

# SOPHIA

Age of Intelligence

### Michael F. Donoghue

Smashwords Publishing

Copyright © 2016 by **Michael F Donoghue**

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.

Michael F. Donoghue/Smashwords Publishing

www.smashwords.com

Publisher's Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author's imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

Smashwords Edition License Notes

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**Sophia, Age of Intelligence/ Michael F Donoghue**. -- 1st ed.

To my wonderful wife, Eve.

'The saddest aspect of life right now is that science  
gathers knowledge faster than society gathers wisdom.'

― Isaac Asimov

### Acknowledgements

Firstly, to Steve, Rose, and Jennifer. Thank you for your patience and inspiration throughout the process of writing this novel. Our discussions pertaining to the elements of an entertaining story will forever be imbedded in the following pages. I hope you look forward to future collaborations as much as I do.

To everyone who read and offered suggestions on my developing manuscript, I offer my sincerest thanks. To Angie Shaw, Lois Sowden, Bob Gei, Tom Donoghue, and Maureen Jerrett, my heartfelt appreciation cannot be overstated. A special thank you to Jennifer Hoy for her generous gift of both time and talent. Your contribution surpassed my every expectation.

Thank you to Maureen Jerrett for her front cover design. And to Jenny Donoghue for her artistic input.

Finally, to my wonderful wife, Eve, your support throughout every aspect of our journey seems infinite. On this sojourn, you listened intently, nodded when you knew I required the subtlest of encouragement, and offered your opinion when I needed your wise direction. Your literary knowledge surpasses mine at every level, and I am therefore lucky to have you as my lifelong partner. I especially enjoyed developing aspects of this story during our trips to Alexandria Bay and The Thousand Islands region. Their beauty was immeasurably enhanced by yours.

### Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty One

Chapter Twenty Two

Chapter Twenty Three

Chapter Twenty Four

Chapter Twenty Five

Chapter Twenty Six

Chapter Twenty Seven

Chapter Twenty Eight

Chapter Twenty Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty One

Chapter Thirty Two

Chapter Thirty Three

Chapter Thirty Four

Chapter Thirty Five

Chapter Thirty Six

Chapter Thirty Seven

Chapter Thirty Eight

Chapter Thirty Nine

Teaser Chapter

CHAPTER ONE

The Near Future

PRYING HIS HEELS from the top of his desk, he leaned forward to study his options. The monitor in front of him suggested few remained. A burden felt by both mind and body then prompted the otherwise assertive CEO to fall back into the suppleness of his office chair. Indecision waded in next, consuming precious milliseconds. The fear of placing third or even second was a sensation with which he was all too familiar. In the time it took to enunciate his choice, the contestant at the center podium simultaneously announced: 'Popular Culture for $600.'

A cell phone buzzed about on his desktop. It was the prompt he'd been expecting, but the distraction drew little more than a momentary glance. The familiar voice of a now classic collection continued, asking: 'A child's game consisting of physical instructions. Its original Latin incarnation commanded _Cicero dicit fac hoc_.'

"Pause game," he stated, smiling. The glass screen froze as his phone came to life again. This time it couldn't be ignored. Picking it up, he read: 'Simon, Illinois will be ready for you in 10.'

_Ten minutes_ , he thought. Looking back at the stilled Jeopardy game, he lamented: "If it were only that simple."

Simon Taylor got up from his chair and stepped out from behind a large, glass-inlaid desk. Being the founder of PurIntel, one of the planet's most recognized brands, an expansive office spoke as much for his stature as it did his sleek, minimalist style. In the very spirit of One World Trade Centre, Simon's Freedom Tower corporate headquarters looked over the New York skyline equally eager to impose itself on the future.

Yet within its glassed walls, Simon vowed to never lose sight of things close at hand, of the monuments that take shape within. And while modesty remained an attractive dividend of his British upbringing, external spaces were allowed to speak more freely of his achievements. Many were hung from wherever a solid wall would allow. Pictured with presidents and prime ministers, his décor appeared to chronicle success itself. But in the same way his unique collection of art was offered to the eye of the beholder so could a man defy the perception that he was solely the product of a master's final strokes. In truth Simon's life was like most others, a narrative of happiness and contentment, punctuated by sacrifice and loss. He often felt his experiences were meant to be layered within his soul, placed one on top of the other, much in the same way his building's floors rose up out of the hallowed ground beneath.

Success for Simon was not a solitary pursuit, however. Each obstacle was overcome with the assistance of another, every triumph a collaboration of more than one mind. Consequently, the east wing of the office belonged to Sophia, Simon's partner. It was hers and hers alone. And while Sophia was sometimes afforded the sentiment of a wife or girlfriend, she was neither. For Sophia was not human. She was a supercomputer of world renown.

Simon's personal space looked out over an expansive office suite, having the advantage of being slightly elevated. Leaving his desk, he took two steps down and strode several paces toward Sophia's wing. He studied the holographic image projected in front of him. It was a representation of what was taking place in the meeting room down the hall.

While the breadth of Sophia's incredible computing power was located within four secret, off-site warehouse locations, the apex of her intelligence was centralized in an ultra-cool adjacent room. The holographic wing actually comprised the structure of a sphere, whose dimensions exceeded the room's allowable height. Descending below the floor and rising above the ceiling, its center focal point could only be accessed by a grated catwalk. The sphere's visually unique surfaces supported its holographic images by displaying whatever backdrop the central scene required.

Their Nano-plasma composite possessed the qualities of both a liquid and a solid. Once applied to walls of any shape or size, the liquid's Nano particles formulated images much in the same way a traditional flat-screen television does. Three-dimensional video projectors were also seamlessly embedded into the sphere. In the highest definition the human eye could interpret, Simon watched the hologram with interest. The meeting's boardroom table, and its seated occupants, rotated slowly as if to highlight each of those present. The audio component was left muted.

Simon's Director of Operations, Derrick Landry was standing, presently leading the meeting at the head of the room. Far less animated, a representative of PurIntel's Client Services, Rachel Forrester, was seated on Derrick's right. Glen Fraser, head of Qualitative Assurance sat on his left. Simon's potential client group was the State of Illinois. Several members from the State Commerce Commission were present. The Budgeting for Results Commission were nodding more noticeably, while the names of two Department of Labor representatives were displayed in turn. This would be a milestone, Simon reflected. The State level would make a great platform to... Just then he noticed Karen, one of his assistants in the back corner. She was concentrating on something in her lap, most likely her phone.

Simon felt his cell vibrate again. He pulled it from his pocket. Another text read: '2 minutes.' He looked at Karen and found her glancing up at one of the room's several cameras. Through Sophia's holographic imaging software, they provided Simon with the three dimensional video he was now watching.

