Protocol 7

Dockside

The brutal chill of the morning air was painful to Simon. He hunched down inside his coat and pressed his arms tight against his sides, trying to trap even a fraction of the heat from his body.

It was pointless. The constant breeze and the driving mist off the ocean cut right through him as he stepped away from the rental car and walked toward Slip 9, where a mid-sized yacht was waiting. Samantha slipped out of the passenger seat and joined him. The panel truck carrying Andrew, Hayden, and Ryan pulled in close behind.

They gathered in a tight group at the entrance to the dock.

“We have thirty-two hours. This boat will take us to Malta. From there we’ll travel on different routes to get to Santiago, Chile.” Ryan said. “We’ll meet at a warehouse in Valaparaiso—you’ll find the address in the packets you receive. And then—Port Williams. I’ve got it all set up; we’ll get the paperwork, tickets, and passports at the next stop. But just to reiterate: everyone has a separate route—everyone, this time, Sam. Even you.”

“I know,” she said.

“This is the last time,” Simon said to them. “We had to be all together for the hijacking. Next we’ll meet for the rendezvous. And after that—”

There was a deep, fuzzy roar from the yacht that Ryan had chartered. Simon turned and picked it out of the tangle of vessels at the far end of the dock. It was an older boat, over forty feet long, but still capable of making the journey to Malta safely, even swiftly.

Four men in heavy wool sweaters and scuffed black work boots swarmed off the yacht and hit the dock with a single thump. They looked at Simon’s team with identical expressions—a combination of amusement and disdain. Simon raised a hand to them, and the one in front nodded briefly.

“All right,” he said, low and hard. “As we said last night: no talk of the mission—none at all—while we’re on board. We don’t know who is listening; we don’t know who they report to.”

“Got it,” Andrew said. “Loose lips sink ships.”

“Quite literally,” Ryan agreed.

They were carrying an annoying amount of luggage this time—some of the primitive cyber-equipment had to come along if they hoped to maintain their remote control of the Munro, and beyond that, they had begun to collect the cold-weather clothing they knew they would be needing, sooner rather than later. All that gear was universally bulky and heavy.

The crew gave them poisonous looks when they saw the small mountain of suitcases, bags, and crates. They actually muttered curses under their breath when they realized how heavy some of the articles really were.

The sun rose as the last of the luggage was lifted on board, but the morning light brought no real heat with it. It was still achingly cold and quiet as the top of a mountain. All Simon could hear was the distant cry of seabirds and the constant, hollow slap of the Mediterranean Sea against the pylons of the dock.

Soon, he knew, the Munro would reach the Straits of Magellan. They needed to rendezvous with it before that happened, or all of this would be for nothing. They had to reach Santiago in thirty-two hours or they would never be able to reach the Munro on time.

The captain of the yacht—its name was obscured by barnacles and moss—was a fair-skinned Greek in his fifties with a charming smile and a gentlemanly demeanor. He shook hands with Ryan, kissed Samantha’s hand, and invited the team into the main cabin where he had prepared a light breakfast.

He murmured commands to the four-man crew as he led the team below. Before the last of them were fully below deck, the yacht had cast off and was chugging away from its mooring.

The captain puttered with his small cups for a moment. Then he turned and addressed Samantha—the only woman in the group. “You like the Greek coffee?” he asked in a thick Greek accent. He pointed to little espresso cups sitting on the table next to a platter of cut fruit.

“Yes,” she said, rather charmed in spite of herself. “Thank you.” He offered her a cup on a chipped saucer with undisguised pride, and she took it gratefully.

“Beautiful morning in the Mediterranean Ocean,” he said and awarded the rest of the team with cups of their own. “Beautiful day to come!”

After their meal, some of the team went topside, if only for the air. It was a brilliant morning; sunlight glinted off the chop as if there were mirrors floating in the sea.

The other members of the crew seemed to be of Mediterranean descent as well, and none of them spoke English—or claimed not to, at any rate. Still, conversation—even among the team members—was kept to a minimum. Most of them enjoyed the warmth of the sun for a few minutes, then found their way to the crew quarters and gratefully accepted the offer of a newly made bunk. They had already discussed this: their time aboard the yacht was a perfect opportunity to catch up on sleep before reaching Malta.

As he watched the others go below, Simon thought deeply about all that had happened last night and in the last two weeks. Although exhausted beyond what his body could bear, he could not sleep. Less than an hour after boarding, he found himself alone, restlessly pacing the deck—forward-aft, aft-forward—and thinking about geostationary satellites, datastreams, and Andrew’s gadgets.

What if they don’t really work? He asked himself. What if they stop working? They had agreed to travel separately on this last leg of the journey, but would that be enough? It was true: following individuals, with or without tech, was easier than following groups, but finding individuals in a sea of seven billion people was far more difficult.

At least that was the theory. And if he was wrong, someone, or many, could die. Max, he thought. Max, what the hell happened to you? I could have used you here. I don’t know if I can do this by myself.

“Excuse me.”

The voice was behind him. Simon turned to find the captain standing there, looking uncharacteristically uncomfortable. He had a package in his hand—something flat, wrapped in wax paper, like a parcel from a butcher shop.

“This is for you,” he said. “It was given to me by…well, it was given to me.”

He passed it over almost briskly, as if he was glad not to be touching it any more. Simon accepted it with a murmured “thank you,” and the captain fled, clearly happy to be finished with his chore. He passed Samantha as she climbed the steps from the crew quarters, rising gracefully out of the shadows like a weary naiad. He put the package in his pocket as she approached.

“Simon,” she said. Her voice was soft and betrayed her own exhaustion. But Simon turned away, not ready for conversation—not now.

“Simon,” she said again and put her hand on his shoulder. He didn’t turn back; he kept his eyes fixed on Corsica as the boat pulled away, deeper and deeper into the open sea. “I’m worried about you.”

He still did not turn to her. “Well, I’m worried about you, too,” he said.

She looked around the deck. The sailors were far from them, probably beyond earshot, but she was still careful with her words.

“I know I have been…a handful,” she said. “I probably will be again. And the irony isn’t lost on me: I chose this…destiny…and then came to regret it almost immediately.”

He almost laughed and nodded his head. At least she’s honest, he thought.

“It’s not that I regret my friendship with you, Simon. You know that. Just…”

“It’s more like, ‘be careful what you wish for,’” he supplied. “‘You just might get it.’”

