Pat Cadigan - Angel

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ANGEL

By Pat Cadigan

[05 feb 2001 – scanned for #bookz, proofread and released – v1]

I don't know whether the author would call this a " cyberpunk" story or not,

but in any case, it is fascinating, unusual, and perhaps even inspirational.

Stand with me awhile, Angel, I said, and Angel said he'd do that. Angel was

good to me that way, good to have with you on a cold night and nowhere to

go. We stood on the street corner together and watched the cars going by

and the people and all. The streets were lit up like Christmas, streetlights,

store lights, marquees over the all-night movie houses and bookstores

blinking and flashing; shank of the evening in east midtown. Angel was

getting used to things here and getting used to how I did, nights. Standing

outside, because what else are you going to do. He was my Angel now, had

been since that other cold night when I'd been going home, because where

are you going to go, and I'd found him and took him with me. It's good to

have someone to take with you, someone to look after. Angel knew that.

He started looking after me, too.

Like now. We were standing there awhile and I was looking around at

nothing and everything, the cars cruising past, some of them stopping now

and again for the hookers posing by the curb, and then I saw it, out of the

corner of my eye. Stuff coming out of the Angel, shiny like sparks but

flowing like liquid. Silver fireworks. I turned and looked all the way at him

and it was gone. And he turned and gave a little grin like he was

embarrassed I'd seen. Nobody else saw it, though; not the short guy who

paused next to the Angel before crossing the street against the light, not

the skinny hippy looking to sell the boom-box he was carrying on his

shoulder, not the homeboy strutting past us with both his girlfriends on his

arms, nobody but me.

The Angel said, Hungry?

Sure, I said. I'm hungry.

Angel looked past me. Okay, he said. I looked, too, and here they came,

three leather boys, visor caps, belts, boots, keyrings. On the cruise

together. Scary stuff, even though you know it's not looking for you.

I said, Them? Them?

Angel didn't answer. One went by, then the second, and the Angel stopped

the third by taking hold of his arm.

Hi.

The guy nodded. His head was shaved. I could see a little gray-black

stubble under his cap. No eyebrows, disinterested eyes. The eyes were

because of the Angel.

I could use a little money, the Angel said. My friend and I are hungry.

The guy put his hand in his pocket and wiggled out some bills, offering

them to the Angel. The Angel selected a twenty and closed the guy's hand

around the rest.

This will be enough, thank you.

The guy put his money away and waited.

I hope you have a good night, said the Angel.

The guy nodded and walked on, going across the street to where his two

friends were waiting on the next corner. Nobody found anything weird about

it.

Angel was grinning at me. Sometimes he was the Angel, when he was

doing something, sometimes he was Angel, when he was just with me. Now

he was Angel again. We went up the street to the luncheonette and got a

seat by the front window so we could still watch the street while we ate.

Cheeseburger and fries, I said without bothering to look at the

plastic-covered menus lying on top of the napkin holder. The Angel nodded.

Thought so, he said. I'll have the same, then.

The waitress came over with a little tiny pad to take our order. I cleared my

throat. It seemed like I hadn't used my voice in a hundred years. "Two

cheeseburgers and two fries," I said, "and two cups of-" I looked up at her

and froze. She had no face. Like, nothing, blank from hairline to chin, soft

little dents where the eyes and nose and mouth would have been. Under

the table, the Angel kicked me, but gentle.

"And two cups of coffee," I said.

She didn't say anything-how could she?-as she wrote down the order and

then walked away again. All shaken up, I looked at the Angel, but he was

calm like always.

She's a new arrival, Angel told me and leaned back in his chair. Not enough

time to grow a face.

But how can she breathe? I said.

Through her pores. She doesn't need much air yet.

Yah, but what about like, I mean, don't other people notice that she's got

nothing there?

No. It's not such an extraordinary condition. The only reason you notice is

because you're with me. Certain things have rubbed off on you. But no one

else notices. When they look at her, they see whatever face they expect

someone like her to have. And eventually, she'll have it.

But you have a face, I said. You've always had a face.

I'm different, said the Angel.

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Pat Cadigan - Angel

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