"Thank you, Sophia. That'll be all for now," Simon said.

The visual of the meeting vanished.

"Do you have time for a message from your mother?" Sophia asked.

Simon looked at the clock on his phone. "Of course," he said. An accurately scaled image of Simon's mother, Catherine, instantly appeared in the same space. She stood, smiling, before him.

"Simon," she said. Her light colored, shoulder-length hair complimented the blues of her nurse's scrubs.

The sight of her drew a warm smile from Simon. "Mom. It's so nice to see you again." Like his mother's English accent, Simon's lived on relatively intact.

"Look Son, Sophia mentioned you only have a moment, so I'll keep it short. I just wanted to congratulate you on the Toronto contract. We're all happy for you, especially your father."

"Thank you. That one was very meaningful."

Simon noticed his mother's attention being diverted to something behind. She turned her head to the side, as though she were being called back into action. "Sorry, Luv, but it looks like something's come up. We'll talk longer next time."

"That's alright, Mom. I have somewhere to be as well."

"Of course you do," she said, smiling. A nearly imperceptible aura surrounded her every gesture. "I also wanted to mention how proud your father and I are. You are accomplishing things beyond our dreams. We knew you were destined for greatness, son. You are truly making the world a better place to live."

Humbled, Simon smiled. "You are my inspiration, Mom."

"I miss you, Simon," was all she said, before the message faded into nothingness.

"I miss you too, Mom."

Simon exhaled and then took a moment to do up the buttons on his Armani suit. "Thank you, Sophia, for putting that message through."

A facial representation of Simon's supercomputer appeared before him. It hovered in the nearly empty space. It was a life-like rendition of his favorite actress, Natalie Portman. Sophia smiled knowing the last minute encounter would provoke a grounded confidence within her boss. The final pitch on a multi-million dollar deal was Simon's specialty.

He strode confidently through the threshold of his office door. Nodding to his two corporate receptionists, he continued down a broad hallway, passing a secured, retinal-locked room. It housed PurIntel's Systems Integrity Unit. Here, as many as two dozen software analysts kept Sophia running at optimal performance, ensuring, most importantly, that all attempts at undermining their computer's integrity were kept at bay.

Simon's personal secretary joined him, walking alongside. Together, they stopped outside the boardroom door. While waiting for his cue to enter, he fiddled with his tie one final time.

"You look fine," Sam said. Looking him over, she noticed the degree to which her boss was impeccably manicured. Simon's hair was black and short, his face clean-shaven. He was a tailor's dream, five foot ten and of slim build. His most charming trait, however, seemed to reside in a convergence of polar opposites.

Simon felt comfortable within the gravity of two worlds, both the lab-coated genius and the confident corporate executive. In the swirling collision of one galaxy encountering another, the PurIntel Chairman had a gift for harnessing the elegance found within opposing orbits. Branded by Vanity Fair as the sexiest geek on earth, Simon was equally adept at focusing on his internal inheritances, his creativeness, and his ability to envision things both grand and small, including his genetic predisposition defer attention. "If I look half as good as you..."

"Shouldn't you be focusing on what you're going to say?"

Simon turned to Sam. Her sleek, black-rimmed glasses crowned a serious, yet attractive appearance. Her hair was long and black, and a few freckles beautifully speckled her cheeks, just below her lovely brown eyes.

"Speaking of focusing, you'll sit at the back with Karen, won't you?"

Samantha's expression was disapproving.

"I think it would be better if all eyes were on me this time," Simon added, looking back at the unopened door.

"You know that shade of green is clashing with your tie."

"Oh, it is, is it?"

"Yes, in fact I'm going to text Sophia and tell her she can stop looking for the jealousy gene."

Simon smiled, shaking his head slightly. He appreciated Sam's competitive banter, especially before an important meeting. Intended or not, it had the effect of heightening his senses.

"Actually, that was the first gene she identified."

Sam understood. "I should have known... a flawless sample so close at hand."

"I've had her working on compliance for some time now. It's proving very elusive." He glanced toward Sam. "A painstaking endeavor."

Suddenly, the door opened. Simon was greeted by Derrick. Without missing a beat, Simon's Director of Operations passed the meeting over to him. "Good afternoon, everyone," Simon announced, capturing the attention of the gathering. "Thank you, Derrick," he said, striding in.

Simon took control of the meeting, exuding an air of authority at the front of the room. His confidence was further buoyed by Samantha's smile as she prepared to take notes beside Karen.

"A famous American politician once said: _'I am a firm believer in the people. If given the truth, they can be depended upon to meet any national crisis. The great point is to bring them the real facts.'_

"Bring them the real facts," Simon repeated. "But what facts do the citizens of Illinois require? Would they be any different than the ones your iconic capital embraced? Perhaps, but in so far as we all benefit from evidence-based decision making, isn't the pursuit of knowledge as much about recognizing a truth when we see it? The truth is out there," Simon said, smiling. "It's just damn hard to find sometimes, isn't it?"

His audience's laughter underwrote their concurrence.

"If the printing press gave birth to the age of enlightenment, I would suggest it was the library which brought the world's collective wisdom within reach."

The walls behind Simon lit up with images supporting his narrative. To his left and right, scenes of the Renaissance, historic, scientific and medical accomplishments, including their famous pursuers scrolled forth.

"Many see the internet as our greatest achievement. Others, the personal computer. Like the printing press, both endowed our fingertips with an unparalleled volume of information. The World Wide Web rapidly evolved into the largest library to which humanity had access. But the volume of intelligence became so vast, so quickly, that ninety-nine point nine percent of it will forever remain beyond the grasp of the human mind.

"More importantly, a similar figure is also presently beyond the comprehension of all but a handful of cognitive supercomputers. It's called unstructured data. Text, the written and spoken word account for a full ninety percent of humanity's collective knowledge.

"New books are being added to the virtual library faster than anyone could have imagined. Unfortunately, they might as well be written in a language that nobody understands. Sophia possesses the ability to interpret this undiscovered wealth of information. Text analytics and natural language processing allows her cognitive systems to mine terabytes, even petabytes of data. Imagine the world's accumulated knowledge being filtered through wisdom itself. To put it plainly, with Sophia's _Halo_ Platform deployed on your behalf, the best of what the planet has to offer is only a key stroke away.

"Join the governing bodies who benefit from knowing which jurisdiction is successfully integrating autonomous driving systems, which district has optimized transit efficiency, the administration which is balancing the sharing economy with traditional modes of commerce. We will offer you several of the world's most successful service delivery models. The choice of which to implement remains yours.