“Exactly.” She pulled gently on his shoulder, forcing him to turn to her. Her eyes were full and stunningly clear. “I love you, Simon,” she said. Before he could respond she put up a hand to stop him. “I know, you don’t love me, not in the same way. We’ve had this conversation already, and not so far from here. But I thought this whole thing would be an opportunity. A chance to remind you how deeply I felt, and how…how easy it would be to reciprocate.”

“It’s not, though, Sam. Not—”

“I know that now,” she said. “It was stupid and immature from the beginning. But that doesn’t change two things for me, Simon. One: I have to live with the consequences of my decision, no matter how much I regret it. And two: I still do love you. I want to protect you more than ever.”

“…Even if I’m constantly putting you in danger?” Simon looked past her out over the water. “It’s not right. I just wanted to find my father. I didn’t want to make things worse.”

She shook her head. “You need to get some sleep. You’re going to collapse soon. There’s nothing that you can do, no problem you can solve between now and the time we reach Malta. So stop trying.”

“But—”

“Rest, Simon. Please. We need you.” She looked straight into his eyes and squeezed his arm. “I need you.”

He looked deeply into her eyes and knew, for the first time, that she would be fine on her own, at least for the next leg of the journey.

They joined the others in the galley, where his team was drinking strong coffee and sampling all the baked goods the cook was happy to supply. Simon sat at the table with them; Samantha stood close behind him with a casual, warm hand on his shoulder.

He pulled the packet from his coat, opened it, and withdrew a sheet of papers. Ryan recognized them immediately.

“Ah,” he said. “They came.”

“They did.”

Simon leafed through the contents of the package very quickly, then handed it over his shoulder to Ryan. Ryan inspected the papers and the passports a bit more carefully, then passed them out to each team member, once again like a dealer distributing cards. They took the individual packets with a strange, wordless solemnity. They all knew, each of them, that the world was about to change again.

Hayden was the first to speak up. “Are you sure these are going to work, Ryan?”

Ryan’s response was quick and convincing. He had obviously been thinking about it. “I can’t guarantee anything,” he said, “but this is the best option we have.”

Hayden grunted, hating to agree, then stuck the papers in his pocket and looked out of the murky window of the boat. The old paved road—the one leading away from the coast—was still above and beyond them.

Simon took only a moment longer to examine his new identity. He could barely make out the name in the dim light of the moving vehicle, but he didn’t care who he was, as long as they reached the rendezvous point for the Munro with plenty of time to spare.

“When we land in Santiago,” Ryan said, “there’s to be no talking, no sharing cabs, nothing. Go to the hotel or inn that is listed in your packet. Stay there until you receive the signal on your safe phones. We will meet again on the deck of the S.S. Munro.”

They all looked at their papers with renewed curiosity, anxious to see where they would be spending the next, solitary leg of their journey. Simon saw that he was set in a hotel with an unpronounceable name on a street which sounded just as odd.

Then something unusual caught his eye.

There was a piece of paper inserted in his new passport—a thick, creamy sheet, exactly like the paper Leon had used for his handwritten note back in Corsica.

What the hell…he thought. Without bringing any attention to it, he pulled the note free and read it quickly. All the others were busy looking at their own documents; no one seemed to notice he had an extra sheet. It read:

When you reach Chile, call a scientist by the name of Nastasia, who will help you on your mission. Do not speak to anyone about this note. It may jeopardize everything.

Who the hell wrote this? he wondered. Doing his best to look inconspicuous, he reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulled out the note from the study door—the note that had changed his life, that he had kept in his pocket, on his person, since the moment he had discovered it. He compared the handwriting on the two documents, squinting in the dim light of the gallery to be absolutely sure.

No. They were different. Whoever wrote the first note—and it had to have been Leon, he signed it—did not write the second.

Then who…?

He pushed the thought away and carefully stashed all the papers—including the note—in the inner pocket of his coat. The others seemed to have found safe places to store their own documents.

Enough intrigue, he told himself—prayed, actually. Enough secrets.

Suddenly, Simon realized just how tired he was…and imagined just how good a hot shower and a nap would feel.





UNDISCLOSED ISLAND

The hovercraft that pulled out onto the remote island was no unusual experience for Blackburn. He sat blindfolded, escorted by a team of men that he had never seen. He had done this before. Flown off the coast of Argentina for hours; and then onto a hovercraft to different islands each time. It usually took less than two hours to reach his destination once the plane had landed, but for some reason this time it took a bit longer. He was accustomed to what would happen next. He would be blindfolded until he had reached a specific chamber, usually large enough where he could hear the echo of his own voice reverberating.

The Hovercraft came to a complete stop and deflated. Blackburn was escorted off, and in less than fifteen minutes he had entered the chamber. His blindfold was taken off and like always, the room was nearly pitch black. Only a faint glow surrounded his figure and cast the shadow of his body onto the floor.

Blackburn was ruthless, a coldblooded villain in his own right. However, each time he had to confront the chamber, it made him more uncomfortable. He had never seen the ones he answered to, and was never sure if each time might be his last. It was almost as if a fear, greater than he could explain, compelled him and guided his life. He lived completely in two separate worlds, one as a politician in Washington and the other as a servant to powers he could not comprehend. Each time he stood in the chamber, like this very moment, he could sense the silhouettes of the multiple figures that sat around him. He could almost feel their eyes, peering into his back and was never sure if one wrong word would end his life. As always, he was rarely given a chance to repeat his words, so he had to choose carefully when asked. Then like a knife, through the darkness of the air, the voice cut through Blackburn.

“Speak.”

“We are making progress, and I anticipate that within a couple of weeks I will have answers,” Blackburn said, noticing his own voice tremble, as it echoed through the room.

“And the asset you spoke of?” asked the Voice.

“We are very close to making him confess,” replied Blackburn.

“And if he does not?” asked the Voice.

“He must. He is our only asset, and the only one that knows what’s going on.”

“For your benefit, he must confess sooner rather than later. For we have no time.”

“Understood,” said Blackburn.

A minute later he was blindfolded and escorted out of the chamber. He knew that his life was in danger, and the next time there would not be another chance.





SANTIAGO, CHILE

Via Casa Hotel

It was just past four a.m. when the old-fashioned phone in Simon’s hotel room rang—a long, burring, ugly tone. It didn’t wake him up; he hadn’t been able to sleep at all since he had set foot in Santiago hours before.

He put a hand out to answer it—an automatic gesture, a standard response to stimulus—and then he stopped himself.

