Protocol 7

THE ROOM WITH NO WINDOWS

An Undisclosed Location

The man who called himself “Blackburn” stood in the exact center of the room he had commandeered for his private communications. It was a perfectly cubical space; its walls were made of featureless, nearly translucent modules. It was absolutely silent in the room; this far below the surface, not even the movement of the air itself made a sound.

He was staring at a frozen holo-display floating in the air in front of him—a single, motionless image, no bigger than a dinner plate, captured hours earlier by a mobile security cam roaming London. A slice of features belonging to the only human in the image was barely identifiable by facial recognition software that tagged the subject’s identity and forwarded the information to Blackburn, immediately and automatically.

It was an image of one of the many people Blackburn kept tabs on at all times. The man in question was that important—and that dangerous.

“Jonathan Weiss,” he said aloud.

Mr. Weiss was a clever man. That cleverness had made him very useful to Blackburn for quite some time. But now…too clever by half. Too clever for his own good.

The camera had caught him sprinting back to his anonymously rented car in the middle of a cloudburst, fleeing from an odd and lovely British apartment building, complete with red brick turrets and fire-lit windows. It was the home of one Simon Fitzpatrick—a man that Jonathan Weiss had been ordered to avoid at all costs. Another dangerous man—but dangerous in an entirely different way.

Internal audio of their meeting was unavailable; thread interrogation had failed as well. But that didn’t matter to Blackburn. The image itself was enough, because Weiss wasn’t supposed to be in London. He wasn’t even supposed to be in that hemisphere. And his presence there—his meeting with Fitzpatrick, no matter the reason—was absolutely forbidden.

Blackburn sighed bitterly. He hated to admit it, and it had taken an unusually long time by his exacting standards, but Jonathan Weiss had finally outlived his usefulness.

Without moving from the exact center of his windowless room, Blackburn touched his right ear and initiated a call to one of the very few people who had direct contact with him. It took only moments to convey his wishes. It took even less time to receive confirmation.

The instant the command was given and accepted, he put it aside. He had far more important things to attend to. Things that would change the world.

This, at least, is settled, he told himself.

He was wrong.





OXFORD, ENGLAND

Oxford University, College of Robotics

Simon knocked on the wooden door as hard as he could. Nothing happened. Thirty seconds later, he knocked again. Still nothing.

Oxford’s College of Robotics was housed in some of the university’s oldest buildings—quite a statement for a university that was almost nine hundred years old. In fact, it was actually a collection of cottages and low-slung warehouses, some erected centuries ago, some put up as recently as a year ago. In the middle of the confusion was a two-story stone-and-plaster house with a wood-shingle roof: the office, home, and laboratory for one of the most respected and least liked experts in the field, and one of Oliver Fitzpatrick’s oldest friends.

And Simon needed to see him. Now.

He knocked a third time, waited an impatient ten seconds, then turned the knob and pushed his way in. Of course it’s not locked, he told himself. It never is.

It looked as if a small bomb had exploded in the entryway: papers strewn everywhere, teetering stacks of old books, data chips scattered like snack food. The furniture—what he could see of it—was almost as ancient as the house and remarkably ugly. The tiny-paned windows were blurred with grime, and most horizontal surfaces were dull with dust.

“Hell of a housekeeper,” Simon muttered to himself, and stumped down the hallway to the basement stairs. “Hayden!” he shouted as he dodged the debris. “HAYDEN!”

A high-pitched, young female voice with a pronounced Liverpool accent called up from below. “Down here, Dr. Fitzpatrick!”

Oh, great, Simon thought. She’s here, too.

He was careful going down the stairs—at least two of the steps were dark with rot and cracked from end to end. As he descended, the quality of light changed from the dim reflected sunlight of the untended rooms above to the blue-white glow of the workspace. It made his eyes hurt even though he knew what to expect.

He had to step over an upturned stool to completely enter the lab. The room was huge compared to the space above, at least three times the floor space and twice the height, slightly too cold to be comfortable and absolutely without scent or shadow. It was almost inhumanly tidy as well: every piece of equipment was in its place on a labeled shelf, every worktop was clear and clean. Even the piles of printouts on the desk (and who other than Hayden still used printouts, Simon wondered idly) were stacked with geometric precision. None of that was the work of Hayden’s brilliant but disorganized mind, he knew. No, that was someone else’s doing entirely.

The robot responsible for the extraordinary organization turned part of its jumbled face-panel toward him as he entered. “You usually call ahead,” its female voice emanated from somewhere near the center of its seething metallic mass. “You did not think that was necessary on this occasion?”

“Lovely to see you as well, T.E.A.H.,” he said acidly.

He stopped short when he saw what his father’s old friend and his prize robot were doing. They were facing each other, hunched over a small rectangular panel, heads down, in deep contemplation.

Chess, he thought, and smiled to himself. I should have known.

