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