Who could be calling him at this time of night? The only people who knew where he was would use the secure phones if they needed to talk to him, not an open line. And even then, they knew better than to call. Anyone could be listening.

His hand was hovering over the handset when it rang a second time. He peered at the tiny screen on the phone, with its crude approximation of caller ID. It told him the call was local—coming from somewhere within Santiago, which made even less sense.

Will answering this jeopardize the mission? he asked himself. If it is someone on the team, for whatever reason, not answering the phone might…

It rang a third time. Seconds before it cut off he thought, What the hell, picked up the handset and put it to his ear.

The voice at the other end did not wait for him to speak. “Simon,” it said in a calm and strong tone.

The voice was familiar. But so much had happened recently, so many changes had taken place that he couldn’t quite place it from a single word on a bad connection.

“Who is this?” Simon asked.

“What do you mean, who is this?!” said the voice on the other end, sounding amused and offended at the same time. “I can’t believe you don’t recognize my voice! Come along: it’s four in the morning, I’m tired and easy to annoy, and you could have at least chosen a more reputable location.”

It’s him, he realized. Simon’s jaw actually dropped open in amazement. “Max?” he said. “Is that you? How did you…” but he stopped himself. It’s still an open line, he thought. Be careful.

“So, are we going to look at that café or what?” Max said easily, as if they were continuing a conversation they’d begun just minutes before. “I have a lot of other projects to design and I just flew in.”

Simon smiled to himself. Clever bastard, he thought. “Sure,” he said, trying to match the casual tone. “Do you want to meet downstairs at nine a.m.? I’ve got the plans, but the owner said the lease has to be signed, so you better impress him.”

“No problem,” Max replied. “But let’s make it eight forty-five. See you in the morning.” He hung up before Simon could utter another word.

Suddenly the ancient handset was heavy as a stone in his hand. He plopped it back in the cradle and slumped back on the bed, excited but utterly confused. He took a deep breath and straightened up. Finally, he thought. Finally.

Minutes later, he composed himself and started to pack his belongings. Max was an unexpected surprise, and a great one, but he still had business to conduct—another appointment to make and keep.

He stopped long enough to pull out the slip of paper he had found with his fake passport and other identification. It took only a moment to key the numbers into his secure phone—no reason to leave a record on the hotel’s number. As he dialed he wondered who, exactly, had put that note in his packet to begin with, and why it was so important.

The phone at the other end never really rang. A beat after he finished keying in the sequence, a soft and slightly accented female voice spoke to him.

“Nastasia.”

Simon was speechless for a moment. Then he cleared his throat and said, as steadily as he could manage, “I think we need to meet.”

The answer came immediately and without hesitation. “Three thirty at the Longo Café.” Then the phone cut off abruptly.

Simon was left holding the dead instrument in his hand, almost overwhelmed with apprehension and futility. Something didn’t seem right here, he knew, but what choice did he have—did any of them have? They needed all the help they could get and someone—someone friendly, it seemed—was trying to put them together.

He sat on the edge of the bed with his eyes closed, going through the entire operation…and oddly enough, he felt a rising wave of confidence. Max was with them now. They had slipped UNED’s surveillance net and traveled halfway round the world, apparently undetected. And now with Max he could see the journey unfold with greater clarity.

* * *

Simon tried to nap one more time and gave it up for good an hour later. He showered, changed clothes, packed a second time as slowly as he could, and still arrived in the lobby half an hour before Max was scheduled to arrive. He paced the well-worn carpet for a few minutes, then decided to get a cup of coffee at a café he remembered passing, right across the street. Sooner or later, he told himself, the lack of sleep is going to hit you, and you’re going to need that caffeine.

A skeptical bell boy twice his age nodded at him as he pushed through the revolving glass door to the sidewalk, and he flinched as the chill of the outside air nipped at his cheeks, as if to remind him that Antarctica was far closer than it had ever been before.

He stopped on the sidewalk and took in the frozen morning, pausing for a moment to get his bearings, then trotted through a gap in the early morning traffic to enter the small coffee shop. Just one espresso, he promised himself, and I’ll be ready to meet Max.

The shop was warm and pleasantly claustrophobic, smelling of good coffee and busy people. There was a long line just inside the door, and he had to press forward a bit to let the door close behind him. As he waited, he noticed a pair of scientists huddled at one of the café’s many tiny tables, speaking in hushed, excited German, gesturing over a wrinkled paper map. Something to do with an exploration, Simon could tell; he knew that much German, but not much more. It wasn’t surprising, really: Santiago was the closest modern city to the now forbidden continent, and many of the researchers, soldiers, and businesspeople who had been exiled because of the quarantine had come here to wait, and plot, and be first in line to return.

When he reached the counter he asked for a double espresso and a small panini. As they prepared his order, he noticed the front page of a discarded newspaper lying on the polished wood. His first thought was, look at that, an actual paper newspaper. He couldn’t remember the last time he had seen one. His second thought concerned the image on the front page: a murky shot of a ship, half-submerged in a choppy sea.

The text was in Spanish, and Simon was embarrassed to admit that his Spanish was even worse than his German. While he waited for his order, he reached into the pocket of his jacket, pulled out his wallet, and removed the card-shaped reading lens-standard equipment for international travelers. It took only a moment to pass the translucent card over the printed material; an instant later an AI with the gentle voice of a British female whispered the translation in his ear: “UNED gun ship sinks freighter off Valparaiso,” it said.

Simon’s heart raced at the translation. Could it be the Munro? All his plans would be for nothing if some overeager UNED unit got trigger-happy. But the voice in his ear continued to read, and he quickly learned that the sunken ship was named Orchid Dawn that sailed under United Korean registry. It was chartered to a private energy exploration firm and was going the opposite direction of the Munro when it was identified as the victim of a pirate hijacking. In short, it had nothing to do with them. Simon felt a wave of relief as he pocketed the lens and received his espresso.

He looked for a place to sit for a minute or two and spotted one small table with a single occupant, a man hiding behind another old-fashioned newspaper, this one fully opened like the wings of a giant, ink-stained bird. There were two other empty chairs at the table. Simon wound his way through the crowd, pulled out a chair and sat down. The other man, still hidden, continued to read and nurse his cup of coffee.

Simon sipped his espresso, enjoyed the first bitter bolt of caffeine, and then glanced at the wall clock. Eight twenty-five, it read.

Shit, he told himself, I can’t be late. He started to push back his chair, and the voice of the other man at the table stopped him.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

Simon stopped short. He swallowed. Then he said, “Max. You bastard.”