"We live in the age of data. Big data, in fact. Those organizations that place a high priority on gaining access to this resource will define the new era. It is a fact that analytically intelligent organizations are more than twice as likely to outperform analytical novices. We will deliver saving options to you and subsequently to the taxpayers of Illinois.

"We suggest targeting three areas: government services, education, and healthcare. In healthcare alone, our studies suggest 30% of spending is wasted pursuing unachievable outcomes. Folks, the traditional approach is unsustainable; partisan pursuits, unaffordable. We can help eliminate the line items associated with outsourced consulting. Most importantly, we will reduce the budget for reinventing the wheel... to zero.

"Everyone in this room realizes what is at stake. Democratic institutions around the world are on life support. Moreover, every American citizen knows in his or her heart that the greatest democracy the world has ever witnessed has become ambivalent to success. Sophia can help. PurIntel can help you turn this great state around. You know our track record at the municipal level. We can do the same thing for you.

"Ladies and gentlemen, if you would let me conclude by quoting the same politician with whom I began. Abraham Lincoln once said, _'My dream is a place and a time where America will once again be seen as the last best hope of the earth.'_

"Thank you all for coming today," Simon concluded. Samantha quickly rose from her seat and joined her boss at the front of the room. "Derrick," Simon stated, "Will you see to it that everyone's needs are taken care of?"

Simon gave the representatives of Illinois one last confident smile. "Thank you, again, everyone. I look forward to a long and mutually beneficial relationship."

Derrick closed the boardroom door after Simon and Sam walked out. Simon did some rudimentary arithmetic in his head as he walked down the hall. He knew his 5 to 10 % fee based on a sliding scale of the savings realized didn't amount to much now, but it would in the future. More municipalities were coming on board, and with more state-level clients following suit, it wouldn't be long before the Feds were making formal inquiries. That would be an entirely different animal, though. The federal government would be the platform to go global.

But Simon was proud of the fact that his career was never just about the money. He made his first fortune some years ago. In a different realm, the field of genetics, Sophia had a proven track record. Through the use of her incredible computing power, she was able to unlock many sequences of human D.N.A., obscure strings of which, until she came into being, were too complex and costly to map. It was Sophia's ability to interpret the interrelationship of variables in unending equations, which launched her into a world of iconic fame.

"How'd we do?" Simon asked, walking alongside Samantha. They came to a stop at the threshold of Simon's office.

Samantha smiled. "You had them eating out of your hand."

"Mine or Sophia's?"

"The complexion of modesty is much more attractive on you."

"And what color would that be?" Simon toyed.

"Crimson," she said.

"Crimson," Simon repeated, rubbing his hand over his cheek. "That's got to look better than green."

Samantha turned toward her own office. "You know where to find me," she stated.

"At the color wheel, no doubt," Simon joked, before walking into his office. "New game, Sophia," he announced. "You know which one I want."

"Coming right up," Sophia replied.

Simon plopped himself into his desk chair and waited for the glass screen to come alive. "You know what I want to hear," he said, doing his best Bogart imitation. "You played it for her... you can play it for me."

In an instant, Simon's favorite Jeopardy episode appeared in front of him. "Sciences for $1000," he stated, in unison with the real contestant. The show, recorded several years ago, was one that Simon rarely replayed.

The new host announced, "A learning computer, whose name represents eternal wisdom."

The left contestant's buzzer went first.

"What is the computer, Sophia," the contestant stated, again in unison with Simon.

"That is correct," the show host agreed, with Simon whispering along. "What is Sophia? The super computer that saved humankind."

CHAPTER TWO

The following Sunday, Toronto

SIMON LOOKED in his rear-view mirror. The unmistakable sound of tires rolling over gravel was soon replaced by an engine being turned off directly behind. Three car doors opened, two on Simon's, one on the other. The dispatch of umbrellas followed. Richard Taylor, Simon's father, stepped out of his car and was soon joined by sons Simon and Lionel. Sharing the protection of a single dome with his brother, Simon found the tap-tap of raindrops a solemn narrative to a familiar landmark; Toronto's, St. James Cemetery.

"Father," Simon offered, respectfully.

Richard nodded and then glanced to the skies as if wondering how long the rain would last. He looked at each son in turn. "You're having a pleasant visit?"

"We are," Simon stated. He looked at his younger brother with caring eyes, seeing an appearance still overshadowed by the effects of a previous life. Simon's attire was always crisp and well fitting. Lionel's grasped for a similar mark, though his shirt's top buttons hung loose and unfastened.

"Thank you both for coming," Richard said, before making his way toward the cemetery's markers. While Simon's stature was slender, like his mother's, Lionel's was more like his father's. Richard appeared muscular and fit, but not as tall. His face was more rounded, his eyes a portal to something more serious behind.

Simon and Lionel respectfully navigated several rows of monuments before joining their father. The three men stood silently, each uniquely indebted to the one to whom they had come to pay their respects. All eyes rested on the marker. On one side of the stone it read: Richard Francis Taylor, 1952 - , and on the other, Catherine Judith Taylor, 1957 - 2003. Simon's mother lay peacefully beneath.

When the two boys emigrated from Britain with their parents in 1996, Catherine continued her established career, accepting a nursing position at Toronto's Scarborough Grace Hospital. Simon was nineteen when he arrived in Canada and with little time to adapt to his new surroundings, he gave his mother a heartfelt embrace, his father a handshake and nod, before leaving for school. His pursuit of knowledge would begin at the University of Waterloo, in southern Ontario. It took only three years for Simon to achieve his honours B. Math, his thesis advancing the value of using statistical models in gene sequencing.

Like most young men, Simon often looked to his father for more than the financial support required to achieve his goals. Richard, however, was better at living up to career expectations. To their credit, both of Simon's parents emulated a strong work ethic. While his mother found solace in her need to care for others, his father found greater meaning in columns of the written word.

When Richard's national newspaper chain launched its news and opinion television channel his presence was felt more by an emerging audience than his wife and sons at home. Simon remembered his father often saying, It's all hands on deck, boys. Notwithstanding the fact that he doubted the nautical reference would ever be connected to a distant ancestral seafarer, he hoped his own path would better invest such an allocation of time and energy.

Simon did, however, benefit from his father's hard work. California's Stanford University took a bite out of Richard's salary as a favoured political pundit/commentator. He achieved his Masters in Computer Science in the spring in 2003, however, in the summer of the same year, his mother tragically died. Her devotion to work was nothing, if not all consuming. It was during the Toronto SARS crisis that Simon felt the true power of loss and the sorrow it leaves in its wake.

Richard was the first to end the silence. "Hard to imagine it'll soon be 25 years." After a short pause, he added: "Do either of you remember the words Justice Campbell used to conclude the inquiry?"

