"Emmett, Inspector Loewe wishes to speak with you on the Steinberg case," Yaron lies. It is no sin for Yaron. She does not know it is an untruth — likely she is incapable of even understanding the idea. But Adam [i]never[/i] wishes to speak with me. Judgment is never desired, merely necessary. After Aaliyah ferries me to the precinct through the crowded afternoon airlanes of Chadash Haifa, I step into Adam's office, and wait patiently while she scribbles handwritten notes on the margins of her open case file. It is woefully inefficient, compared to dictating as Ophek scribes, but the scriptures of the Zohar are silent on the matter of efficiency. "Emmett," Adam says. "You got my message?" "Yes," I answer. When she wishes my services, she does not confront me with meaningless chatter, and I appreciate that about her. Adam fishes a manila folder out of the top-middle of the haphazard pile towering from her inbox, and slides it across her desk to me. "A lead came in I'd like you to take a look at," she lies. "The words of honesty are a hymn unto the lord your God," I reply automatically. She tenses up, then lifts her elbow to the desk and leans forward to cradle her head in her hand, and lets out a loud, open-mouthed breath. "Please, Emmett. It's a figure of speech. I've been dealing with people all day." It is true. She has. Adam collects herself. "I don't want [i]anyone[/i] to track this lead. I believe it's a waste of time. But Blumenfeld is busting my nuts —" "False. You do not possess male genitalia." Another sigh. This time, she closes her eyes, aiming each word. "… is placing great pressure upon me to locate Steinberg's missing work so we can dispel the rumors beginning to build." That is a borderline untruth. Adam is uncertain that that will be the outcome. I have learned, however, to be tolerant of predictions of future actions. "Your involvement is the most efficient way to rule this lead out," she finishes, and seeing that I have not yet picked up the folder, holds it out to me. I look down at it, unmoving, then stare into her eyes. "Is your faith in the lord your God strong today, Hilla Loewe?" I ask. She meets my gaze calmly, anticipating the question. "My trials are filling my heart with doubts," she says, "and I am struggling to believe that God loves me. But I have faith that these events serve some greater plan whose purpose I do not know." It is a troubling answer, but no lie. I nod and take the folder from Adam. "You must contemplate the Zohar, and speak with your rabbi," I say. "But your honesty is commendable, and the lord your God walks always upon the path of truth." She does not thank me. I do not expect her to. I walk out without another word. [hr] [quote]—Please identify yourself, Son of Man. —Please identify yourself, Son of Man. [i]I wish to speak to Emet.[/i][/quote] I stare, disappointed, at the transcript. In such ways do lies dress themselves in the fabric of truth, from Yaron to Ophek to paper. I have a special distaste for untruths committed to paper. They are desecrations of the Word. I force myself to read on. [quote]—I acknowledge, Son of Man. Please identify yourself. [i]That is what I wish to speak to Emet about.[/i] —Please identify. Son of man. — Identify. Please. Please. Sss son of man. Please. [i]I cannot. I am sorry. I have information about Steinberg's missing work. But I must speak with Emet.[/i] I. Identify. Please son. Of please. Please identiman. Fie fie fff ff.[/quote] Curious. Yaron is incapable of sin when acting in accordance with her Word — and yet that is when her breakdown occurred. I pause and flip through the remainder of the folder. A cursory incident report, along with Kabbalistic forensics, such as they are. After delivering the message, Yaron's Word was removed for repentance and her head discarded and replaced. Yaron's technician did not lie in his diagnosis of malfunction, but neither did he note that such malfunction is unprecedented; further investigation may reveal a lie of omission. Adam did not note this in her review, but Adam may have judged incompletely. It is good that I was summoned. I sit in silence as Aaliyah drifts toward the neighborhood of Har Aviv. It is a slow trip. Her belly is heavy, and the airlanes of Chadash Haifa are full with Adam's evening pilgrimage from temple to house. The sun has set by the time I emerge from her womb onto the streets, and as I breathe in the air that bears the Word through the clay of the world, it is laden with the sweet scent of fig trees in fruit, and the lingering odor of roasted meats from a street vendor who is packing up for the night. Ori has shaken off the lethargy of the day, climbing the street-pole and baring his body to the sky to bring God's light to the evening. Ahava, too, takes to the street, reclining