He reached up and pulled down the top edge of the paper. It lowered obligingly, revealing his best friend and his familiar smirk.

Simon grinned. “You know how I hate being followed,” he said.

Max let the paper drop the rest of the way and made a production of folding it into smaller and smaller sections. “Now tell me what this is all about, you lunatic, and how I fit into your mad plan.”

“You know what’s going on, Max.”

He made a “thinking” face. “I know about the quarantine, of course. I know some ships are sinking here and there, and I know this beautiful city has lousy weather and that you have a room in one of its shittiest hotels, but beyond that? Clueless.”

Simon sighed and nodded, not believing a word of it. Max was a top-level operative, a man five times farther up the ladder of international intelligence than Jonathan Weiss had ever climbed. His special forces military background gave him an even deeper knowledge. But he would play along. He would start at the beginning.

“You remember Hayden?”

“You mean the weird hermit-guy in the robotics department? Yeah, I remember him. I remember Oliver loved him, and that you were fascinated with his work when we were kids. What the hell is he up to now?”

Simon paused for a moment. “We’re hijacking his amphibious submersible,” Simon told him. “The one he’s been working on for years.” He couldn’t help himself; he looked over his shoulder, back at the counter to make sure no one was listening. He knew he couldn’t make himself look more suspicious if he’d tried.

Max moved closer. “What the hell are you talking about? Simon, that guy has been building freaky stuff since we were kids; don’t tell me he actually finished one.”

Simon nodded. “For UNED, no less. We have access to one that we hijacked and will use it to go find Oliver in Antarctica.”

“—and I’m supposed to pilot it, is that it? I’m the driver?”

Simon just stared at him. Then he smiled.

“You’re smiling you bastard?” Max said. “Why can’t the weirdo himself pilot his strange creation?”

Simon gave him a sarcastic look. “You know better than I do that this thing isn’t going to be guided by AIs connected to GPS, and god knows what other navigation nets. And those are the only types of vehicles that Hayden knows how to drive.”

“The ones that practically drive themselves.”

“Right.”

“Okay so I’ve got a job, a hired skipper.” Max grunted rolling his eyes. Then he slapped the table and said, “That’s fantastic. I’m getting another coffee.” He levered himself out of his chair, shaking his head in exasperation, and walked toward the counter.

Max, at six-foot-two, was broad-shouldered and thin-waisted, built like an athlete with a chiseled face. Behind the tough exterior, Simon knew, was a fiercely dedicated friend and a cold-blooded, efficient soldier. Now at thirty-seven, he had spent most of his life in the British Special Forces. He’d spent the last few years as a “freelancer,” doing the things that even Black Ops professionals couldn’t get official permission to do. No one but Max himself knew the whole story—not UNED, not the CIA, and certainly not Simon. All he knew for certain was that his friend was resourceful, fearless, and—above all—loyal.

Max turned from the register, coffee in hand, and sat down with a sigh. He put the cup on the table in front of him, turned his chair 180 degrees and sat on it backwards.

“You know, you should have let me know about this before I flew all the way out here.

Never mind how I found you, I could have turned you down in two minutes’ time.”

“Max, I need your help. Only you can cut off the some of the AIs and pilot the vessel blind.”

Max shook his head as he leaned forward and took a sip of his black espresso. “A ten-year-old can speak to a robot.”

“It’s more than that. Far more.” Simon paused for a moment contemplating the best delivery. “Listen Max, this thing is like no other submersible, it takes several super AIs to coordinate all the functions. But if we’re running all of them at the same time, we don’t have a chance of slipping beneath UNED’s radar. So we need to shut some AIs down if we have any chance of succeeding—and no one I know has more experience with these types of vessels than you.”

Max sighed at him, clearly frustrated. “Simon, I do have some experience with AI-assisted vehicles like this. I can get them to cooperate. But your biggest problem is RAI, and you know it. If anybody finds out what you’re doing, they can take control of an AI just long enough to hurt you—and hurt you badly.”

“I know that.”

“You know that. But despite knowing it, you want me to steer a strange experiment of Hayden’s into one of the most hostile environments on the planet?”

Simon had to force himself to keep his voice low. “Look, we’ve taken care of the RAI problem already. We can shield from that. We can cut them off from the satellites and from each other.”

Max pretended to be surprised. “Oh! Oh, well then! Great! Now all I have to do is steer the ship and simulate the actions of half a dozen of Hayden’s experimental brains at the same time! Sure, I can be the world’s greatest pilot and fill in for four or five super computers at the same time. Why was I worried?”

Simon pushed his empty cup of coffee to one side and said, “You’re not the only one that’s going to be there. We’ve got a whole team.”

Max huffed, even more frustrated. “Now you’re talking,” he said. “A bunch of college nerds from Oxford is going to save the day.” He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes, thoroughly exhausted at even contemplating the project. “Why do I get myself into these things?” he sighed.

“Max, you can’t just do it yourself. There is no way you—anyone—could understand the complexity of this vessel alone. This thing has features that are beyond the comprehension of one pilot.” Simon did not want to elaborate on the specifics at this point; he knew time was too short. They would soon meet at Port Williams, as was the plan, and there, Max would see for himself.

“I understand what you’re saying. But I’m also not about to babysit a bunch of college boys on a lark, through unknown terrain in temperatures of eighty below, let alone do it secretly, inside the most intensive quarantine in human history. If we get caught, Simon—even after the fact, even years later—you can kiss your comfy little life in Oxford goodbye forever. Forever.”

They sat and stared at each other for a long moment. Max was the first to look away. He stared into the dregs of his espresso and said, “So tell me, what do you know about what really happened to Oliver?”

Simon caught himself for a split second looking at the Max’s wool overcoat, remembering the thread interrogation that Andrew had told him about. Wonder if he knows someone could have heard the whole conversation, he thought to himself as he looked directly at Max.

Head tilted with a sarcastic grin Max said, “Relax.”

Bastard, Simon thought, I’m always one-upped on this kind of shit with Max. Then he took a deep breath and told him everything—everything from Jonathan’s first arrival, to his meetings with Hayden, to the chess journal and its deciphering. From the attempted hijacking to Hayden’s paralysis, from Samantha’s kidnapping and chemical interrogation to Jonathan’s murder and the disposal of his body. From their flight to Malta and their intended interception of the Munro.