Simon cleared his throat. "Only the heroic efforts..." he began, before his voiced cracked. Struggling to find the strength, he managed to continue. "Only the heroic effort of front-line health workers prevented the virus from causing further damage."

At the time, Severe Acute Respiratory Syndrome was a viral disease found to originate in southern China. It eventually afflicted thirty-seven countries. In Canada its flu-like symptoms were felt primarily in Toronto. The province of Ontario's health care system was drawn into the crisis even before the World Health Organization issued an unprecedented global alert. Canada's most populated province struggled to keep pace with the outbreak, only finding relief after the virus eventually ran its course.

So elusive was a cure, one doctor reflected that modern treatment methods were as ineffective as those used to control the Typhus Epidemic of 1847, when warm wine and cold compresses were used to ease the suffering of Irish immigrants who lay dying in the fever sheds of Toronto's waterfront. Like the Typhus outbreak, patient isolation proved the most effective defense modern medicine could apply. It would remain so for years to come. Subsequent SARS outbreaks would kill half of those infected. The city, which the Taylors called home, saw forty-four lives cut short.

"Your mother was a saint, but you should know she loved you both above all others," Richard stated.

Lionel had a tendency to say what was on his mind. "I hope she felt loved enough in return."

Simon turned his head upward and rolled his eyes.

"I'll assume you're speaking for yourself," Richard retorted. "You know your mother never forgave me for endorsing your enlistment in the forces. The secrecy of your deployments, never knowing whether you were alive or dead. It kept her up at night."

Lionel said nothing.

Simon felt the desire to intervene and the compulsion to do so drew a modest smile. He couldn't help reflecting on how subtly his mother could change the subject of a conversation, especially when she felt compelled to deflect attention from herself. As if nudged by her living spirit, Simon's thoughts were redirected to something more positive. "Did I tell you we're heading to the cottage tomorrow?"

Simon used the term cottage because he knew it would bring back fond memories of summer vacations spent on the eastern tip of Lake Ontario. Richard managed a meagre smile, knowing the word cottage didn't truly encompass Simon's summer retreat. His getaway could more aptly be described as a summer home or even estate. With his and Sophia's efforts well rewarded, the family hideaway was now located in the beautiful Thousand Islands district of the St. Lawrence Seaway.

"You should come for a couple of days," Simon said to his father.

Richard's attire was always casual, yet impeccably assembled at the same time. His grey tweed coat covered an unbuttoned navy blue shirt, his dark slacks descending to polished black shoes. The three of them were now drifting back toward the two cars.

"I would like that," Richard agreed. He paused just long enough for Simon to know what was coming next. "Some other time perhaps," he added.

Simon and his father stopped several paces away from the gravel road. Realizing that Lionel might not want to engage in lingering small talk, Simon passed the umbrella to his brother. A simple nod confirmed his preference to seek shelter in the car.

Richard's eyes followed his second son for a moment. Lionel could feel their weight. He knew his father longed for the man in the photo framed next to those of his late wife and his more successful son. They were displayed on the now silent piano back home. The respect for a soldier's uniform seemed mutual to every smile; a father's pride having been crowned by his son's selection to Canada's elite Joint Task Force. Lionel had been discharged from the military over a year ago, but the legacy of his rotations would not so easily be jettisoned.

Richard turned back to Simon. "Have you heard from Jennifer lately?"

Jennifer was Simon's daughter, a precious gift from a relationship many years back. Jennifer Grace Taylor was born eighteen years ago. At the time, Simon was pursuing his Masters at Stanford.

"Not from Jenny, herself," Simon replied, "but I received an email from one of her professors the other day." Jennifer was in second year at the University of California at Berkeley. She lived in residence, while her mother remained the sole occupant of their Stanford home.

"Is everything alright?" Richard asked.

"Everything's fine. Her prof would like me to grant the university some time with Sophia. In his own words, he wants to 'disprove the existence of God, once and for all.'"

Richard and Simon exchanged smiles. "A disciple of Hawking, no doubt."

Richard was referring to Stephen Hawking, the renowned theoretical physicist who claimed nothing existed before the big bang; that prior to that event, time itself did not exist. And if time could not escape the crushing gravity within the black hole that created our universe, neither could God.

"Your computer is becoming more popular than the CERN particle accelerator," Richard stated. He then gave his son a familiar look, as if it were time to be on his way. "Give my love to my granddaughter when you see her, will you?" Arriving at his black Audi's door, Richard took a moment to close up his umbrella.

"When you have time, Father, there's something I'd like you to see."

"Yes?" Richard replied, shaking the rain from his collapsed covering.

Simon's tone became more reverent. "Sophia has perfected Mother's legacy essence."

His father looked puzzled. "Her legacy...?"

"Her legacy essence," Simon repeated. "Sophia has created a very realistic soft profile of her. She has compiled everything from emails to old home movies."

Richard listened, but appeared skeptical. Simon knew he would be.

"I can have a conversation with her whenever I want," Simon added. "It's like... she's not gone."

For a moment Richard appeared reflective. "I'll think about it, if you don't mind." He opened the car door.

"Of course," Simon replied. A familiar feeling enveloped him, as if another encounter would soon feel incomplete.

Simon slid into his driver's seat then looked to his right. His father was pulling alongside. Richard's driver's side window descended. Simon did the same for his brother. The pair knew their father disliked physical embraces, a privileged English upbringing being the source of the involuntary symptom. Simon felt a familiar awkwardness during times such as these. His father and brother now appeared equally bereft of the skills a touching moment invited.

"Goodbye, Son."

Lionel didn't look at his father. His sunglasses offered a sign of thoughts sequestered. He tilted his head to the right. "Goodbye, Father," he said, flatly.

Simon and his father exchanged one last glance before offering each other a departing nod.

CHAPTER THREE

One week later, NYC

SIMON BROUGHT his silent Tesla Roadster to a stop in front of New York's Rockefeller Center. Its electric motor defied the perception of a high performance sports car, but a body immortalized through its sleek design did not. His feet had barely touched the ground when his valet, a woman young enough to be his daughter, replaced him in the driver's seat. In an instant the attendant sped away, to where he wasn't even sure. Suddenly, his worst fears conjured a place he'd rather not envision, Tolkien's Mines of Moria. He imagined his car jockey jumping clean before his prized blacked-out coup plunged over an immense cliff. Simon shuddered while wrestling his thoughts free from the exulted Lord of the Rings series. Recovering, he wished he hadn't given his driver the night off.