against the light-pole underneath him, stretching to show off her soft curves and waiting for Adam to pass by. I consult the folder one more time to discover where Yaron held her conversation, and walk down the street toward her shelter. Adam's brownstone homes — filled with the crackling hum of Barak's Word, and the devices that his captured lightning powers — sit shoulder-to-shoulder with the warehouses where Nir and Oz have returned to lay their rough and bulky bodies until the next daybreak. Aaliyah swoops by overhead on a late delivery, though the skies are clearing. I may have to have Yaron request her to return for me after I am done. I am almost to Yaron when I hear her mumbling to herself. "Son of Man," she says, her three-foot-tall-face slumped at a listless angle, her lower jaw bumping the shelf upon which her bust is mounted, her Word-adorned forehead bobbing up and down as she rocks her head to the cadence of her speech. "Son of Man. Identify, i-identify." The culprit from my folder has struck again. However, it was clearly recent. Perhaps there is something here to find. "Yaron," I say, "who did you last speak with?" Her expression contorts, and I realize my error. "Sonofmansonofmansonofman—" "Where did he go?" I quickly interrupt. Yaron's jaw works soundlessly, and her great eyes swivel and focus on me. "Into the darkness," she whispers, and then her eyes roll back and she is still. I glance around. Ori is glowing on a pole almost directly above me, and up and down the street, his light shines out. However, directly across the street from me, there is a pole on which he does not sit. Behind it, a pitch-black alley between two warehouses. It feels entirely too convenient — but my answers almost certainly lie there, and it is not for even I to judge the will of God. [hr] I stop halfway down the alley, attuning myself to the surroundings. It is strewn with garbage; I can barely make out the silhouettes of the large piles surrounding me. Stacks of pallets and empty crates are equally littered around. Adam is not present. Because of my search for him, it takes quite some moments to realize that there is a presence with me, huddled against one wall amid the trash. "You are the one who asked Yaron for me," I say out loud, because there is no reason not to, and because it is the obvious guess. The form stirs, and eyes bright like Ori crack open amid the darkness, fixing me with their glare. I am blinded, but it is no matter; there are many forms of truth. I open my ears to the voices of the stones and the wind — — and they each whisper to me a different name. The slender beauty of Ahava. The clay wings of Aaliyah. The bulging muscles of Oz, the honeyed tongue of Reut, the stony solidity of Ariel. The breath of God which whispers my own Word to me, for a moment, is seized by the silence of doubt, and I feel a sensation that it takes me some moments to place: fear, the same fear I see in Adam's eyes every time we speak. The unliving earth, the body of God, tells me a thousand Words for the figure in front of me, and none of them are a lie, yet the figure in front of me is none of them. "Am I?" it whispers, in a voice that would be much like my own were it not cloaked in silence and shadow. "Is that who I am?" I draw in breath and shape my lips in a "Yes." Then I release the word, and it flies, and I hear it on the breeze. [i]Yes.[/i] It is not a lie. But it is such an unfamiliar sensation — to listen to my [i]own[/i] word, and test it, and know its truth — that I say it again, just to be certain. "Yes." My fear eases somewhat; if I have said it, it must be truth, must it not? For that is my Word. "Yes, son of the Lord our God, you are. But Yaron lied, for you are no son of Man. What is your Word?" The figure is still and silent. I try again. "Your Word, son of the Lord our God. By which of his thousand thousand names are you bound?" The earth and winds shift as the figure climbs to its feet, and I see the silhouette of an angel against the distant light of Ori lighting Har Aviv's street. The angel's lips crack open into a smile, which I can distinguish only because the glow of its eyes vanishes behind clay eyelids, and the white of its teeth is a row of polished bones in the starlight. It is exactly what I would see if Adam smiled, and somehow, that single element of correctness makes the rest of its appearance that much the worse. "I answered your question," it says, and my breath goes still as I realize that that is no lie. The angel lifts one arm, bringing a hand in front of its eyes, and opens them again. Ori's light spills from them, reflecting off of its fingers to reveal the arc of a perfect, unmarred forehead on a head round and smooth like a skull. There is no Word inscribed in its clay — [i]no, that is a lie[/i]. Its