Protocol 7 Read Free

injuries, Simon thought. The phrase kept repeating in his mind. As if he understood it. As if it meant something. Terminal injuries.
    He had been promised details. He had been promised a swift “processing of the remains.” And then…nothing. Not a letter, not a package, nothing.
    “Six weeks,” he said. “And not a word. They couldn’t care less about my father. Not Oxford University, not UNED, not even old friends I’ve known since elementary school.” He cupped the dog’s chin and lifted his eyes.
    “Is he gone, Jake? Is he really dead?”
    He got up and wandered through the apartment as if looking for an answer. It was a tidy three-bedroom flat not far from the university—a bedroom, a study, a guest room, and an octagonal dining room that looked out over a rolling green lawn. He had been here for five years, since his appointment as the department’s youngest full professor, and he loved it…but today, for the first time, it felt small, closed—confining.
    He had to admit it—it meant nothing without his father.
    He rubbed his eyes with a thumb and two fingers, trying to drive sleep away. He wasn’t ready to rest, not yet. He visited the bathroom long enough to splash water in his face and found himself staring at his own reflection: short auburn hair, a prominent chin and a strong, thin-lipped mouth that smiled easily—though not tonight. He was handsome enough, he supposed; he had heard women talking about him when they thought he wasn’t paying attention. It was his eyes they spoke about most often—deep, cobalt eyes that were staring back at him now with something like a challenge.
    What are you going to do about it, he kept asking himself. What?
    It was nearly midnight when the front door bell rang. Simon jumped in surprise and almost yelped, “What the hell?” at the empty air, then cursed himself for his nerves. Jake was even more disturbed by the noise; he barked like a hound from hell until Simon spoke to him sharply and put a comforting hand on his burly shoulder.
    The deep bell sounded a second time, and a slightly hoarse, amused woman’s voice spoke to Simon from the empty air. It was his personal Artificial Intelligence unit—a disembodied voice that monitored most of his communication and acted as his personal assistant. During the past two decades, AIs had become commonplace and were intertwined with almost everyone’s life, in one way or another, much to Simon’s dismay.
    “Jonathan Weiss,” the voice said. “An unexpected visit.”
    Simon sat up straight. “Bollocks,” he said. “He’s in America.”
    “In fact,” the voice said, “he is on the front porch and looking rather impatient.”
    Simon jumped up and almost ran toward the apartment’s front door. “Shall I let him in?” the voice asked—always at his ear, right behind him, no matter what room he was in. He had grown so accustomed to her that he had named her after his mother—Fae.
    “Just leave him alone!” he said. “Go away! I’ll handle it!”
    “No need to be snippy,” the voice said.
    “No need to be a wanker,” he retorted, half under his breath.
    “I heard that!”
    “Good!”
    Simon pulled the huge front door open in one long sweep, still half-believing that his assistant had made an error. Although Fae was remotely wired through the entire house, Simon wondered if he should pull up the menu on the holographic screen that controlled the AI’s functions, just to be sure. AIs had come a long way since the first self-aware Artificial Intelligences had been born, but they still made mistakes. He had been trying to get a hold of Jonathan since the bad news had first arrived, but his old friend hadn’t bothered to respond.
    Why would he come now, he wondered, without even calling? How had he come, given his position at the United National Enforcement Division and the current craziness of the Antarctic Quarantine? It just—
    Jonathan Weiss stood like a granite statue on the porch, rain