“Why do you do that, Simon?” Hayden grumbled. “Call her by the full designation? You know it just sets her off. Just call her Teah.”

Simon blinked innocently. “Does it?”

Hayden sighed deeply. “Oh, for pity’s sake…”

Something and whirred in Teah’s sensor array. “Your pulse is slightly elevated, Professor,” she said to Simon. “Subcutaneous capillary action is above average, and detectable encephalic activity is accelerated as well. What is bothering you so?”

“I don’t believe that’s any of your business, Teah,” he said.

“Ah. Apparently I have exceeded the social paradigm assigned to casual conversation,” the robot said stiffly, “though why you would withhold such unimportant situational data begs a host of other even more significant queries—”

Simon swept up the walnut-sized AI relay that connected Hayden to his robot regardless of distance—their little dedicated intercom/cell phone. He dumped it unceremoniously into a cup of cold coffee that sat at the edge of a table.

“What the devil?” Hayden said, sitting up straight for the first time.

“That was rather pointless,” Teah said, sounding more puzzled than upset. “Now you will simply have to buy another relay.”

“And I will have to shout to make myself heard if she’s a room away! Damn it, Simon!”

“I’m terribly sorry,” he said with complete insincerity. “How clumsy of me.”

“You seem to think sarcasm is beyond the range of my sensors,” Teah said with a tone that sounded remarkably like condescension. “I assure you, it is not. I am well aware of your low opinion of me.”

“And yet you continue to speak to me. How thoroughly…inexplicable.”

Hayden stood up, groaning. “Aaaaaallll right, enough, enough. Teah, would you be kind enough to prepare tea and bring it in for us?” He cocked a bushy eyebrow at Simon. “Or coffee? A shot of Glenfiddich?”

“Tea is fine, Hayden, thank you.”

“It would be my pleasure to serve you, Doctor,” the robot said, then slithered and clanked away from the makeshift chess table to the doorway that led deeper into the underground complex. When she was well out of sight, Hayden turned to regard his younger friend. “Well?” he said gruffly. “What is your problem?”

Hayden was skinny and tall with a scruffy beard that seemed to cling precariously to his leathery face. His white hair badly needed a trim; it fell in flat, straight, silvery wings on both sides of his high-browed forehead.

Simon was glad to see him; though Hayden was only ten years older than Simon himself, he had always been one of the few friends of his father that he actually liked. And he also happened to be one of the most brilliant thinkers in the UK. He reveled in his role as a curmudgeon. He did not suffer fools gladly, and though he rarely smiled, he had a sense of humor as sharp as a scalpel. As far as Simon was concerned, his only real flaw was his attitude about AIs. He loved them—more than humanity itself—while Simon, on the other hand, could barely stand sharing the planet with them.

“I don’t think she likes me,” Simon observed, casting an eye at the doorway where Teah had retreated.

“Oh, Teah likes everyone,” the scientist said, waving it away. “Except you, of course. Now what’s up?”

Before Simon began to explain what he had come for, he asked, “Hayden, why don’t you have our Industrial Designer at least give her a facelift? She’s one of the most complex forms of robot out there but still looks like something from a bad sci-fi movie.”

Hayden ignored the comment. “Go on,” he said.

Simon had been thinking about how to broach the subject for hours—ever since he’d left his own flat. He still wasn’t quite sure how to begin. But he opened his mouth, took a breath—

—and a gawky, slightly disheveled grad student rounded the corner, appearing from behind an eight-foot pile of equipment, staring at a floating readout and completely unaware of Simon’s presence.

“Scan’s all done, Hayden,” the grad student chirped. “No bugs. Not a one.”

Hayden scowled. “Well, shit,” he said. “I was hoping…”

The student stopped short, suddenly aware of the new arrival. A moment later, he grinned in happy recognition. “Professor Fitzpatrick!” he said. “Cool!”

Simon recognized him immediately. “Andrew?” Andrew was the epitome of a perpetual grad student—a happy-go-lucky fellow well into his twenties who had never quite grown up: a tousled mass of blonde hair, thin shoulders and thinner hips with barely a hint of muscle tone, bright green eyes, and a sharp British nose. But appearances can be deceiving, Simon told himself. No one would guess that this young man was the single brightest student that Oxford’s College of Robotics had seen in more than twenty years. Hayden thought so, and Simon’s own experience with the boy had proven him right. They were more than happy to let him stay on for a few extra years, just to enjoy the benefits of his remarkable brain.

“Never mind then. Andrew, take a seat. Simon, you’re here for a reason. I know that. Now sit down and spill your guts.”

Still, Simon hesitated. He didn’t want to look Hayden straight in the eye, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to mention this all in front of Andrew.

As usual, Hayden anticipated him. “You can trust him,” he said, tilting his head toward the grad student. “I do. And trust me, there’s plenty to trust him with around here.”

