Lyda Morehouse - Archangel 04 - Apocalypse Array, ebooks [ENG]
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Apocalypse Array
Archangel Series Book 4
Lyda Morehouse
[v0.9 Scanned & Spellchecked by the_usual from dt. Messiah Node should be available shortly. This author also has a pseudonym, Tate Hallaway, with
another series.]
Contents
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
CHAPTER 1
Emmaline
CHAPTER 2
Amariah
Chapter 3
Deidre
CHAPTER 4
Dragon
CHAPTER 5 Morningstar
CHAPTER 6
Amariah
CHAPTER 7
Deidre
CHAPTER 8
Dragon
CHAPTER 9
Emmaline
CHAPTER 10
Amariah
CHAPTER 11
Deidre
CHAPTER 12
Dragon
CHAPTER 13
Morningstar
CHAPTER 14
Amariah
CHAPTER 15
Deidre
CHAPTER 16
Dragon
CHAPTER 17
Emmaline
CHAPTER 18
Amariah
Chapter 19
Deidre
CHAPTER 20
Dragon
CHAPTER 21
Morningstar
CHAPTER 22
Amariah
CHAPTER 23
Deidre
CHAPTER 24
Dragon
CHAPTER 25
Emmaline
CHAPTER 26
Amariah
CHAPTER 27
Deidre
CHAPTER 28
Dragon
CHAPTER 29
Morningstar
CHAPTER 30
Amariah
CHAPTER 31
Deidre
CHAPTER 32
Dragon
CHAPTER 33
Emmaline
CHAPTER 34
Amariah
CHAPTER 35
Deidre
CHAPTER 36
Dragon
CHAPTER 37
Morningstar
CHAPTER 38
Amariah
CHAPTER 39
Deidre
CHAPTER 40
Dragon
CHAPTER 41
Morningstar
About the Author
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As always, I have to thank my amazing and wonderful editor, Laura Anne Gilman, as well as my
ever-persistent, bushy-tailed agent, Jim Frenkel. Many heartfelt thanks and a boatload of karma go to my
midnight-hour readers: Naomi Kritzer, Kelly McCullough, and Terry A. Garey.
My writers' group barely had a chance to read much of this manuscript, but their support of my
spirit— particularly in this last year—has been immeasurable. A tip of the Orangina glass to the
Wyrdsmiths: Eleanor Arnason, Harry C. LeBlanc, Bill Henry, Doug Hulick, Rosalind Nelson, and those
busy rascals Naomi and Kelly again.
Shawn Rounds, the darling of my life and mother of my children, gets all the love and some of the
curses, thanks to her far too astute assessment of the problems of plot and character arcs in earlier drafts.
Grrr, Shawn! I love you. You made this a better book.
And because he gets depressed when his name doesn't appear in print, I also acknowledge the
existence of my NOT SULLEN nephew Jonathan Sharpe. Yeah, yeah, love you, too, guy. Stop, you're
embarrassing me.
Mort and Rita Morehouse also deserve a mention as my stage moms, tireless promoters, and
proud grandparents of Ella and Mason. Honestly, without your support, Mom and Papa, I would have
crumbled. Thanks. Much love. Similarly, the Rounds family—Pat and Margaret, Greg and Barb, Keven
and Jon, Mark and Joe—you are a great family to be part of. Thank you.
Also, a big thank-you goes out to all of our friends and family for their understanding, support,
prayers, and well wishes. It's been a hard year, and you guys all made it survivable. Thanks, too, to my
growing number of fans. You guys make it all worth it. You're why I get up in the morning and start
typing.
PROLOGUE
Morningstar
When the preacher asked if there were any objections, I half expected God Himself to strike me
down. In fact, I couldn't quite stifle a nervous glance up into the flaking-painted face of Jesus, who hung
serenely on the crucifix just beyond the altar. He gazed down at me lovingly with wide brown eyes.
Goose pimples crept up my arms underneath the Armani tuxedo, despite the June heat, as I waited out
the interminable seconds in the church, silent, it seemed, except for the harsh sound of my own breathing.
No one—no angel, messiah, man, nor god—spoke a word to halt this supreme blasphemy.
Imagine. Me, participating in
holy
matrimony?
It was a sin—though, surely, not my worst.
When the ceremony began again, I allowed myself a long, deep breath. Beside me, Emmaline
flashed me a knowing smile. Her face seemed to hold a touch of relief, as if she, too, had anticipated holy
fire.
She looked…handsome in her full dress uniform. The black leatherlike armor glowed darkly in
the soft candlelight of the church. Emmaline stood stiffly, as though at attention. Her black curls had been
trimmed into a crisp militaristic flattop. She was almost as tall as I was, and, thanks to her cybernetic
augmentation, she seemed twice as strong. Most of the time, I let her believe she was.
Emmaline held a single white rose. Its silken petals stood out in sharp contrast to the Peacemaker
and shock stick in her belt. Not exactly the most feminine bride an angel could dream of, but then again I
never in a million eons ever imagined myself standing here, in front of God, pledging my devotion to a
mere mortal.
