Free Protocol 7 by Armen Gharabegian Page B

documents on the enhancement of human/machine interfaces. She was tough and smart and perceptive and beautiful, and…
    And that’s it, he told himself. No more.
    He shook off his reservations and promised himself he’d tell her he was simply involved in some troublesome research with Hayden and still grieving over his father’s death and leave it at that. Then he’d leave on his…project…without another word to her. He would just have to try and patch things up if—or when—he returned.
    The cab dropped him in front of the Stanton. He paid the driver in cash, which surprised him; almost no one used paper money anymore. Still, he accepted it and the healthy tip that went with it without comment—cash, after all, was money.
    The pub itself was very stylish but not much of Simon’s usual crowd. When it came to drinking establishments, he preferred a less pretentious place, but this one was filled to the gunwales with a mix of Londoners looking to be seen and tourists doing the seeing. He knew why Sammy enjoyed it: many of her DWB and wilderness expedition people favored this hangout, so she was able to network easily here. Simon had joined her on a few occasions, but he had always felt out of place. It was just too upscale, too contrived.
    He squared his shoulders and slipped past the entrance. Even in mid-afternoon, it was crowded as usual with a clot of smokers outside, and the interior was thick with shadows after the watery London sunshine. He had to squint to see if Sam—
    “Hey, stranger.” It was a richly amused female voice just behind his ear.
    Simon turned to see her standing just three feet away, more beautiful than ever.
    Samantha was dressed in a long black overcoat, stylish and striking. Given her reputation, people expected her to be rough around the edges, some sort of outdoorsy tomboy type, but in fact she was the favored daughter of an upscale British family who had been born with an impeccable sense of style. Her makeup was light but perfect; her nails recently done and subtly colored. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a small ponytail that made her high cheekbones and sculpted lips even more pronounced.
    They gave each other a firm, lingering hug, then she pulled Simon across the crowded room to a tiny table she had already claimed as her own. She ordered without asking—she knew what he wanted. She always did.
    “Well,” she said as they settled in. “You look rather awful, don’t you?”
    “Why, thank you.”
    “Oh,” she said, brushing it aside, “it’s the least you deserve.”
    He shook his head, trying his best to play the part of the bewildered, aggrieved best friend. “Sammy, I have no idea what Fae was talking—”
    “Oh, please. We haven’t spoken in days. I know something’s up.”
    Before he could respond, the waitress arrived and slid drinks in front of each of them. “Here’s your Glenn Royale and vermouth,” she said, smiling at them both—and especially at Simon. “A late lunch, then?”
    “No,” Samantha said firmly. “We’re just here to talk. Aren’t we, Simon?”
    Simon nodded, grateful for the interruption. He reached for his wallet, but she put a hand on his arm.
    “Please,” she said. “I insist.”
    He knew better than to argue. He simply took a sip of his scotch and watched her pay for the round as he turned his story over in his head.
    Sitting here, looking at her, he knew that avoidance was pointless. Samantha had a keen sense of always knowing what was wrong with Simon before he ever had a chance to explain. It was true, he sometimes went into his own world and didn’t feel the need to share much of anything with anyone. But Samantha knew that and refused to accept it. She had learned long ago that she could force him to tell her anything she wanted to know and more—even if he wasn’t cooperative, she would simply bully or mislead his friends and even his AIs to get what she wanted.
    Which, I admit, I rather appreciate, he told