Venturing inside the impressive building, he was soon the lone occupant of an elevator destined for the sixty-fifth floor. He used the time wisely, adjusting the carnation in his lapel. His dark-haired profile was likewise considered, any nuisance hairs being pressed into shape. The lift's floor to ceiling mirrors testified to a tailored tuxedo and an expression fitting to the wearer of fine clothes. Inner reflections were another matter, however. Within moments, the doors opened, and he found himself at the event to which he was invited. He was met first by a striking woman holding a tray of glasses filled with champagne.  
Taking one, he proceeded in the direction of her subtle prompt.

It was a formal gala, the award ceremony for the Carnegie Medal of Philanthropy. Awards would be handed out to those who exemplified the task of transforming personal wealth into public enrichment.

As a rule, Simon disliked evenings such as these. Immersing himself into the spectacle was as uncomfortable as slowly descending into an off-season swim in the Saint Lawrence. He turned his thoughts to summer evenings at the cottage to lower his internal tempo. Visualizing the lights of local island residences, as well as those across the river, on the American side of the Seaway, helped to dissipate any lingering sense of anxiety. He took a sip of champagne before walking into the Rainbow Room.

"There he is," a familiar voice announced. It was New York State Senator, John Anders. The white-haired gentleman in his late sixties was gesturing for Simon come over.

"Senator," Simon stated, extending his hand.

"The man of the hour," the elder senator exclaimed, drawing his wife's attention toward Simon. "Margaret, this is Simon Taylor, Chairman of PurIntel."

"I am very pleased to meet you, Mr. Taylor," Mrs. Anders said. Her tasteful gown was as pleasing as her comportment.

"And I, you, of course,' Simon respectfully replied.

During last year's senatorial race, it became known that Simon had contributed to Senator Anders' political campaign. The fact that Simon didn't endorse Anders' protectionist leanings or that he donated equally to the Senator's opponent went unreported. Nevertheless, at least one headline resounded with the revelation. Few eyebrows were raised, though. Senator Anders was an ardent supporter of democratic reform, especially the compensation model that Simon's company was offering the state's cities.

Ideologically based pursuits, particularly in the health and energy sectors, were finally recognized as being financially unsustainable for all levels of government. Simon was happy to know that he and John Anders were on the same page. Both knew governance solutions were becoming more complex with every passing year. But what Simon believed more than anyone in the room was that super computers like Sophia represented the key to unlocking an otherwise untapped resource.

The senator's wife was charming, yet candid. "You know, I hope you don't mind me saying this, but the world would be a better place if we had a few more Simon Taylors in it."

"Come now, Margaret," Mr. Anders said, "You're embarrassing the poor man. On behalf of both of us, Simon, let me offer our congratulations. The night belongs to you."

"Thank you, Senator, and Mrs. Anders. You are both very gracious."

After the Senator's wife caught Simon exchanging a glance with an attractive woman on the other side of the room, she suggested to her husband that Simon be allowed to greet other guests. A few moments later, Simon was offering cordial comments while navigating the room.

The Rainbow Room had been completely redecorated recently. It was obvious to Simon that opulence continued its reign. An Art-Deco décor seemed to link the present with the past, while large windows revealed a timeless New York skyline.

Hearing his name once again, Simon glanced through an abundance of formally dressed attendees. He was happy to recognize another familiar face. It was the spirited reporter he granted an interview with last year. "Nice to see you again, Susan," he said.

Susan Frost worked for Vanity Fair magazine. Her intended half-hour interview at Simon's office turned into an hour-and-a-half. Thirty minutes for Simon and an unexpected sixty for Sophia.

"I can arrange for an introduction if you'll grant me another interview," Susan pitched. Her full-length satin gown was a compelling step up from the business attire in which Simon last saw her. The striking blues of her dress highlighted her medium-length blonde hair. Her entire ensemble complimented the bubbly personality with which Simon was now familiar. "An introduction... with whom?" he asked.

Susan tilted her head in the direction of the woman who Simon had previously noted. "I've been watching you make your way across the room."

Simon almost blushed. "A reporter's instincts?" he asked.

A waiter appeared with a tray of champagne glasses. Susan exchanged hers for a full one, while Simon deferred another to later.

"A woman's intuition," Susan admitted. "Besides, I want to talk to Governor Wilkinson ˗ you want to make small talk with the Goddess standing beside him."

Simon tried not to look again. He knew Governor Wilkinson was standing beside the woman with whom he had exchanged glances. She was both vivacious and exotic, possibly of East Indian origin. Her form fitting dress was obviously of designer quality, a stunning variation of gold transitioning into white. Flattering high heels made her stand almost as tall as her companion.

"I thought you already got his story?"

Susan tried to remain subtle, but couldn't help her eyes being drawn to the attractive governor. "If it were up to me, our next chapters would be unfit for print."

Only then did Simon realize why a woman might be attracted to the dashing and confident politico.

"Follow me," Susan stated.

Moments later the pair was making their way through the affluent of the world. Most deserved to be there, having made serious contributions to redistributing a measure of their wealth. Though significant amounts thereof had been redirected to the less fortunate jurisdictions of the globe, elevating some present to the ranks of the benevolent elite, tonight was a function of opulence. The tailor's hand was supplemented by the banker's. Haute Couture ruled while diamonds reigned.

There were the others as well; those who needed to be seen in the right company. Several reporters were in attendance. The chroniclers rubbed elbows with those both willing and reluctant to be chronicled. When Susan found herself within range, she pulled Simon from a nearby conversation. Her specialty: pretending to make an inadvertent introduction.

"Governor Wilkinson," Susan announced, "It's a pleasure to meet you again."

"Good evening, Ms. Frost, nice to see you as well."

Robert Wilkinson had ascended to State Governor on a platform opposing some of the work with which Sophia had become synonymous. Although Wilkinson was also in favour of democratic reform, it was the accelerating advances in the field of genetics, which had drawn the ire of like-minded fundamentalist Christians.

Susan continued. "And I'm sure you are acquainted with..."

"Simon Taylor," the Governor interjected, offering his hand, "Founder of PurIntel, creator of Sophia." Wilkinson wanted to go on, but after their handshake it was obvious he had lost Simon's attention. The Governor took the hint and introduced the woman standing beside him. "Simon, this is Roshnie Gill."

"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Taylor," Roshnie stated. Her voice was the first of several enchantments. Tipping her head forward to acknowledge him, her dark, pinned-up hair accentuated the line of her neck.

Acquiescing to instinct, Simon allowed his eyes to be drawn into the deepness of hers. The proffering of her hand could only be answered with a kiss. "I can assure you the pleasure is all mine," Simon said.

Robert Wilkinson glanced between Roshnie and Simon, instantly understanding the connection for what it was. He smiled before trying to finish the introduction, knowing his next words would capture Simon's attention. "Ms. Gill is with UNESCO's International Bioethics Committee."