To his credit, Max sat silently and listened during the entire recitation. He simply could not believe a word of what he was hearing.

Simon knew that deep down inside Max wished that he had been there for all of it.

Almost an hour after he began, Simon drained the last of his third espresso, now stone cold and gritty, and said, “And here we are. That’s everything until now.”

“You’re kidding me?”

“No,” Simon answered with absolute sincerity. “I’m not kidding you.”

Max covered his eyes, squeezed his temples between thumb and forefinger, and said, “Well then. I guess we’d better get started.”

He stood up and brushed the last of the pastry crumbs from his coat. “Let’s go get packed,” he said. “We have a ship to catch.”

As they walked toward the door Simon stopped and turned to Max for a brief second. “By the way, how the f*ck did you know I was here?” he asked, realizing that if they had managed to go under the radar, how could his best friend have found him.

Max anticipated the question before it was asked. “Don’t ask questions, and I won’t tell you lies,” he said with a wink.

Simon’s body went cold for an instant as he remembered the last time he had heard those words. He looked at Max with a mixture of confusion and anger as they stood five feet from the exit.

Max had some explaining to do but did not want to elaborate too much. He chose his sentence carefully. “I wasn’t involved, just watched the spectacle from the first phone call you made, this is way beyond your comprehension, and I needed to get here.”

Simon turned back toward the exit trying to take it all in.

They left the café shoulder to shoulder. Max asked plenty of questions—Simon was actually glad he did—but he never questioned the mission again. It was really quite simple: if Simon was committed, so was he. There was no reason to speak of it again.

Before they reached the Via Casa, Max said, “What do we have for protection?” He put up one finger to stop the inevitable joke before it began. “And don’t get cute. You know what I’m talking about.”

Simon couldn’t help but smile. “Well, we haven’t had any so far,” he said, “but I understand a weapons specialist has just joined the team.”

“Presumptuous little bastard,” he said.

They found themselves in front of Via Casa. Simon pulled up short, not sure what to do.

“Max,” he said. “Thanks for coming.”

Max waved the sentiment away. “You know I wouldn’t miss it for the world. I’m just sorry it took me so long to get here. It was hard getting free of the cops.”

Simon nodded. “Don’t I know it. If it wasn’t for Andrew’s scrambler cards, we’d still be sitting in Oxford grinding our teeth.” He had given Max a scrambler card of his own just a few minutes before. Now he was better protected.

They shook hands and agreed once more on where to meet for the next leg of the journey. Simon could scarcely wait for the moment when he could introduce his best friend to the rest of the team.

“Okay, then,” Max said. “See you soon.”

“See you then.”

It seemed to be an oddly anti-climactic ending to one of the most important meetings Simon had had yet. But his mind was already rolling forward to the next meeting; the one he hadn’t mentioned to anyone—including Max.

* * *

Simon checked the time again—two fifteen. He had to meet Nastasia at three, but he hadn’t realized that the Longo Café was on the far side of town, and that Santiago’s greatest marvel wasn’t its majestic mountains, its beautiful women, or its stunning architecture. It was its traffic.

By two forty-five he had reached the proper neighborhood—a quiet part of town in a quaint walking district between a residential neighborhood and a commercial district. The café itself looked old and popular; even in mid-afternoon it was busy.

Simon chose a remote corner and sat down, snagging another quaintly old-fashioned newspaper at the door as he entered. He studied each new face that came through the front door, and noted every person who left. In between, he took a good, long look at everyone who was already there, wondering how in the world he was supposed to recognize a woman he had never met.

The tables were made of heavy, over-varnished wood. The art on the walls looked as if they had been made with a chainsaw and a blowtorch. The drinks were huge and generous, and the prices surprisingly moderate.

A slim figure with straight, jet-black hair and a worn but beautiful leather jacket suddenly loomed up in front of him, blocking his view. She was five-seven, but with heels she was much taller. She moved in so they were face-to-face. If she had a two-inch blade, Simon thought as his stomach fell, she could gut me and walk away unnoticed. How had she gotten so close? How could he have been so stupid?

“Good afternoon, Professor,” she said in a voice as smooth and warm as velvet. “A pleasure to meet you.”

Simon stood awkwardly, smoothing the legs of his pants, suddenly and quite inexplicably nervous.

She was absolutely stunning. Her eyes, slightly almond-shaped, were a blue he had never seen outside of photographs before, a glittering light aqua. She had slightly broad shoulders, graceful fingers, a slim waist, and legs that looked long and strong even in simple blue jeans. It was literally impossible to stop staring at her.

“I am Nastasia. May I sit?”

He glanced around the room in surprise, as if he had completely forgotten where they were. “Oh! Of course. Let me…”

They found nearby chairs in an instant. “Have you eaten?” she asked politely.

“I’m fine,” he told her.

She nodded, graceful as a flower bobbing on a stalk. “All right then.” She looked up at him, squarely into his face, and he was completely swallowed by her light blue eyes. “Professor,” she said, “I understand you have plans to go below the surface of Antarctica.”

Simon reeled back. “How did you—”

“I assume, then, that you have all the gear that’s needed to sustain the extreme temperatures you’ll find down there?”

“The note,” Simon whispered.

“I thought not.”

“In my passport. How did you—”

But Nastasia just continued. “But no matter, it’s all been taken care of. The last German team that went down about three hundred feet below the surface had spent a fortune on hi-tech gear, and when the quarantine took effect, they had to find channels to sell this stuff. I’ve convinced the authorities that I’ve bought it out of sheer scientific interest. As paraphernalia, of sorts.”

Simon was speechless.

“And furthermore, I assume you have someone on your team who can navigate the terrain below the ice? Someone who can guide you to Station 35?”

Simon was speechless.

“No again?” Nastasia leaned forward and told him with a delicate voice and a small smile, “Then Professor Fitzgerald, I have a proposition for you.”





VALPARAISO, CHILE

De Costa Azul Shipyard

It was well past midnight when Simon’s cab pulled up to a remote warehouse near Valparaiso’s largest shipyard. It was cold. He was tired, and the persistent coastal fog was seeping into him with a relentless chill that made his bones ache.

He fingered his copy of Andrew’s scrambler card in his pocket and wondered yet again if it was still working. It had to be. Without it, he and the others would be completely exposed to UNED and whoever else was watching them from the satellites and the security cams, tracing them through phone calls and RF relays and thread interrogations. Being invisible isn’t too difficult, he told himself, trying to make light of it. Trying…and failing.