Mortals have never been an interest of mine, honestly. To me, they were just God's mud dolls
animated by His holy breath for some sick experiment in free will. I normally let them play in their dirt and
filth without a second thought.
But my Emmaline could hardly be described as "merely" anything. And, after this day, after the
bond was complete and the rings were exchanged, I wondered if she would ever again truly qualify as
mortal.
Several months ago, on the day I'd asked and she'd said yes, I'd sealed my intentions with a
blood oath. No traditional engagement ring for me. I wanted something much, much more dramatic.
Because I'm an angel, my body is only a shell for the pure spirit within. I have no blood per se. All the
same, I pricked my palm with a small knife and she followed suit. We held our hands together, allowing
her blood to flow into my pure essence, and my spirit into her blood.
It was, for me, a major commitment. Some say I'm particularly fond of contracts, but usually it is
not I who enters into them, not I who seals the covenant with blood.
Emmaline gave me a little nudge, breaking my reverie. I repeated the words the preacher asked
of me without really hearing them. My voice sounded much more clear and confident than I would have
expected of myself given the butterflies in my stomach. The camerabots swung in for a close-up. I smiled
easily.
It was a beautiful day.
Sunlight streamed in through the stained glass, spraying flecks of royal blue and emerald green on
the white altar. Dust motes danced lazily in the streams of light, and the musky smell of incense filled my
lungs. I breathed in deeply.
Then, far too quickly, the rings were exchanged and the vows sealed with a kiss. I took
Emmaline's hand and we walked down the aisle as Mr. and Mrs. Sammael Morningstar. It sounded silly
to my internal ear, but it made me grin proudly anyway.
"I've never seen you so handsome," Emmaline said to me as we stood in the greeting line. "I can
see it, you know. How you must have been."
When you were the greatest of them all,
she didn't have to add. I just nodded, but a hollow
darkness crept into me. How I must have been, but were no longer, she implied. Had my finest hour
already past? Would I always be known as the angel who
almost
took Heaven by force of will? Would
my greatest fame be the spectacular nature of my failure? I glanced at Emmaline. If I was right about
what she would become, then perhaps not. Perhaps my greatest moment was yet to come.
I watched Emmaline smile and clasp hands with the various celebrities that passed by us in
waves. Even though Em kept her hair short, the locks above her forehead threatened to twist into three
perfectly shaped loops that, at the right angle, looked almost exactly like three sixes. My darling
Antichrist, I thought, and leaned over to whisper in her ear our private joke. "You're the Beast," I told
her.
She gave me a little peck on the cheek. "You old devil, you."
We had rented the grandest, most expensive hotel in all of Rome for the reception. I'd liquidated
the real estate of my New York bookstore and most of its contents to pay for the damn thing.
Luckily, it showed. The ballroom defined grandeur. Crystal chandeliers glittered overhead,
casting soft light onto gray silk wallpaper. Polished marble and the finest-quality Persian rugs lay
underfoot. Balcony doors had been thrown open to allow the cooling evening breeze to enter with the
scent of jasmine flowers, to ruffle the hems of designer evening gowns and tug at tuxedo tails.
I stood alone in the center of the room, sipping champagne, content to watch as Emmaline
buzzed around greeting various dignitaries and charming them into a smile or a bold guffaw.
Rarely, a dignitary would spare me a glance or a small nod of acknowledgment. I was, after all,
only a supporting actor in this final scene. I stood
behind
the throne. The spotlight was reserved for
Emmaline alone.
I would be more bitter and jealous, but Emmaline captured the world's attention on her own, with
her own cleverness. She pulled quite the stunt a decade ago just after a meteorite fell out of the sky and
destroyed the Dome of the Rock. By pretending to be building a virtual version of the Third Jewish
Temple, she'd manipulated the world to the brink of world war. Then she pulled them all back from the
edge with a "Hey, it wasn't God after all, now, was it?"
The world had missed Armageddon, but not the wake-up call. People began to question the
logic of having government and religion mix. In the United States and other major countries, politicians
were getting elected who were
not
also clergypersons. Emmaline had started a secular revolution.
God's hold on the world was weakening.
That made me very, very happy.
The bubbles of the champagne slid down my throat, and I sighed. I wandered closer to the
balcony. The night air felt cool against my cheek. Beyond the hill and under a bright moon, Roman traffic
buzzed contentedly. I was glad the camerabots still circled the room. I would never remember everything
that had happened today. Maybe I could catch my wedding on reruns.
"Excuse me," came a voice with a pronounced English accent.
I turned to see a young man in his early thirties. A camera lens strapped to a helmet mostly
obscured his face. Wires wove around the entire contraption, making it look as though he were some
kind of cyborg. Which, perhaps, he was.
"Byron Liest," he said by way of introduction. "LINK-1 out of London."
A reporter. Of course. I shook his hand. "My pleasure."
