up on Montgomery's boots.

  "Two very similar killings reminded me of who had reported the first one."

  Lilia had her hand over her mouth. She felt Montgomery watching her, measuring the duration of her gag reflex. It hadn't been long since she'd talked to the receptionist. "When did this happen?"

  Montgomery didn't answer. "Where were you today? Do you have witnesses?"

  She met his gaze, recognizing that she wasn't supposed to admit that she had seen him that morning and that he could be her witness. Where did his allegiance lie? She wanted very much to know.

  "Isn't that the shade receptionist from Breisach and Turner?"

  He wasn't surprised by the question or its nuances. "How did you know her?"

  "I didn't."

  Montgomery gave Lilia a look.

  She sighed. "I went to Breisach and Turner this morning. Their address was the last bit of information on Gid's palm when I got it. So I went there, thinking they might remember him."

  "Ms. Desjardins, I remind you that the death of Gideon Fitzgerald was deemed an accident and that you are not doing yourself any favors by pursuing what is a closed case."

  She really hated his officious tone. Why couldn't he have turned up in debonair mode?

  "Why did you call her a shade?" he asked softly.

  "Because she was one. I saw the end of her tattoo today."

  He was taking notes on his palm and was impossible to read. Again. "What time was that?"

  As if he didn't know. "It must have been around noon because I was hungry."