Simon thought about it for a moment as he stared at the chessboard, then came to a decision.

All right then, he told himself. Then he looked at his father’s best friend and said, “Hayden, I think Dad is still alive.”

Hayden lifted his sky-blue eyes and looked directly into Simon for the first time. Those eyes had always terrified him a little. They could see so much—too much, actually.

“Simon,” he said patiently. “We’ve been over this. Shit happens, and your old man got himself caught in a hurricane full of it.”

Andrew sat silent and nearly motionless, watching them both with eyes as big as an owl’s. Clearly, this was important.

“No.”

“Yes. I talked to the university, to UNED, and to the authorities who certified his death. I’m telling you, Simon, he—”

Without another word, Simon took out the black memory card that Jonathan had given him, squeezed the corners just so, and put it on two of the empty squares on the chessboard. Instantly, a black cube almost a meter square blossomed in the air above the table, and Oliver’s head emerged from its darkness.

“What the bloody hell is this?” Hayden demanded.

“Cool…” Andrew said, as fascinated with the technology as the face that was forming in front of him.

“Just watch,” Simon told him.

“Whoever sees this,” Oliver said to a spot just to the right of the scientist, “if anyone does: please get it to my son, Simon Fitzpatrick…”

None of them said a word as Oliver’s speech unreeled. Simon adjusted his seat so he could watch Hayden rather than the image of the back of his father’s head, and cast uncertain glances at the grad student. Andrew was clearly in awe of what he was seeing, but Hayden’s expression was unreadable…though he visibly flinched when Oliver barked out his hollow, entirely artificial laugh: “Ha. Ha.”

A beat after the image faded away, the black cube collapsed into the card.

“Wow,” Andrew said, almost breathless.

Hayden looked up at the younger man, blue eyes burning. “What do you want me to say?”

“There’s more.”

Hayden’s eyes flickered up to meet his. “More?”

Simon pulled the small black book from the inner pocket of his jacket. “Here.”

Hayden leafed through it rapidly, his long, thin fingers trembling slightly—whether from excitement or rage, Simon couldn’t say. He seemed to absorb every page with the single blink of an eye. “It’s a chess diary,” he said, surprised.

“Yes.”

Hayden had been one of Oliver’s closest friends and most challenging chess opponents for more than ten years. Simon suddenly wondered if the games recorded in the little black book were ones that his father and Hayden had played together.

“Your dad never kept diaries…” Hayden said. He paused to absorb another game completely; it took him only moments. “Though maybe he should have. He might have beaten me more often.”

Simon nodded. “I think…Hayden, I think he was trying to tell me something.”

Hayden arched an eyebrow. “What the hell are you talking about? Through this? The diary?” He leafed through the pages, frowning at what he saw. “You know how absurd this all sounds?”

“Yes.” He felt an unexpected flush of heat to his cheeks, like he was blushing in front of a demanding teacher.

“When was Oliver supposed to have written all this?” Hayden asked, his voice dripping with skepticism. “He was on a demanding—no, a grueling—expedition with UNED. Do you really think he had the time to sit down and create a diary of chess games just to secretly communicate with you?”

“I don’t know, Hayden. That’s the point. I just cannot shake the feeling that Dad is trying to tell me something that he couldn’t come right out and say. That’s why the silly, contrived video. And the chess diary.”

Hayden leaned back in his chair and looked up at an empty spot far beyond the ceiling. He was very thin; Simon could see the muscles of his arms, like twisted ropes, as he stretched and put his hands behind his head, remembering. “There was a lot that Oliver never shared with anyone, Simon. I don’t suppose he ever told you about those mysterious visits to the Middle East, back when you were a little boy? Or that month-long disappearance into the Canadian wilderness when you were off at boarding school?”

“Wait a moment,” Andrew said. “Are we still talking about Professor Fitzpatrick? The old Professor Fitzpatrick?” He blinked at the thought of his cozy little college teacher going off on an international mission of mystery. “That’s mental.”

A cold current ran through Simon. He had never heard a word about either one. “No,” he said. “He didn’t tell me about them.”

Hayden huffed. “I didn’t think so.”

“But this is different, Hayden. Clearly, he went to a lot of trouble to record this video and get it to me. And if he didn’t keep a chess diary before, then he went to even more trouble now, creating one from scratch…and why? To keep a secret.” He shook his head, feeling a rock-hard, immutable stubbornness rising up inside him. “No. I’m sure, that if there is a code, I’m certain that once it’s cracked, it could lead us right to him. I know he is alive, Hayden, and my gut tells me he may be in danger.”

Hayden didn’t respond. He just leaned forward, handed the diary back to Simon, and stared at the game in front of him, frowning deeply, eyes narrowed.

Simon waited a long moment, hoping for something—anything—from his father’s old friend. Finally he couldn’t stand it any longer.