"Please call me Rose," Roshnie said to Simon. Having grown up in a house still heavily influenced by Britain, her accent was a pleasing blend of British and Indian.

While Simon's expression defied the inner struggle between emotional and rational thinking, the journalist in Susan could not be suppressed. "Rose Gill," she stated. "Your name sounds familiar."

"My brother is..."

"Praveen Gill," Simon interjected. The straightening of his posture was subtle, yet discernable. For Simon, the present instantly connected with the past. "You left Indi Pharm at the height of the pandemic."

Indi Pharm was a global pharmaceutical giant headquartered in Mumbai, India. Having replaced his father more than a decade previous, Prav Gill assumed control of the family empire after his younger sister resigned from its board of directors.

It was during the peak of a worldwide SARS Variant pandemic that Indi Pharm came under the scrutiny it deserved. In the spring of 2021 the crisis was in its second year. Some twenty-seven million souls had perished while a cure remained elusive. Although the mutated virus's lethality was concentrated in Asia, its creep into North America was no less unnerving than when its close relative originally hit Toronto. During the panic, limitless funds were made available to whomever could provide a cure. Resources of every denomination poured into Indi Pharm, as a pharmacological solution was sought.

By the time it was over, Prav Gill had become the embodiment of unethical and immoral scientific experimentation. He tried to mitigate the cost of his company's human trials, but there was no end to justify the means. The slums of Mumbai still reverberated with drug-induced deformities, irreversible psychoses. When Prav's only sister discovered what was taking place, she denounced him vociferously: "You are destroying the company that took a lifetime to build," she shouted. "Our father is an honorable man... there is no honor in this!" The same day, Roshnie left the family empire, decrying she would never return.

Governor Wilkinson felt compelled to advocate on Roshnie's behalf. "Rose is now heading a special working group with the IBC (International Bioethics Committee). She has devoted the last few years of her life to ensuring another..."

"I want to deprive the world of another Prav Gill, Mr. Taylor," Rose interjected, matter-of-factly.

Simon was taken aback by Rose's candor. If she struggled with the remnants of her past, it certainly wasn't obvious. In fact, her confidence appeared undiminished. To make such a principled stand revealed a depth of integrity. In Simon's eyes, that made her even more compelling.

"And what of the Sophias of the world?" Susan asked.

Rose turned to the inquisitive reporter. "My experience, Ms. Frost, suggests few are worthy of what the world heaps upon them." Rose looked back at Simon, "Fewer still recognize the high ground for the opportunities it presents."

"Truer words were never spoken," Wilkinson agreed.

Simon reflected on the events that brought him here this evening. _Recognizing the high ground for the opportunities it presents certainly has its perks,_ he thought, _not the least of which being the intriguing woman in front of me_. Simon couldn't help feeling attracted to her.

"That would put our short-listed guest in a very select group, wouldn't it, Ms. Gill?" Susan suggested.

"It would indeed," Rose attested, smiling. "It would indeed."

Susan sensed what was transpiring. An extended connection between Simon and Rose came across as both discernible and compelling. "Even fewer know how to put the lectern to good use," Susan joked, directing her comments to Simon. "Feel free to mention a certain reporter when you're up there."

Governor Wilkinson reached into his pocket and pulled out his vibrating cell phone. "You'll have to forgive me. They need me to get things started." The Governor had agreed to be the event's Master of Ceremonies. "It appears they've put you at our table, Simon," he added.

Wilkinson looked toward the front of the room, to where he would be presiding over the evening. "My wife will be joining us as well. There she is in the blue gown, talking with Senator Anders. I'll see you at our table then?"

"It would be a pleasure, thank you, Governor," Simon agreed.

"Ms. Frost," Wilkinson added, "until we meet again."

Susan only nodded, thinking, that'll never be soon enough!

After the Governor left, Susan felt compelled to do the same. "My journalistic instinct is telling me there's a juicy story somewhere in this group... besides you two, I mean. You don't mind if I join you later, do you?"

"No, of course, Susan. The truth awaits you." Simon said.

"The truth is boring, Simon," Susan stated, looking around the group now moving toward their tables.

Simon smiled at Roshnie. "A sad fact, is it not, Ms. Gill?"

"Please, Simon, call me Rose. And, yes," she said, adding to Simon's levity, "the virtues are tragically underrated."

"Rose it is, then," Simon agreed. It was clear to him that he had been missing something in his life for far too long. _Something tells me I shouldn't let this woman get away,_ he thought.

Later on that evening, Rose and Simon were seated at a large round table. It was relatively close to the front, the larger assembly of which included more than two dozen. All together they accounted for nearly one hundred and fifty place settings. Rose sipped slowly on a glass of white wine and watched the last recipient of the Carnegie Award finish his speech. Sitting beside his wife, the Governor took the cue and returned to the microphone. He adjusted the mic upward, the handsome six-foot man being one of the taller speakers at the podium. Medals for education, entrepreneurship, and the arts had already been presented.

"And our final award for the evening," Wilkinson began, "the Carnegie Medal of Science recognizes an outstanding commitment by an individual who has demonstrated the desire to leverage their resources in the field of science and technology in order that they may be employed towards making the world a better place to live."

"Tonight's recipient is a man who needs little introduction. If I may quote from Vanity Fair magazine, and the reporter who authored the article herself," Wilkinson cast an acknowledging glance toward Susan, seated at a nearby table. "When accused of amassing an empire, the modest man suggested it was designed to conquer all that ails the world. When it was suggested he had become one of the wealthiest men in America, he casually reflected: money is as much a tool as it is anything else; for me it has become a means to create a meaningful end. When labelled by this magazine as one of the most influential men of our time, the man paused. The distinction obviously made him uncomfortable. In his eyes I could see a parade of individuals he wanted to march before me; those who were instrumental in helping him along the way. Alone we are nothing, he said. The problems facing the world are made smaller, more manageable, when we embrace the potential beyond what we ourselves have to offer."

"A man who reflects the ideals of Andrew Carnegie himself; for safely weaving together the genetic structure of the C3 and C4 plant types and gifting their enhanced productivity through UNICEF to the people who need it most, the world's poorest, the Carnegie Medal for Science goes to none other than Doctor Simon Taylor."

A resounding applause accompanied Simon as he got up from his chair. By now, most of those present understood the value of transitioning some C3 plants into C4s. C3s are those that exist within the human food chain, while C4s generally feed the world's livestock. C4 plants are more robust, yielding a better ratio of agricultural inputs to harvested output. They are also capable of thriving in more strenuous climatic conditions, those that predominate in the third world. In one philanthropic gesture, global food production soared.

