Armen Gharabegian - Protocol 7

His front door was ajar by half an inch.

“What the…” he mumbled. He pushed the door open completely and rushed in.

The living room was an utter mess. I’ve been burglarized, he thought as he stopped and surveyed the damage. But then he noticed that his antiques, though upset or rearranged, were still in the room, and many of his collectibles were actually still in their places. How can the place be such a mess, he wondered, if nothing was taken?

He walked over piles of books lying on the floor and called out. “Fae? What happened?”

Silence.

“Fae? What the hell…?”

He stopped by the end table next to his favorite chair and tapped the holo-display, trying to bring it to life. It sprang up without difficulty, and he accessed the icon that should have brought his household AI to the forefront…

…but the icon shivered to digital dust at the touch of his fingers. He tried to recover it; he checked his archives and backups.

It was useless. Fae, who had served as his loyal assistant for more than five years, had been thoroughly fried.

He gaped at the display for five heartbeats, trying to understand what had happened. Then he looked at the ceiling, thinking about his library upstairs. “Damn it,” he said and dashed to the stairs, taking the steps two at a time.

The library was destroyed: artwork, charts, data plaques, and discs were scattered all over the floor. Every cabinet had been emptied, every drawer overturned; every one of his books had been thrown off the shelves.

“Who would do this?” he said out loud. “Who-”

He suddenly grew stone cold.

“Jake,” he said.

He turned to the hallway door and dashed back into the hall.

“Jake!” He ran back downstairs shouting, “Jake, Jake! Come on boy, where are you?”

He checked under the tables, behind the sofa, trying not to shake as his body went cold. “Jake, come on boy!” He even pushed at the furniture that was far too small for Jake to hide under, desperate for a clue. Finally, he rushed to the bathroom, the last door he hadn’t opened. He almost broke the handle in his frantic rush to get inside.

The door flew open and slammed against the wall, revealing Jake, dazed and tied up on the floor, wrapped in tight silvery loops of duct tape.

Simon fell to his knees and put his arms around the Great Dane, impossibly grateful the dog was still alive. “Jesus, who the hell would do this to you?” he said as he pried at the bonds.

Jake whined as Simon gently opened the duct tape around the dog’s muzzle. Anger swelled in him, but he forced himself to keep his voice low and comforting as he kissed the dog and murmured in its ear. “It’s okay, boy,” he said. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, it’s okay.”

He checked every inch of the room and pulled the tape away from the animal’s paws. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary; nothing revealed who had broken into his home or what they were looking for.

With the last of the tape pulled away, Simon stood and dashed out of the bathroom, determined to continue his search. Jake grumbled and struggled to compose his clumsy limbs, equally determined to follow his master as he always did.

Simon went through the whole apartment a second time, this time with even greater attention, but he could find nothing missing. After twenty minutes, he flopped down on the sofa in frustration and buried his head in his hands. Who would do this? he asked himself again, trying to quell his rising anger and failing miserably. Why?

Jake tottered into the room, his doggy expression made up of equal parts shame and curiosity. “Hey, buddy,” Simon told him. “Do you know who got in here?” Jake tilted his head and opened his warm brown eyes even wider than usual. Simon was suddenly happier than ever that his companion hadn’t been hurt…or worse. He patted the cushion next to him and said, “Come on over here, you big potato. Come on.”

Jake didn’t climb onto the couch. He just lumbered across the room, put his massive head in his master’s lap, and gave him a huge sigh, long and deep. Simon stroked the short, dense fur on the crown of Jake’s head and said, “It’s okay, buddy. It’s okay. I knew you were never much of a guard dog.”

He looked blindly at the chaos around him and tried to make sense of it. It couldn’t be a straight and simple break-in; nothing of any value had been taken. It wasn’t simple vandalism, either; everything had been tossed around, but nothing had been broken or defaced. Jake cocked an eye at him, as if to say I agree. Simon watched as the wounded dog lifted his head and turned away, moving slowly and a little painfully out of the room and into the kitchen. Clearly, he hadn’t fully recovered from being tied up for hours; he was looking for something to eat and drink.

Simon rose and walked behind him. “I know you’re sore, Jake. Let me get you-”

The realization stopped him cold. It was so obvious: they were looking for something. It wasn’t burglary or vandalism-it was a search. That’s why they had killed the AI. That’s why they had overturned every single drawer.

And he was willing to bet what they were looking for was what he had been carrying in his coat pocket all along-since the moment Jonathan gave it to him.

He pulled out the hand-bound chess diary with one hand and the bulky, awkward “safe” phone with his other. Clumsily, he worked the foreign keyboard, finally sending a single-word text to Jonathan: “Urgent.”

Jonathan called him back immediately. He hadn’t even reached his hotel. “What’s up?” he asked, sounding tired and a little miffed at being bothered so soon after he’d left.

“My flat has been tossed,” he said without preamble, quietly. “They had to be looking for the diary.”

“Shit.” Jonathan tapped the break and swung his rental car into a U-turn. “They know. Somehow, they know.”

Dread was like a fist full of ice in his stomach, but Simon pushed the sensation away. “We’re going to have to move even faster than we thought,” he said. “I’m the most obvious target, but any-”

There was a raucous beep in his ear. He pulled the phone from his ear and glared at it. Samantha’s number was glowing in the screen. He stopped cold, realizing the danger everyone could be in.

“I’ve got to call Sam,” he told Jonathan, “make sure she’s okay.”

“Never mind. I’ll be there in five minutes.”

Simon hung up and dialed Sam’s number. “Come on, Sam. Pick up,” he urged the ringing phone. But she didn’t pick up. He tried again. Still no answer. “Something is wrong,” Simon said redialing Sam, over and over.

He had to go to her. Now. But he had to do one other thing first. He had to take care of Jake.

Moving as fast as he could, Simon snatched Jake’s leash from its hook by the door and snapped it onto the dog’s collar. “Come on, buddy,” he said softly. “Let’s go see Mrs. Elli.”

Her door was straight across the hall from Simon’s, and Jake went willingly. Simon had no time for explanations. He tied Jake’s leash to the handle of his neighbor’s door and kissed his companion on the head. He knew that Jake would be safe with Mrs. Ellingsworth. That was all that mattered. He rang the bell and disappeared in two seconds. He didn’t know when he would see his Jake again. He had no time and no strength to look back. Simon gave up on dialing and ran to find her. Jake looked on as the form of his master’s body and scent faded into the hallway and down the steps.

Samantha's Flat

A distant ringing faded and Samantha’s eyes snapped open. She lurched into a sitting position, gasping as if she had been touched by a live wire. Her head was pounding; her bedroom spun around her. She clutched at the bedclothes as a powerful wave of nausea surged through her. The safe phone faced away from her on the side table; Simon’s missed call disappeared from the screen.