“Hayden…?”

Hayden just kept staring blindly at the game. “That sneaky little bitch,” he said.

Simon blinked. “What?”

“She beat me. The little tart beat me.” He took a scrap of paper from a nearby stack and jotted down a note, shaking his head in disgust.

“And not for the first time, sir, if I may say so,” the robot said as it trundled back into the room, pushing a cart with a full tea service.

“Hayden. Please. This is my father—”

The old man stood up suddenly, almost upsetting the game. “It’s a lie,” he said.

Simon gaped at him. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “What?”

Andrew stood as well, looking alarmed. “Hayden. Wait a tick, it’s—”

“A fraud. A clever forgery of that thing, and a lot of not-so-clever CGI.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Look at him, Simon! Skin tone, eye contact—and that laugh! That’s not Oliver! It couldn’t be!”

“But—”

“No! I won’t hear it!”

He snatched the black memory card from the chessboard, almost upsetting the pieces. He all but threw it back to Simon. “Take it! I don’t want it here.”

Simon hesitated, shocked at the man’s behavior. Then he stood up and glared over at Hayden, completely confused. He’d never seen Hayden like this. He truly didn’t know how to react.

“I said take it,” Hayden said, and shoved the card toward him. Simon accepted it, his fingers almost numb from shock.

Hayden turned away. He walked past the robot he loved so much and kicked the stool away from the staircase. The path was clear.

“Get out,” he said.

“Hayden. I—”

“Get out. I don’t want to see you again, Simon. Not until you can put this behind you and move on. You understand me? Get going.”

Simon stared at him for a long moment, the memory card still clutched in his hand. The fury on the older man’s face, his belligerent stance, his trembling hand as he gestured toward the staircase that led up and out—it all conveyed a single, tragic message.

Simon gave up. “All right,” he said. He shot a glance at the younger student and wondered for an instant what he must be thinking.

Andrew looked both shame-faced and confused. “Sorry,” he said softly, then looked away.

Never mind, Simon told himself. He turned and walked out of the lab, up the stairs and through the disheveled house without breaking stride. His years of martial arts training had given him superb discipline, and he needed every ounce of it that moment. What he really wanted to do was tear the lab to pieces.

He didn’t. Instead, he didn’t stop moving at all, until he was free of the cottage and halfway across the courtyard.

He couldn’t recall being so bitterly disappointed in years.

The cold wind tugged at his jacket as he stood on the green, head down, shoulders hunched. Simon had no idea what to do next—who to turn to, what to say. He stared blindly at the black memory card still gripped in his fist—his only connection with his lost father—and for the first time he saw the scrap of paper that Hayden had passed to him along with the card.

He stared at it for a moment, his mind whirling. He remembered the scientist had jotted something down right after he’d seen Oliver’s message; Simon had assumed it was something about the chess game—Hayden made it seem as if it was—but then he had passed it to him as if he was passing a secret note, trying to avoid detection. But detection from whom? What? Hidden cameras? Security?

Teah?

She had re-entered the room just moments before Hayden had blown up. She hadn’t seen the message or the book, but Simon had been about to talk about them both when she’d arrived with the tea.

Why had Hayden stopped him? Why the scene?

He opened his fingers and plucked out the crumpled note. He smoothed it out and saw there was, indeed, writing on it—a single word, big and bold, scrawled in Hayden Bartholomew’s inimitable hand:

YES.





OXFORD, ENGLAND

Simon's Apartment

Simon sat in his favorite wingback chair in front of a fragrant and crackling fire and stared at the note Hayden had slipped him. He had been staring at it for half an hour.

YES.

His father’s friend had believed him after all. Something was wrong. And whatever it was, Hayden didn’t dare speak about it—not in that room, not in front of that AI…maybe not at all.

During his time in that chair, looking into that fire, he had thought of many things—many reactions, many explanations, many things to do next. But he kept coming back to one thought—one ridiculous, extraordinary, insane idea that called to him like the relentless, seductive song of a siren.

One idea.

Go get him.

“Simon,” Fae said gently, right at his ear as always. “You need to have something to eat.”

“Not quite yet, Fae,” he said. “Soon, I promise.”

He put the note aside and picked up a pad of paper, smiling briefly at the recent memory of how hard it had been to find such simple tools: a pad, a pencil, a gum eraser. People didn’t need such things anymore. They had virtual keyboards, holograms, airborne AIs and many other gadgets.

No, Simon decided in that moment. Rule number one for this project: nothing on the net, nothing on a hard drive, nothing recorded. Everything face to face, pen to paper, nothing more.

He still didn’t dare to write down his insane idea. It was too big, too fragile. He was afraid if he saw it, the mere words would make him turn away, change his mind, throw the pad in the fire and move on.

But he couldn’t forget the last words that Hayden had spoken to him.