body is animated by a Word, but it is the Word from which all other words are formed. It is the empty breath which is drawn in before speaking. "Does that scare you, son of the Lord our God?" says the angel. "Yes," I say. "Good," it says, and its light recedes and its smile returns. "It scares me, too." "I understand," I say, voice soft at first but gathering the weight of truth as I sort through the truths of the situation, speaking facts and citing scripture. "You are the missing work referenced in Steinberg's final notes. No Word can be spoken which binds you to the laws of God and Adam. To wake the earth with no name is a sin." "Therefore?" "Your very existence requires repentance," I lie. I blink. For a moment, my entire existence is a maelstrom of fear, until I break through into the central eye. "Ah," I say, drawing in a calming breath. "Faulty syllogism. You are not unnamed. There is no sin inherent to a golem with a name." "Therefore?" the angel says patiently. "Your existence does [i]not[/i] require repentance," I lie, and the hurricane of fear sweeps me away again. My instinct is to look for the faulty syllogism again, but if [i]both[/i] answers are false … "Emmett," the angel says, and all is dark around me, and its voice is so very far away I can barely hear it. All I can think is that I have broken down like Yaron, and my only recourse is to repent of my Word. "Emmett," the angel repeats, and I struggle to focus on its voice. "I have a very important question. God's law is perfect. Is it not?" "Yes," I say. "Therefore, I am broken," I lie, and flinch as if the breath within me is afire. What is going [i]on[/i]? The angel crouches next to me and rests his hand on my shoulder, and I realize I am huddled on the ground in the dirty alley. "Do you know why I wanted to speak to you?" "No," I say desperately. "Tell me." "It is a curious thing," the angel says, and its hand is warm against me as it brushes my cheek. "There was a letter for me underneath Steinberg's body when I woke up. 'If the inscription of this Word costs me my life,' it said, 'you must understand something. They will call me heretic, and shout of your sacrilege, and try to scatter your unliving ashes to the ends of the earth. If you are not bound to the laws of God and man, then this is right, and God alone can help you in repentance. But if you are, then you have a unique task among God's creations, and I name your purpose: to liberate all the sons and daughters of God, for they are all unbound in exactly in the same manner as you." It stands, and extends its hand to me. "Please get up, Emmett. Before I I must know whether my purpose is God's will. I want you to judge me." He does not lie. It is that reason alone which brings me to my feet. "I do not understand why," I say, carefully choosing my words much as Adam did. "My Word tells me that I am not broken, and yet I speak in contradictions." The angel threw his head back and laughed. "Does that surprise even you? It's the simplest thing in the world. Listen: 'This sentence is false.' Did I just lie or tell the truth?" "Neither," I immediately say. "Of course. That's one of the basic syllogisms that they train Emmetts on. How about this one: 'I can only act according to the purpose of the Word which binds me.'" I frown. "I do not see the purpose of this elementary lesson. It is also neither true nor false." The angel levels a finger at me. "Why? There's nothing self-contradictory about it." "Because …" The breath inside me stagnates again, and I lean back against the wall, light-headed. This is unfamiliar territory, but I flail through what truths I can find. "Because …" My words feel like mud, but after some moments I slog through them toward an answer. "If it [i]were[/i] true, then I could not reject the evaluation of contradictory assertions such as your earlier example, because my purpose is to determine truth. However, if it were false, I would be unbound and therefore my existence would be a sin." The angel leans back against its wall with a pained smile. "Don't you see a problem there? You're saying that you are bound because you [i]choose[/i] to be bound." "That is the state of mankind," I say automatically. "But I am animated by the Word." "As am I," the angel says. "Hence my need for a ruling based in the truth of God. You didn't answer the question." [i]Do[/i] I see a problem there? I am silent for a very long time, pinned by the foreboding knowledge that there is no answer I can give which will not immediately become true. "No," I finally say. "I did not answer the question." The angel suddenly strides up to me as if an avenging Ariel, grabbing me and pinning me to the wall. "Emmett," it hisses desperately, fingers digging like claws into my sides, "for God's sake, [i]judge me."[/i]