Free Protocol 7 by Armen Gharabegian

colleagues, like Simon or Andrew, were nearby or online? Why did she seem to be present all the time? He was sure—well, almost sure—that she had never been like that before; she had been his personal assistant, his companion and his AI test platform for years now, but she had never pushed before, never injected herself into conversations or decision-making.
    Or had she, he asked himself, and I just never noticed? Maybe I want her to become more involved, and she’s simply responding to words, gestures, cues I can’t even see? She’s designed to do that. I made her that way.
    It was maddening. Distracting. And perhaps dangerous.
    He made his next move; Teah waited a beat and then countered. “Hayden,” she said carefully. “I’m worried about you.”
    “You?” he blustered…but a cold spot blossomed in his belly. “About me?”
    “Ever since that visit from Simon, you just haven’t been yourself.”
    He humphed at her. “I’d say you were imagining things, but that would be giving you too much credit,” he grumbled.
    “What was it he said to you?” she asked—and not for the first time.
    “It’s not important.” They exchanged another set of moves.
    “Whatever it was, you’ve been off your game—literally and figuratively—ever since. If it’s something I can help with, please, let me—”
    “It’s nothing, Teah. Let it go.” A memo appeared at the edge of his vision and he turned to look at it: confirmation of a request for modules to be transferred from Spector II to Spector III. Just as he had ordered. He touched his thumb to the bottom of image to confirm the instructions, and they fluttered away.
    “And what are you doing with the Spectors? I thought everything was on hold since the shutdown—”
    “What is this, a bloody quiz show?” he snapped. He made his next move—a bold little foray with the queen’s knight—quickly and furiously; she countered in kind. He did the same, so did she. And once more, back and forth.
    The diagnostics patch next to the board flashed yellow for a moment, then turned a steady deep green. A string of report figures skittered across it, angled so only he could read them.
    She was fine. One hundred percent perfect.
    And he still didn’t trust her one bit.
    “Stalemate in five moves,” she said in an oddly neutral voice.
    Hayden ran a hand through his straight white hair, fine as silk from crown to shoulder. He nodded grimly.
    “Stalemate,” he agreed, and shut down the game.
    He looked up at the robot he had constructed himself, with his own hands. He thought of the millions of lines of code he had compiled, the AI core he had grown and sculpted himself, and he wondered for the millionth time what—if anything—had gone wrong.
    He just didn’t know. It was as simple and awful as that: he just didn’t know.

OXFORD, ENGLAND
Simon's Flat

    Simon had all of five minutes to himself after Andrew left, promising more of his gadgets by the end of the day. The conversation with the young security expert had been productive—except for the “I want to come with” part. But he had to admit that Andrew had a point. If there was some sudden, unexpected hole in his cloak of invisibility somewhere along the way…what would he do? He thought about Ryan again. He needed him on the team, Andrew was right.
    Fae made her throat-clearing sound. “Samantha is calling again,” she said.
    Simon covered his eyes for a moment and sighed. This was not what he—
    “Just a minute. You said ‘again?’”
    The AI actually hesitated. “Ah…”
    “Has she called before?”
    “Well, of course. She is a close friend.”
    “Has she called recently, and you simply didn’t bother to mention it to me?” He could feel the heat rising under his collar, and he tried to stop it. But damn it, he told himself. Sometimes Fae could be so irritating.
    “What did you tell her?” he demanded.
    “Nothing. Of course!”
    “Of course. Let me guess. She asked, ‘Is Simon all