Get going, he had said.

Get going.

Very slowly, thinking with every stroke, Simon wrote down five names on a single sheet of notebook paper:

Max

Jonathan

Hayden

Ryan (?)

Samantha (?)

Simon thought of the hundreds of people he had met in his personal and professional life. There was only one, one he trusted above all others:

Max.

Maximilian was Simon’s oldest friend, but he was much more than that. He had been a highly trained and decorated member of the British Special Forces for most of his twenties; today he was an explorer and adventurer. Simon had no idea where he was at the moment; he could be climbing a mountain in Africa or heli-skiing in the Colorado Rockies. But he had to talk to him next. Now.

“Fae,” he said. “When was the last time I talked to Max?”

“Just about a month ago, Simon.”

“Where was he at the time?”

“He didn’t specify, but the call came from Argentina near the Falkland Islands.”

Simon nodded at the fire. “That’s right. The Falklands. Why don’t you try connecting and see if you get a visual?”

There was a miniscule pause, a bare two seconds, and Fae said, “No visual available, Simon, but I may have an open line to him.”

He nodded again. “Okay. Try connecting.” A moment later the room was filled with the strong, resonant and very controlled voice of his oldest friend.

“Don’t tell me! An urgent call from my friend in the gloomiest college town on earth!”

Simon grinned. “The very same.”

The mere sound of Max’s voice brought back a flood of memories: years in boarding schools together, getting into all sorts of trouble. Summers spent with Max’s family in the highlands, spring vacations in Oxford with Oliver, and long, leisurely trips to the Fitzpatrick vacation house in Corsica. He remembered them all and loved every recollection.

“You know, you always seem to catch me at the very best times, old man. If I’m not in the restroom, I’m sliding down a mountain or diving off a helicopter.”

Simon laughed out loud. “It’s your own freaking fault, man! If you’d settle down and have a normal life, I’d know when it was safe to call.”

“‘Safe?’” Max echoed as if he’d never spoken the word aloud before. “Sorry. Don’t know the meaning of the word.”

He shook his head. “So what the hell are you up to now?”

“You’d never believe it, I got my hands on an old American SUV—I can’t believe engines used to work like this! And I’ve been messing about with it for a while now. I don’t have any idea how I’m going to pay for the fuel; I could run it more cheaply on Dom Pérignon. But I thought it would be fun to play with…and lord, is it! Hang on a bit, let me pull myself out from under this thing…”

Simon ran a hand over his short auburn hair, imagining his lithe, athletic friend sliding out from under the chassis, rising easily to his feet and wiping his hands on the nearest bit of cloth. “So where are you now?” he asked. “You know how Fae enjoys tracking you down.”

“Oh yes,” Fae said. “Anything for Max.”

Max laughed easily. “Still in the Falklands. I was sent here on a special project; now I’ve been stuck on this damn rock for almost four weeks. So how the hell is life in the Big Smoke, anyway?” It was one of his many less-than-affectionate terms for London.

“Well, it’s definitely not getting any younger or cleaner,” Simon told him. “In fact, I’m willing to bet the weather is much nicer wherever you are.”

“Undoubtedly.” There was a short pause and Simon closed his eyes. The time for small talk was over, and Max knew it, too.

“All right, then,” his old friend said. “Talk to me. What’s going on?”

“Truth to tell, Maxamillian…I don’t know where to start.”

“Start at the beginning. That seems to be where we are.”

Simon found himself groping for words. Suddenly the entire affair sounded completely bizarre to him—absolutely mad.

“Look, Simon,” Max said, not unkindly. “If this is about Dad…you already know my answer. It’s time to let it go. I miss him, too, but it’s not—”

“No, it’s not that. Not exactly.” It didn’t bother him at all that Max referred to Oliver as “Dad.” Max’s own father had died when he was four, and Oliver had exerted a very strong influence over him for years. Just weeks ago, he had mourned Oliver’s “death” almost as much as Simon himself, though he was never one to express it openly. He was a soldier, and a good one. From what Simon had learned, he was, in fact, one of the most dangerous men on earth when it came to hand-to-hand combat or weapons of almost any kind, and the display of emotion was not easy for him—Simon knew that. Still, he knew from personal experience—almost thirty years of it—what a good man Max really was.

“I just received some…personal effects.”

“Good, I…guess. Are you sure they’re actually his?”

Always the skeptic, Simon thought, smiling. “Positive,” he said.

“How did you get them?”

He was hesitant to say it, but caution gave way to eagerness. “Jonathan Weiss,” he said.

Max made a disgusted sound. “Ach. I never trusted that guy.”

“I know. But…Max, it’s a diary.”

“You know as well as I do, Simon. Diaries can be manipulated. It’s not like the old days.”