Simon mockingly pointed an accusing finger at a smiling, cheering Susan. Rose took his hand. After getting up with him, she gave him a tantalizing embrace. Any nerves that rose with Simon suddenly evaporated. After a heart-warming gaze, he turned and walked toward Wilkinson amidst continued applause.

The Governor put a medal around Simon's neck then offered him a bust of Andrew Carnegie cast in bronze. The pair shook hands before Simon nodded and acknowledged a few hoots from Susan. He tried to set the bust down on the angled podium, but it almost tumbled. The irony of the mishandling was not lost on Simon; with his outward composure often belying his inner feelings, he hoped it wasn't obvious that an equal measure of uneasiness accompanied him to the lectern. A female attendant standing close by came to Simon's aid, however. She held the weighty award to one side, allowing Simon to regain his composure.

"Thank you very much," he stated, looking down at the medal now hanging at chest height. He took a deep breath before continuing. "And thank you to the Carnegie family of institutions and to their selection committees as well. What can I say that hasn't already been said? I guess that's the drawback of being the last to speak." Simon looked out over his audience. "I suppose I should also thank Ms. Frost for her wonderful article. Actually, if Vanity Fair ever goes out of business, Susan, I'm sure you could easily write your way onto the Times best seller list... under the genre of fiction."

"It's all true, Simon, and everyone here knows it!" Susan hollered.

The audience chuckled along with the Governor, who was now seated by his wife. The sight of Rose's smile quickly settled Simon's nerves. When the room quieted down her expression was one of enrapture; her attention willingly offered to Simon's every word.

"I guess that just confirms the fact that I'm always the last one to know. No, seriously, there are, in fact, too many people to thank this evening, so I will make an effort to keep it short. To this point," he said, glancing at Rose, "the most important people in my life are my daughter, brother, and, of course, my mother and father. And in case you are listening, Sophia, you have been short-listed as well. You have no idea of how temperamental she is," he joked. "If I didn't mention her name I would never hear the end of it."

"I'm sorry," Simon said, refocusing his thoughts. "I once thought if the Taylor family was a tall ship on the high seas, my brother would be the inspiration from which we would draw the courage to face everything Mother Nature could throw at us. Jennifer, my daughter, would defy any order to remain safely below. Myself, I would obviously be busy granting interviews and accepting awards."

The audience laughed while Simon made an effort to continue. "My mother; the one to teach me how only through selfless dedication do we keep the sails fit and trim. And my father, how to keep us on course and out of harm's way.

"When I started my first business, hired my first employee, my father couldn't help dispensing some sage advice: 'Son,' he said, 'quality is never found in the first ninety percent. Within that margin the customer finds the same line and tackle that every merchant has to offer. Real quality can only be found in the last ten percent. Therein the client will discover the relationship, the values that support excellence within your organization. Successfully manage the relationship and success will forever be yours."

"Given the opportunity to refine that, I know my late mother would suggest what motivates us to successfully manage that relationship can only be found in the last one percent. It is life's most precious commodity, what inspires every redeemable deed and what brings us together here tonight. I can attest for both of us," he said, looking directly at Rose, "that one percent is nothing less... than love."

"Thank you, again. I will cherish this award always." After another handshake, Simon turned the podium back over to the Governor and then joined an admiring Rose at her side. He basked in her admiring glow.

Within the hour, the award ceremony had concluded. Congratulations arrived in the form heartfelt words and warm embraces. Susan Frost, the Senator and his wife offered their thoughts before Simon and Rose found themselves walking slowly toward the elevator by which they had separately arrived.

"Can I give you a lift home?" Simon asked Rose. "Maybe we could stop for a drink or a coffee on the way?"

The two found themselves the only occupants of a descending elevator. Rose nodded. "A nightcap would be nice."

The ride down seemed to suspend earthly concerns. With every moment, a new perspective found something special in each other's eyes, something wonderfully unique. It was the one percent to which Catherine had referred. Tonight, however, that last one percent had splintered into a million pieces, yet each new fragment shone with the brilliance of its former entirety. Simon wanted the moment to last forever, to never end, but it had to, unfortunately. Gravity intruded on his sense of wonderment, as their lift slowed to a stop on the ground floor.

Moments later, Simon's Tesla was pulling up in front of the Rockefeller Center. The same young woman who had disappeared with the car earlier stepped out, smiling. The Mines of Moria had gone surprisingly easy on his coveted possession. His eyes scanned its lines, nevertheless.

Simon took possession of the keys. He offered his hand, helping the subject of his newfound desire through the passenger door. When Simon climbed in, he looked over at Rose. She tossed her head back, smiling, laughing. Simon couldn't help being equally light-hearted. Pressing down on the accelerator, the car quietly sped away.

CHAPTER FOUR

Later that evening

"SO IT WAS YOU who uploaded Indi Pharm's drug experiment data?" Simon asked. He and Rose were enjoying a quiet booth at a lounge in the West Village. By one thirty in the morning Simon had switched to coffee. Rose's Pino Griggio was nearing room temperature, a sign of her attention being consumed by their conversation.

Rose glanced downward and fidgeted with the base of her wineglass. "It was one of the most difficult decisions of my life."

"It was the right one, though. You saved lives." Simon was referring to those hapless souls who would have been used as test cases by Prav Gill. When Rose confronted her brother and demanded he put a stop to his immoral pursuit, he refused.

'Finding a cure will mean billions in licensing agreements,' he had stated. Veiled threats were found in further arguments. Rose found it unnerving coming to the realization that she could disappear as easily as those she wanted to protect. Having bargained away the equity of his own soul, Rose resolved that her brother would be denied the right to barter for hers. She needed a way out. Finding a willing laboratory technician wasn't easy, but when she did she knew it would be only a matter of time; her brother's tyranny would eventually be discovered.

A worldwide DNA bank of those who perished was growing with every month of the crisis. It was made available to any organization that demonstrated a chance of achieving success. By this time, Rose had heard of PurIntel and computers like Sophia.

"I thought if I uploaded enough of Prav's secret test cases, their common genetic signature would be discovered. I knew if anyone could do it, it would be your Sophia."

While Indi Pharm was one of many companies in the race to find a cure for the 2021 SARS Variant pandemic, it wasn't the only one to find itself under forensic scrutiny. An international post-crisis inquiry found that, while many regulatory agencies were willing to suspend conventional protocols, Indi Pharm's indiscretions were nothing less than indictable.

Newspapers resounded with the age-old question; what value should any society place on a human life? The fact that a secret division of Indi Pharm was preying on those most vulnerable only added to his country's sense of corporate shame. The Indian Institute of Science was one of many voices decrying the fact that Mumbai slums provided the fodder for research. Adults were compensated for offering themselves to science; likewise parents for extending their children's arms. Every specimen was bar-coded for reference. The living dead would be a constant reminder of the perils associated with unbridled scientific pursuit. When the mass graves were discovered, the world cried out for justice on behalf of those entombed.

