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 streaming onto his shoulders in buckets. He wore a no-nonsense snap-brim hat and a gray canvas raincoat that made him look like the stolid, solid operative he had been for years.
He really does look like something out of an American TV show, Simon thought as he regarded him. “Jonathan Weiss: CIA.”
“What the hell are you doing here?” he said.
“Well, hello to you too, you limey bastard,” Jonathan growled, though he couldn’t keep himself from cracking a smile.
Simon grinned in response. “Shut up and come in.” Jonathan stepped forward and they embraced like the old friends they were. They had been roommates in college, close friends ever since. It was an unlikely friendship, but it had survived time and distance better than most marriages.
“I’m sorry,” Jonathan said into his friend’s shoulder. “You know that.”
“I know. I know.”
They finally let each other go and walked down the hall together toward the cozy sitting room.
“Welcome back, Mr. Weiss,” the disembodied voice said.
“Thank you, Fae,” Jonathan said.
“Shut up, Fae,” Simon said. He half-whispered to his friend: “I hate that machine, you know.”
Jonathan couldn’t keep himself from grinning. “She’s not a machine, Simon; she’s a fully sentient artificial intelligence. And if you hate her so much, why don’t you just turn her off?”
“What, and miss all the fun?”
“Indeed,” Fae said as they entered the sitting room. “Who would make all the decisions around here?”
“Who would make my life a living hell?”
“Exactly.”
“God, you two. Like an old married couple.”
Jake was waiting for them on the overstuffed couch; he greeted Jonathan like his own long-lost brother, and Simon was happy to indulge the two of them in a well-deserved reunion. Only then did Simon notice the carefully applied bandages on both of Jonathan’s hands.
“What happened there?” He nodded at Jonathan’s stiff, white-wrapped fingers.
“Frostbite,” Jonathan said shortly. “Not as bad as it looks.”
“Ah. I bet there’s a story behind that.”
Jonathan didn’t look at him. “I bet there is.”
Simon smiled and shrugged. He had heard answers like that from his old friend for years. After all, Jonathan had been working for intelligence agencies-first the CIA, now UNED-for most of his adult life. There were plenty of stories he couldn’t share, and Simon had accepted that long ago. He moved his exercise bag off the armchair and took a seat himself, stretching his long legs out in front as he waited.
Jake was finally content to share the huge leather couch with his companion, and Jonathan settled down, his hand on the dog’s side, idly stroking his brindle coat as the old friends chatted about the trip, their work, even the awful weather. After a few minutes, Simon stood and crossed to the decanter of ancient and wonderful scotch, poured a neat one for his best friend and topped off his own as well. It was one of the many things they shared: a deep love of the single malts, the older and mellower the better.
Jonathan winced as his damaged hand wrapped around the glass. They both chose to ignore it. Then he took a long, slow sip of the liquor and smiled as if the gods had blessed him. “My god, that’s good,” he said. “Really.”
Simon found himself wondering how long it had been since he had actually seen Jonathan in person. Eight months? Ten? The handsome guy hadn’t changed a bit, at least not externally: the short dark hair, the eyes so brown they were almost black, the square jaw and full mouth that made him look like an American hero to many, many women. But there was something about him-a weariness, a tendency to react just a half-second later than he should have-that was different. Different and disturbing.
“You better get to it,” Simon heard himself saying.
Jonathan pretended not to understand. “Get to what?”
Simon sighed. “It’s 2039, Jonathan. Amazing technology at your fingertips: cell phone implants, tele-presence, holo-files, even five-level encryption that your buddies back at UNED couldn’t break.”
Jonathan scowled. “Don’t count on that,” he said.