He pulled himself out of the cab and paid the driver with cash. Then he simply stood there, smiling tightly and waiting for the man to drive off. They were in the center of a lopsided square of buildings, gates, and offices. He could easily head into any of them, and he didn’t want the cabbie to have the slightest idea where he was going.

The driver eventually got the hint. Simon gave him a half-serious wave as the vehicle hummed off into the night. Only then did he turn to the southwest and head down a narrow alley strewn with sheet metal waste and trash everywhere.

The shipyard was even quieter than he had expected. Now the damnable fog was muffling and blending every sound together as it rolled in like a noxious cloud. All he was able to distinguish was the sound of a distant ship’s horn and the barking of agitated guard dogs blocks away.

The alley opened into a deserted street lined with industrial buildings. Broken streetlights flickered and flared down one side and were entirely absent on the other. He was glad it was that way. Not the kind of place where locals feel comfortable, Simon thought, and then smiled at himself. Let alone foreigners.

He had seen this street in the GPS imagery when they had planned their rendezvous coordinates with Ryan. It was a particularly accurate rendition: the garbage in the gutters, the broken windows and stuttering lamps, the grimy whitewashed building with an open gate and a sign on the door that read Deportes de Motor.

At last, he thought, as he stepped into the alcove in front of the repair warehouse. His heart began to pound when he heard voices coming from inside. Voices he recognized.

Thank god, he thought. At least some of them made it. Simon’s life had been turned around over the last few weeks; tonight it would take yet another spin.

And he was ready.

He raised a fist and rapped on the sheet metal door, sharp and quick: rap-rap-rap. The voices inside stopped abruptly, and a tiny security cam in an upper corner swerved and pointed its single eye toward him. Simon raised a hand, spread his fingers, and waved them in greeting.

He heard footsteps approaching from inside. There was the screech of a barricade being pulled back and the squeal of the door pulling open on un-oiled hinges.

Andrew’s smiling face appeared under his typical rat’s nest of blonde hair. “Well, well,” he said. “Right on time.” He pulled the door open a bit more, and Simon strode in, trying to look in every direction at once.

He waited for Andrew to re-secure the door before shaking his hand warmly. “Good to see you all again,” he said. “I didn’t really know…”

The building they had chosen was a manufacturing facility for boat engine mounts that had closed due to renewable fuel mandates. It reminded Simon oddly of the Spector construction domes under Oxford: huge, high ceilings, but nearly empty—this one wasn’t stuffed with equipment or exotic power conduits. It looked as if it would never be filled again.

Simon’s team was waiting in the center of the huge, unheated room, where a dimly lit lamp hovered over a large table, and the team members sprawled on couches and huddled in a few random chairs, trying to keep warm.

Hayden was the first to spot him. “Well, well,” he said, giving his usual sarcastic grin.

“Looks like we all made it,” Simon said, smiling at each of them. His eyes lingered on Sam a bit longer than the others. She looked good—better than he could have hoped.

“All and then some,” Andrew said, scowling. He had gotten the call from Simon like the rest of them had, explaining the newest addition to their team, and looked less than pleased. Now he was glaring at the shadows over Simon’s shoulders.

Simon turned and peered into the shadows at the edge of the warehouse. A large figure was moving urgently but systematically from window to door to window again, checking locks and seals. There was an undeniable intensity about the silhouette; Simon recognized it immediately, even from a distance.

“Max!” Simon called out, “It’s clear! Andrew’s already gone through the motions.”

Max’s shadow turned to look at him. “Just like to check for myself,” he said with false good cheer. Then he turned and finished what he was doing.

Simon let him be. He turned back and gave the rest of the team an indulgent smile as he sat down and poured himself a generous cup of coffee from a kettle sitting on the table. After a moment, he reached into his jacket pocket, took out his silver hip flask, and added a dollop of scotch. He lifted the flask and offered it to the others; more than half of them gratefully responded, and gradually the sour mood shifted.

Hayden lifted his mug, into which he’d poured a generous serving of scotch. “Thank heavens for the Scots. This is one invention they can be proud of.”

Max moved out of the shadows, his self-appointed mission at an end. “Thanks,” he said to Hayden. “You knew I was part Scottish, right?”

Hayden cocked an eyebrow at him. “‘Course I did,” he lied.

Max stood at the edge of the circle and took his time looking at each face, old and new. After a moment, he pulled out a chipped and rickety old chair from under the table, spun it around, and sat on it backwards.

Andrew was to his right, busy calibrating a holographic display unit, which was acting up. Samantha was to his left, and he offered her a smile, glad to see she was still with them. Hayden was the most distant from the table, but he was clearly engaged, watching everything carefully. Ryan, who knew him the least, was watching Max very carefully, very warily, almost as if he expected him to explode at any moment. And Simon, in the middle of the table, watched everything.

Suddenly, there was another quick rap at the door. Simon flinched in surprise at the sound, then cursed himself for flinching. The others looked at each other, panic flooding their faces. Max stood up fast, right hand automatically went to his lower back to grab his pistol, ready to address the situation. Simon stopped him quickly.

“Hold on,” he said. “She’s expected.”

“Wonderful,” Hayden said as he glared at Andrew’s work. “Another newbie.”

The others watched silently as Simon crossed the deserted work floor and opened the metal door to the outside. Nastasia entered, sweeping in as if she owned the entire installation.

As she joined the others, Simon noted just how shocked both Max and Hayden looked. The last thing you were expecting was a woman who looks more like a supermodel than a scientist, he told them silently. Nastasia herself must have seen the same expressions, but she chose to ignore them. She simply moved forward with a smooth, professional gait and offered her hand.

“Hayden. Max. A pleasure to meet you.” She gave a small but powerful smile to the others, her stark blue eyes sweeping the group. “All of you.”

“Everyone,” Simon said to the mildly hostile gathering, “this is Nastasia. She’s a research specialist from Russia working here in Chile for the Antarctic Weather and Scientific Institute (AWASI). Nastasia knows more than anyone else out there about the Antarctic infrastructure and the recent activities of UNED immediately prior to the quarantine. She’s also providing us with the gear we’ll need once we land on the ice. To all intents and purposes, she will be our guide when we make it to the ice.”

“Hrmph,” Hayden grunted, not believing a word of it.

Andrew barely glanced up. They needed this holographic display to work perfectly for the briefing; his attention was there, until he saw just how beautiful the new arrival was.

As he looked at her directly for the first time, he stopped working. Completely. And just stared and smiled at her for an unusually long moment.