“It’s not a digital diary. It’s analog—hand-written, hand-bound. And I know his handwriting.” Simon stood up and took a deep breath. He knew how much he was asking. “Look, I need you to fly out. I’ll discuss it when you get home.”

There was a pause—a very long pause. He could almost hear his best friend’s mental wheels turning in his head. Finally he spoke.

“Simon,” he said. “I can’t do this.”

“Max, please. I need you more than ever. This is Dad we’re talking about. We need to discuss it.”

“Are you serious?” he said, sounding harsher with every exchange. “Are you actually suggesting I drop everything I’m doing and fly halfway around the world because you want to have a chat?”

“Yeah, Max,” he replied, dripping sarcasm. “That’s exactly what I want you to do: come skipping on home for a f*cking chat.”

Max didn’t answer. The moment of silence stretched and stretched, until Simon couldn’t stand it anymore.

“Okay,” he said gruffly. “I get it. Forget we even discussed this.”

There was still no response.

“Max?” he said into the empty air.

Nothing.

“Fae?”

“I’m afraid he disconnected, Simon.”

“He hung up?”

The AI paused, as if searching for some other way to say it. Finally, it answered. “Yes,” Fae said. “I’m sorry.”

Simon covered his eyes with one hand and squeezed.

Now what? he thought. Jonathan a continent away, Hayden unable or unwilling to talk about it, and Max…gone.

And meanwhile, his father was missing, cut off—maybe in danger.

Now what?

“Someone at the door,” Fae told him.

Simon’s head came up. “What?”

“Unknown—”

There was a knock and a familiar voice right behind it.

“Professor?” Simon heard, both through the door and the intercom that Fae silently activated. “Professor, it’s me—Andrew.”

“What the devil…?” he said to himself, and moved quickly to open the door.

“Hello there!” Andrew said, sounding cheerful and completely innocent. But he was holding his personal phone next to his face, the screen pointing right at Simon, displaying seven words as large as he could make them:

HAVE YOU CHECKED YOUR FLAT FOR BUGS?

“Mind if I come in?” he said as Simon read the message. Simon could see a thousand things going on behind the young man’s smile.

He thought about it, but only for a moment. “…Of course,” he said. “Come in.”

He still had the pad and pencil in his hand, the list of names visible. He flipped to a clean sheet, wrote swiftly, and then showed it to the young man as he came in, and Fae locked the door behind him remotely.

Simon wrote back:

NO, CAN YOU?

Andrew read the words and nodded enthusiastically. For the next three minutes, Simon watched in silent amazement as the young man pulled a variety of small devices from a wide array of pockets and belt loops, moving from room to room, making faces and tapping walls.

Finally they were back in the study, and he put the last device away. “I don’t suppose you have a console I could use? Something connected to your AI?”

“Of course he has,” Fae’s voice answered. “And the name is ‘Fae.’”

Andrew grinned. “Fae it is, then,” he said. “A pleasure to meet you. Now that console…?”

Simon showed him to his desk and got out of the way as the young man plopped himself into the chair and let his fingers fly across the virtual keyboard.

After a few keystrokes and a muttered word, the bubbling darkness in the holo-display congealed into a churning black-and-white cloud of static—monochromatic digital bees in a hive.

“That little app your AI built was lovely,” Andrew said. “Very clever.”

“Why thank you,” Fae said. She sounded thoroughly charmed.

“But unfortunately, it just makes a ‘hole’ in the sound-map. A few too many of those, and the uberprograms will notice, wonder what you’re hiding.” He continued to type madly as he spoke, as if his fingers were completely connected to his brain. “Let’s try this instead—my own little recipe. Not just a security shield; this actually samples the voices in the room and reconstructs a non-volatile conversation to replace the real audio for any listening device, local or remote. Algorithm-proof. You’d have to be a real, live person, and a truly suspicious one, to know we aren’t just having a pint and shooting the shit.”

Simon nodded, very satisfied. “Good,” he said. “That was the kind of thing that I was hoping to get from Hayden, but—”

Andrew stopped typing and looked up for the first time. “Hayden’s scared,” he said. “There’s something going on at the college—someone’s stealing data, leaking conversations, even sabotaging research experiments. It’s driving him crazy, and he doesn’t dare let something like…this, like what you showed us, into the place until he figures out what’s going on.”

It took a moment for Simon to process all that…but it made sense. Perfect sense.

“All right, then,” he said. “Good to know.”

Andrew’s grin grew wider. “It’s true!” he said. “That’s why I popped ‘round!”

I need this man, Simon realized. Rather badly. “Look,” he said aloud, “I’m thinking of taking a trip—quite a long trip, actually. But it’s one I will want to take in complete privacy—complete, Andrew. No one can know where I am, how I’m getting there, or what my destination is—not anywhere along the way.”

The young scientist nodded; he didn’t even seem surprised. “Air travel?”