"Lovely wedding," he said.
"Was it?" I laughed. "It all went by so fast."
"I imagine so. Indeed. Indeed. Yes, that's how mine was as well," Byron agreed. "It's easy to get
flustered, caught up in the excitement, isn't it?"
I frowned at my champagne. What was he getting at? "I suppose it is."
"So then it wasn't intentional?"
"What?"
"You, agreeing to obey her."
I laughed. "Sure, we intended that. Em and I enjoy the whole archaic language of the wedding
ceremony. And the whole obey thing is just so … biblical."
"Yes, but usually the woman agrees to obey the man, or each agrees to obey the other. It's highly
unusual, don't you think, for the man to agree to obey the woman? Or was that your intent? To turn the
whole thing upside down? To make a point?"
I felt my frown deepen. "Are you saying Emmaline didn't say it?"
"No."
"You mean she just forgot."
"No, the preacher never asked her to."
My stomach felt strangely cold, and I glanced inside to where Emmaline stood with her arm
wrapped around the prime minister of Israel. Already she played political games, and I had a sinking
feeling I'd fallen for one. "But I did? I agreed to obey her?"
"Would you like to see the clip?"
I continued to stare at Emmaline. Seeing me, she smiled and waved. "That won't be necessary," I
said.
"So, for the record, was the wording intentional?"
"No," I said. It was a mistake all right, a very big one.
CHAPTER 1
Emmaline
Two Years Later
You shouldn't be doing this. A
small crowd had gathered beside the rubble that used to be
Temple Mount. I stood in front of the last remnant of the Wailing Wall. A green ribbon rattled in the
breeze, waiting for me to cut it, to christen this place as an international free zone.
Thunder rolled overhead, and I was reminded of the Days of Blood when explosions were
commonplace here. Israel knew peace now, but it was a difficult process. The first step was a gift,
straight from God. A meteorite fell from Heaven and destroyed the Dome of the Rock. The Arab Israeli
contention over this tiny bit of real estate heated to insane proportions, nearly causing a world war, the
end of time. Helped along by me, of course…
And me,
added Victory, the AI who occupied my combat computer.
Yes,
I told her with a smirk,
your help was invaluable. You killed all those hackers for me.
Too bad you missed the important one.
I cringed. Or, rather, Victory used my muscles to express
her
guilt.
A decade ago, she hadn't had any remorse when she occupied an Inquisitor's body and shot
three wire wizards in the back of the head, execution style. She was supposed to have killed four, but
Mouse, a key player and the "father" of Page, got away. Page was another artificial intelligence, who,
later that same day, trapped Victory inside me and overwrote her program to include, of all horrible
things, a conscience.
Victory claimed she'd seen Mouse fall that day, but she hadn't hung around to watch him get up
again.
Typical.
Too bad
that
wasn't why she felt guilty.
No, now she regretted the killing and her part in the hijacking of the temple. Now she had an
opinion on everything. Damn Page, anyway. Thanks to that little meddler, I had to live with Victory's
running commentary on my life, complete with quotes from the goddamn Koran.
The
Noble
Koran,
Victory corrected.
"Shut the fuck up, would you please? I'm trying to focus on this historical moment. I'd like
to wow the crowd and not spend the whole day arguing with my own combat computer."
I could feel Victory's huff of indignation deep in my bones.
I ignored her. After all, people
were
waiting for me to speak. I had been paused with the
ceremonial scissors in hand long enough. So, with a flourish, I snipped the ribbon.
Applause crashed over me in waves. No fewer than seven years ago, these same people had
despised me, would have had me hung if they could have come up with a way to extend the death
penalty to the crime of cybersquatting. After my confession and arrest, things here in Jerusalem only got
worse. Israel refused to relinquish control over Temple Mount. Rumors circulated that someone had
sacrificed the red heifer needed to bless those who would rebuild the Jewish Temple. Palestinians
countered by staging a sit-in on the crater that had been Dome of the Rock. Israeli soldiers threatened to
shoot, and some did. More and more people from around the world joined the protest each day to
replace the wounded or arrested. It appeared to be a stalemate.
Then the unthinkable happened.
A group of Zionists calling themselves the Temple Faithful only meant to scare people off Temple
Mount, but someone miscalculated the necessary amount of explosives. The explosion rocked Jerusalem
to its core, quite literally. The bomb leveled the mount. The blast took out several surrounding
neighborhoods. Lots of people died.
Worse, the Wailing Wall, which had withstood the wrath of God Himself, fell. The last vestige of
the ancient Jewish Temple had been destroyed, violated by Jewish hands.
More than the death toll, it was the image of the ruined Wailing Wall, so long a symbol of Jewish
tenacity and righteousness, that galvanized peace efforts. Atonement became a buzzword. Horror,
shame, and guilt drove leaders from both sides to the table, ready to negotiate rationally, with reasonable
expectations. Israel made peace with its Arab neighbors.
As prophesied.
And now here I stood, fulfilling another prophecy.
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