Simon looked at Max, who was looking at Nastasia. His suspicion was painfully plain on his face. Simon guessed that her beauty and even her prominent Russian accent actually worked against her; beautiful women and Russian spies were archetypal enemies for men like Max.

Getting his old friend past that assumption was going to be difficult, but necessary. Still, there wasn’t much he could do about it at this second. He just frowned as he watched Max fold his arms across his chest and study the mysterious, beautiful woman in the dim light. Simon knew what he was thinking: this one is not to be trusted.

The men and woman who had given up their lives to be here, who had traveled literally halfway around the world to help Simon and his father, stared at the new arrival with a slowly dawning realization. This was actually going to happen. They were actually going into Antarctica—the most desolate continent on earth. And now, in addition to every other risk they had already taken, every other sacrifice they had already made…they would have to put their fates in the hands of a total stranger, or it would all be for nothing.

“Well,” Ryan said. “In for a penny, in for a pound, I always say.”

Samantha, who had regained at least some of her old warmth, stepped forward and put her hands on Nastasia’s. “I’m Samantha,” she said. “And quite frankly, it’s rather nice to have another woman along for the trip.”

“Thank you,” Nastasia said warmly.

“Calibrated and ready,” the holo-display said politely.

“Good,” Simon said. “Let’s take that tour you promised, then, shall we, Andrew?”

Simon looked to one side and then the other, taking them all in as he leaned forward and placed his hands on the table. “Ladies and gentlemen, the Spector VI, Hayden’s invention and our ticket to Antarctica.”

Andrew stroked a panel on the holo-display, and a three-dimensional model of the Spector blossomed on the tabletop, as big as a rain barrel and exquisitely detailed. Still standing off to one side, Hayden regarded his creation with an undisguised look of self-satisfaction.

At first sight, the Spector resembled a huge metal insect, studded with electronics and covered with multiple layers of glittering, electrically active skins, like a hybrid of a robotic armadillo and a praying mantis.

“Look here,” Hayden said. He approached the table and gently thrust his hands through the 3D hologram, manipulating the image, opening it to reveal various sections.

“Propulsion is here,” he said, “in the aft compartments. Engineering and environmental tech here, along the left sides. Living quarters for eight without squeezing—here, here, and here. A nice, big ready room between the sleeping quarters and the ops bridge. And this port on top opens to an airlock that links to the bridge—that’s the shielded blister here, forward and high on the beauty’s back. That’s where we’ll do the watching and steering.” He moved sections and layers as if he was peeling away the scales of a fish, showing them all what was hiding inside his remarkable vehicle. The amazement in everyone’s eyes was apparent as Hayden described the functions of each section. As he spoke his accent faded, his speech accelerated; he was entirely in his element, entirely absorbed by his amazing design for the first time in months.

Max concentrated on every word the inventor said, and knew almost immediately that he would have to spend hours more with the man just to get the slightest hint of what was to come. He pointed at the two long graceful blisters near the bottom of the Spector’s hull, one on each side. “What are those nacelles?” he asked.

“Ah,” Hayden said. “Those. Well, in point of fact, friends, we’ve been mis-labeling Spector from the beginning. It’s not really a submersible.”

“What?” Ryan said. “I thought—”

“It’s more than that,” Hayden said, plowing through. “Much more. It’s actually an amphibious vehicle. It can move almost as well on land as it can on water. And those—” He swept his fingertip down the length of the nacelles, left and right, “—those are its treads. They can be deployed any time there’s solid terrain under the hull—at the bottom of the ocean, at the shoreline, or anywhere else.”

The others goggled as he used his fingers to expand the bridge into fine detail: the status panels, the navigation station, and the command chair. He looked at Max and gave him a sidelong grin. “This,” he said, flicking a finger at the padded seat sitting in the middle of it all, “is the pilot’s seat.”

“And I presume that would be you?” Hayden said sarcastically, looking at Max with a smug grin.

Max ignored him and looked at Simon, as the others tried to comprehend the recent development, and the surprise inclusion of Max as their guide and pilot.

Simon had seen it all before of course, but once again he was amazed at how everything on the bridge looked bare, almost as if there was no serious instrumentation at all. He looked at Max with a confident stare. “You’re the man,” he said.

“It’s not enough,” Max said, arriving at the same conclusion. “Look at the complexity of this thing. The propulsion units alone require a three-man crew of nuclear engineers; environmental controls for a ship going this deep is a two-person job at minimum. And the sensor matrix, the attitudinal controls, the communications linkages—this is ridiculous. Where is everything?”

“Run almost completely by a cooperative team of AIs,” Hayden said proudly. “Dedicated to the ship and to following human guidance.”

“But we can’t use them,” Ryan said suddenly. They turned to look at him. He was pale as a ghost, bloodless with sudden realization.

“What?” Samantha said. This was making less and less sense to her.

“RAI,” he said looking from face to face. “Remote Access Intervention, remember? Whoever seized control of Hayden’s robot and destroyed the other two Spectors will sense their activation immediately and seize control again. Sink the ship. Kill us all.”

Simon frowned. “I know we’ll have to cut off some of the systems,” he said. “We’ve talked about that. The ones that link up to the satellites will have to be muted somehow—that’s your job, right—but others can surely stay in—”

“No,” Ryan said. “You don’t understand. All AIs talk to other AIs. That worldwide noospheric matrix is what makes them intelligent, and not just old-fashioned programmed response robots. Their judgment, their language skills, their fuzzy-logic reasoning abilities, those are all grouped effects. So all of them—all of them—have to go offline or we’re dead before we start. At best, they’ll be simple servomechanisms—programmable modules, like your home computer or pad.”

“I understand,” Simon said patiently. “But we can make it work. Max won’t be alone. We have you for sensor administration, Andrew. Ryan, you’re the data coordinator; you can query the AIs independently, without fully activating them—and Andrew’s scrambler won’t allow them to do it on their own. Hayden knows everything about the Spector; he’s an AI himself—”

“—without the ‘A’ part,” the inventor grumbled.

“—and Samantha can oversee the environmental and life support functions.”

“It’s not quite that simple,” Hayden said.

“No,” Simon allowed, “but it’s not impossible. We are not going to give up before we even try.”

“Even if we die in the attempt?” Ryan said.

No one had an answer to that.

“The biggest problem I see,” Max said, “is the sensor array, without the aid of the visual information that it provides and translates digitally, how am I supposed to see where the hell I’m going?”