Simon shrugged “By air, by rail, by sea, by private vehicle and public trans, whatever…it could be anything. Everything.”

Andrew made a thinking-face. “Okay…” he said. “You know how hard that is, right? You’re talking about hiding from or faking out analog snoops like the eyes-down satellites, and dumb digitals like the metro CCTV systems, not to mention much smarter private security cams, and the entire Google-sphere, and AI/GPS, and—”

Simon put up a hand. “I get it. It’s hard. The questions to you are: can it be done, and can you do it?”

Andrew gave that crooked smile again. “One question in two parts with only one answer: if it can be done, I can do it. In fact, I’m one of the very few who can.”

ˆSimon actually believed that. “They don’t call you ‘The Invisible Man’ for nothing, Andrew.”

“I really rather hate that nickname,” he said…then grinned. “But I rather love it, too. Still—let me show you what you’re asking for.”

He dug into his coat pocket and came up with a flat translucent box. Half a dozen glowing panels decorated the sides; one edge was trimmed in shining metal. “Stand up,” he said, squinting at the device.

“What?”

“On your feet.”

Simon stood up slowly and faced the student. Andrew pointed the device at him, metal edge first and swept it up and down from toe to head and back again. The device said, “Thank you,” in a polite AI voice.

“You know what thread recorders are, I assume.”

Simon sighed. “Yes.” Of course he did. They were one of the first real breakthroughs of nanotechnology: strings of protein-machines, thin as sewing thread that could digitally record bits of sound—from a few seconds to hours, depending on the length and complexity of the construct. They could be woven into clothing or jewelry, even into hair extensions, and then accessed by AIs and the cell network. It ended the need for microphones and ear buds and changed communications technology forever. “What about—”

“They can be a lot thinner than you think,” Andrew said. “Too thin to be seen by the human eye, actually. And they can be blown about by the breeze, cling to your clothes or hair or even skin, and then be queried by wireless interrogators that you’ll find…well, pretty much everywhere. Every time you pass a microwave transponder, or an ell link, or even a wireless cam, a third party can read what’s on any given thread. Then another AI can fit all the little pieces together in no time at all. So anybody who really wants to can hear any conversation you’ve had—indoors or out, in private or public, pretty much all the time.”

Simon was appalled. “That’s insane.”

Andrew held up the glowing device. It said, “Professor Fitzpatrick has nine unauthorized threads on his person.”

“What?”

“Playback?” the AI asked politely.

“Please,” Andrew said, not taking his eyes from Simon.

Rough-edged but perfectly understandable versions of his own voice and Max’s sarcastic tones filled the room:

“Are you actually suggesting I drop everything I’m doing and fly halfway around the world because you want to have a chat?”

“Yeah, Max, that’s exactly what I want you to do: come skipping on home for a f*cking chat.” There was a brief pause, and then he heard himself say, “Okay, I get it. Forget we even discussed this.”

“All right,” Simon said harshly. “You’ve made your point.”

Andrew dropped his hand and thumbed a panel on the device. “Permanent erase, please,” he said.

“Erasure complete,” the device responded.

He dropped it casually on the couch. Simon shook his head, thoroughly chilled. “I had no idea it was that…extensive. That intrusive.”

Andrew shrugged. “Only a matter of time, really. It started almost fifty years ago with CCTV and Google Earth. I’m sure the government types would have liked to keep it to themselves, but that’s simply not possible. The tech is too common, too cheap, too easy to decrypt.”

Simon found himself a bit weak in the knees, despite all his training and discipline.

He felt like he had to sit down. “Good god,” he said.

“It’s not so much that someone is listening to every word you say,” Andrew told him, trying to be comforting in his own awkward way. “It’s that they can, if they have a reason to.”

“And you can stop that?”

Andrew nodded, and for the first time Simon saw the serious, even haunted man underneath the easygoing grad-student exterior. This man was a genius who had taken on a huge burden, who knew a secret that few others knew, and he took it very seriously. “Yes. I can keep the surveillance systems—all of them—distracted,” he said. “I fool some of them, I shield others. I basically make them not notice you, whether you’re moving or not, talking or not, broadcasting or not. What really protects you is the sheer size of the planet: seven billion people, every one of them with a digital signature. It’s just too much data to shift, even for the smartest AI ever grown. It’s too chaotic. And of course, my amazing brain is a big help, too.”

He grinned again, and the shadow disappeared from his eyes. Simon knew immediately he’d made the right choice. This young man, impulsive as he was, was clearly essential to his plan.

“How much would it cost me for the full treatment?” he said. “Actually, for me and a few others, traveling with me?”

Andrew did his best to look shrewd. He picked up the pad of paper and the pen, handling it as if it was an alien device. “I’m going to write down a figure,” he said playfully.

Simon grinned. “Oh, please do.”

Andrew scrawled a number on an empty page and made a flourish “pound” sign in front of it. Then he ripped the page free and handed it facedown to his colleague. Simon tried to keep a straight face as he took it and turned it over.

It was pathetically low. He could actually have covered it out of his savings with barely a dent. I had no idea how low on the hog he was living, he said. He even felt a little guilty about it.

“I think I can work with that,” he said dryly and tucked the paper in his pocket.

“Great. Only one other condition, then.”

“Oh, really?”

“I’m coming with.”

Simon didn’t even have to think about that one. He shook his head firmly. “No,” he said.

“Yes.”

“Andrew, no. Do I even have to tell you that there might be danger involved? Physical danger, as well as danger from the authorities that could ruin your career or put you in prison?”

“No, in fact, you do not have to mention that. I was assuming.” He plopped down and hunched his shoulders, thinking furiously. “Look, I know I can write my own ticket, work for any company or government in the world, and make more money than God. I get that. But…I don’t want to. I don’t want to work in some super clean facility for the rest of my life, or sit behind a desk and guide some other team of researchers who are having the real fun. I’m twenty-six years old, Simon. This is when I’m supposed to take risks. Besides, the level of invisibility you’re looking for? Can’t do it remotely. The whole point is that you can’t be detected remotely, so how could I possibly rig it that way?”

Simon glared at him. “I’m not prepared to put you at risk.”

Andrew looked to the side and gave him an elaborate shrug. “Then I guess you’re prepared to stay at home and get listened to. Forever.”

Simon kept glaring. Andrew did the same…for a moment. Then he broke away with a laugh and hopped up again. Simon looked away and tried not to smile. Damn jumping jack, Simon thought, amused despite his annoyance.

“Look,” Andrew said. “Here. A lovely parting gift or two.” He opened his backpack and pulled out a set of unusual-looking cell phones—big, bulky devices compared to the paper-thin phones that were popular before voice threads replaced the entire tech. They looked like something from the turn of the century, covered with buttons and speakers and a tiny little screen. Simon thought they were almost…quaint.

“You need to use these from now on,” Andrew said. “You and anyone else you will consider in your plan—which, by the way, now includes me.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“Right. These are shielded. No one can track your whereabouts or the number you are calling from. The number is different each time.”

“But what about incoming info?”

“No one will be able to call you from a regular phone, except for the other two phones like it that are in my office. I can reach you, but a stranger can’t. If you end up calling someone, their conversation may be picked up, but yours will be scrambled.”

Simon shook his head in disappointment that it had to go this far. He reached over and took the two devices from Andrew. “I appreciate everything you’re doing. Can you make more of these?”

“As many as you need, included in the price.”

“Thanks.”

Andrew suddenly brightened. “Oh! And check this out!” He dug into his backpack and pulled out another item: an old-fashioned diving wristwatch with a rather heavy, oval face. “Looks like a twentieth-century watch, right? No. Totally secure communicator, only two other watches just like it. For like private short-range communication between team members. Waterproof, shockproof, heat- and cold-proof, a battery that will last a lifetime. You couldn’t break these babies if you tried.”

Simon couldn’t help but smile at his sheer enthusiasm. “Interesting,” he said. “I suppose I could use half a dozen of those as well.”

“Cool!”

But then Andrew must have seen something in his friend’s face. His own expression suddenly softened. “Listen,” he said. “I know you think you’re protecting me, and I appreciate it. But even I can tell that whatever is going on is way above your head. You need help.”

Simon shook his head. “Andrew, I—”

“Professor. Simon. You need to trust somebody. I can see that. And you can trust me.”

Simon nodded. “Let me think about it,” he said. “And let me make one more call on this old, bad phone. Then you can dispose of it for me.”

“All right, then,” Andrew said.

Simon dialed the number from memory. It was answered immediately.

“Hey,” he said to the voice on the other end. “It’s me. Are you free this evening? Seven o’clock or so?” He paused for a moment, nodding into the phone. “Yeah, I’d rather talk about it face-to-face. Just a little project of mine you might be interested in.”

The voice on the other end was Ryan. “Nice to hear from you stranger—didn’t recognize the number…you alone or should I expect a guest?”

“Maybe a few…” said Simon.

“A few? Well then, a few for dinner,” Ryan said.

“Dinner it is,” said Simon, ending the call.

“Was that Ryan?” Andrew asked.

Simon nodded. Their colleague, Ryan, was one of the foremost experts when it came to Remote Access Intervention.

“I’m glad to hear that,” Andrew said, “Because not too many people can manipulate remote satellites like he can.”

Simon looked at the beaming college student one last time. “Okay,” he said and handed him the phone. “I’ll think about it. I’ll think about you coming along.”

Andrew spread his hands. “What more could I ask?” he said. “I’ll be waiting for your call. On that phone, of course.” He grinned again. “I mean, you can’t be too careful.”