Hayden leaned into his holo-display and frowned. “How so?” he said.

“Because there are no damn windows in this thing,” he said. “All of your sensor input— even visual—is digitized, channeled through and interpreted by fully functional AIs before it gets to whoever is piloting this monster.”

Hayden nodded. “We had to do it that way. The intelligent surface—the cloak of invisibility, so to speak—can’t be interrupted by windows or ports. We had a hell of time even working out the wiring shafts and hatches.”

“I have to be able to see,” Max said. “I trust my eyes; they have never failed me. But holo-displays and wireframes only? No. Can’t work.”

Nastasia stepped forward. “The underworld of Antarctica can be quite dark,” she said. “Very deceiving. Even when there is light, the depth recognition is impossible. It fools the eye.”

Max interjected, “Well, it’s not the first time I’ve had to trust my instincts in blind operations.”

“To hell with that, Maximilian,” Hayden said. “I’m not letting a man take twelve years of my life and destroy it simply because he doesn’t trust the equipment.”

“And I’m not putting thirty-seven years of my life away in a prison cell if this operation blows up because some f*cking AI has been taken over by long-distance hypnotists!” Max snapped back.

Hayden made an angry gesture. “Don’t be daft! I—”

“No, I am not driving this thing into the hands of the authorities!”

“Then maybe you’re not driving it at all!”

Simon cut in. “Hayden, please!” he said. “Max—hold on.”

Andrew cleared his throat. “We can always calibrate the front console to display holographic readouts without AI signature or assisted connectivity,” he said.

Max turned on him. “What?”

“There is a straight digital feed coming from the external sensors. I can plug in a nice, dumb interpreter to throw that up on a display right in front of you. It’ll be just like an open window. And meanwhile Ryan and I can decouple the AIs, dumb them down enough to get their readouts, too, without even a whisper to the satellites.”

Hayden rolled his eyes, “Fine. Rebuild the whole damn ship, why don’t you?”

Simon sighed. “Hayden. Is it possible?”

He gave Simon a withering look. “Probable,” he admitted with great reluctance. “But I’ll tell you one thing: it’s impossible to do without being inside the Spector.” He tossed back the rest of his heavily laced coffee. “I suppose Andrew and I could start on some preliminary programming,” he muttered, “but…goddamn it.”

Max almost sneered. “And I gather you won’t have to fire up any of your AI buddies to do that,” he said. “One little signal and—”

“You don’t need to explain my work to me,” he snapped. “I designed them. I know what they are capable of.”

Samantha shifted in her chair. “Excuse me,” she said. “If the AIs can’t be used, how can I read the data from the bio-devices feeding info into the main frame medical console?”

Max gave her a sidelong look. “What did you do when you didn’t have the assistance of bio-devices,” he asked her, “years ago? I presume everything was just fine back then.”

She blinked at him in surprise, started to say something, and then stopped herself. A moment later she leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. Her mouth was an angry line.

Simon tried to bring them all back together. “Guys,” he said. “We have to operate with minimal AI intervention. That’s all there is to it. We have to operate with our gut and do things as we used to when we were kids. We have gotten used to AI-assisted devices, but the threat to the whole operation and to ourselves is too great if we’re discovered.”

“Simon is correct,” Nastasia said, her accent broad and exotic. “You remember, the quarantine deadline was extended by two weeks? ‘Logistical problems,’ UNED told us.” She shook her head. “No. The truth is, fourteen different teams of scientists and explorers broke away and tried to hide in the ice after the quarantine was announced—some of them under the ice, in the tunnels and caverns they created. They were all caught—as far as we know. But the South American team was the last to be detected. They had managed to stay free for three weeks longer than anyone else, because they used no AIs—none at all.”

Hayden humphed again. “They also didn’t have an amphibious vehicle with no windows, trying to navigate from ocean to ice three hundred feet below the surface,” he said. “But…we’ll manage. Somehow.”

And that’s as close to unanimity as we’re going to get today, Simon told himself. Better end this on as good a note as I can. He stood up and said, “All right, then. Let’s talk about the days ahead.”

Ryan took that as his cue to stand up and pass out yet another set of forged documents and fake passports. “As you all know, we have to get to Valdivia. From there, the journey will be a little rough. According to the data Simon gave me, the Munro is currently entering the Straits of Magellan, so once we make it to Valdivia, we will have to take a short flight to Puerto Williams.”

Max frowned at that. “That route is very carefully monitored by the Chilean military,” he said. “Trust me, I speak from firsthand experience. Nothing flies, floats, or swims in or out of Puerto Williams that the local military doesn’t see and approve of. But then,” he allowed himself a very small smile. “Luckily, I have some—let’s call it experience with these fellows; we’ll be fine—if we’re careful.”

“It’s not this route that I’m worried about,” Ryan said looking at the holographic image of the vessel.

“It’s the entry into Antarctica.” Max already knew where he was going with that.

“Precisely.”

“Are we sure there is no other was to enter the continent besides this Station 35?” Hayden asked.

For a moment Max was caught by surprise, as Simon had not elaborated beyond what they discussed before.

Simon tried to explain the situation so that the whole team was in sync, including Max. “Our first point of entry will be a location known as Station 35, which Nastasia knows intimately and will describe it to us. Our coordinates are deeper into the continent, and we will need to enter from inside the water to avoid detection. Station 35 is our only option for a stealth entry during this quarantine.”

Nastasia nodded to Simon in recognition and began to describe their entry point in further detail. Station 35 was an experimental program by a special German scientific team that had dug tunnels from the top of the ice shelf to approximately three hundred feet below. Their mission had been to study possible habitation and logistics for future expeditions, and so they had developed an extensive underground network dug into the ice. During the process they had hit a fissure that had later flooded from the melting of ice, and thus the project had been evacuated. This entry through the channels of water was where Nastasia would lead them toward their coordinates with the Spector.

Simon looked at his group with a mixture of amusement and concern as they listened to Nastasia. They still handled the papers like they were alien objects. They had become so used to their electronic helpmates, their holograms, and pads that they were visibly uncomfortable with paper and the printed word.

“Guys,” he said, trying to sound gentle. “We have to get used to this. The way things were done in the past.” He weighted the envelope in his hand and smiled sadly. “This is the way it will be for us from now on.”

“Welcome to the Stone Age,” Hayden muttered.

“Or the age of tissue, anyway,” Andrew said, trying to make a joke.

No one laughed.