Prav Gill was found guilty of crimes against humanity, but he would only spend eighteen months in jail. 'They were going to die anyway!' he yelled, while being ushered out of a jammed courtroom. It was a sensational trial, one that wanted to heap the pandemic's entire casualty list on its sole defendant. During the ensuing global grieving period, few hearts softened.

"He claims to be a changed man," Rose suggested, reflecting on how her brother eventually had several of his release conditions set aside; not the least of which, being allowed access to the financial division of the family empire. 'From this day forward, I dedicate Indi Pharm's resources to bettering the existence of my fellow man,' he said to the media outside the prison's gates.

By the time Prav Gill emerged from his comfortable cell the world was already looking back at the predictable forks in the road, those that any significant crisis produces.

A growing segment of society seemed more willing than ever to embrace the role of technology in their lives. Moreover, super computers like Sophia had proven themselves more capable than any collection of human minds. For some, however, science had been irreparably tainted. The conspirators of the world suspected government involvement in the pandemic itself. Anarchists wanted to disassemble everything technological, others advocated for the future to be given over to the past.

"Do you think he's changed?" Simon asked. "Have you talked to him since you left?"

"Talked to him?' Rose repeated. "No," she said, shaking her head. "I'm not sure I ever will."

Simon hoped his attempts at small talk would disguise the fact that he couldn't take his eyes off the beautiful woman before him. Her high cheek bones, dark eyes, her lips offering more than mere words. It had been some time since he last enjoyed himself in this way.

"He barely resembles the brother I once knew," Rose reflected. "He looks different now."

Again, Simon noticed the subtleness of her gestures, the way her voice reflected a sense of responsibility, even shame for her brother's misdeeds. He also picked up on her desire to change the subject. "That's enough about me," Rose suggested. "Why don't we talk about you for a while?"

Rose accepted a small top up to her wine glass from their server. "Thank you," she said. Their West Village lounge was upscale, a place where their formal attire was the norm. "You have a brother?" she asked.

Simon smiled, while agreeing to more coffee. A tiny carafe of fresh milk replaced the original on the table. Likewise, Simon offered a polite nod to their well-dressed waitress.

"I do," he said. "Lionel lives in Toronto. He's ex-military, on a disability pension."

"He was wounded?"

"He lost an arm and a leg in the Congo during a U.N. led mission. The latest in prostheses fixed those. The wounds one is forced to relive remain the most debilitating."

Simon poured a small amount of milk into his coffee. "He's been going through a tough patch lately."

"I'm sure with your help he will make a full recovery." Taking a sip of her wine, it was obvious to Rose that the topic was nearing an emotional nerve. She smiled, before moving the conversation along. "What about you? What drives Simon Taylor's pursuit of perfection?"

Simon looked pleased by the topic change, however, he vacillated on how much introspection the moment deserved. "I don't know. You might laugh at this, but I've had this recurring dream lately. I'm walking down some ancient street. The period seems to be contemporary to the great intellects of the world, da Vinci, Copernicus, and, one at a time Galileo, Newton, they pass me by without so much as a nod. I attempt to acknowledge each one in turn, but they're oblivious to me being there. Sounds pathetic, doesn't it? Like I've got some latent self-esteem issues."

Rose ran the fingers of her right hand through her hair. "I would never guess that you suffer from a lack of..." Rose stopped mid-sentence, having been distracted by the club's lights flickering. In the span of seconds, they dimmed, went out completely then came back on. While glancing at their overhanging light-fixture, Rose joked: "I think you should take that as a nod from Edison."

Simon laughed, before adding: "I hope you don't find this rude of me, but would you mind if I checked on something?" Simon quickly pulled out his phone. "NOAA (National Oceanic and Atmospheric Organization) was predicting an event sometime after midnight. I should check to see if everything's alright at the office."

"You're thinking that was the CME (Coronal Mass Ejection) they were predicting?"

"The timing makes sense."

Rose thought nothing of deferring to Simon's business intrusion. She was vaguely familiar with the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Organization ˗ that its Space Weather Prediction Center issued warnings pertaining to Coronal Mass Ejections from the Sun. She remembered hearing on the news the other day that the earth might be impacted by the energy burst resulting from several large solar flares. While the initial solar explosions could be seen immediately, and were often reported soon thereafter, it routinely took several days for the massive plasma ejections to reach Earth.

Simon looked at Sophia's system integrity color band at the top of his cell phone's display and confirmed it was still in the green, or 'optimum range,' however, he sent a quick text to his night operations manager just the same. Once finished, he put his phone down on the table and took a sip of his coffee.

Rose seized the opportunity to inject a little playful humor. "Speaking of the other woman in your life." Rose almost laughed at the sight of Simon struggling to swallow.

"The other woman in my life?" Simon choked.

"Sophia?" Rose said, before coyly sampling her wine.

"Of course,' Simon said, recovering. "Would you like to meet her?"

Rose appeared demure. "The other woman," she teased. "I'd love to."

During their second drive, sparse conversation was punctuated by glances becoming less subtle. While on the way to One World Trade Centre, Simon's eyes alternated between the road, the dark skies above, and Rose. He wondered if the Earth's magnetic field would react to the Sun's energy in its usual, spectacular way, but as the drive continued, he couldn't help feeling the radiance emanating from the woman seated next to him.

Their elevator's ambience was consistent with that of Simon's car. As much as Rose was a woman able to grace the cover of any fashion magazine, so was Simon's attractiveness enhanced by his surroundings, his stature, borne from his obvious achievements. With the passing of every floor, Rose knew she would be entering a place few were allowed. By now Sophia had risen to near royalty, at least in the technological world.

When Sophia provided the solution to the SARS Variant pandemic, the nondisclosure of PurIntel's monetary compensation only added to its CEO's mysteriousness. The fact that Simon also negotiated exclusive research rights to all genomic information associated with the event further buttressed his reputation into the stratosphere of shrewdness.

Simon understood the value of some thirty-million genetic codes and how they would provide the solutions to what debilitates the human race. 'The diamonds in the rough only need to be found,' he'd told his overworked staff. And find them Sophia would, much in the same way she had done before.

It was during height of the pandemic, Simon recounted for Rose, that he had just received financing to bring Sophia's computing power to unprecedented levels. Boasting sixty-four terabytes of RAM, she was soon able to process five-hundred gigabytes of information; an immeasurable sum of Flops (Floating-point operations per second), which represented the equivalent of reading one million books per second. In addition to having access to the genetic codes of those who had perished in the pandemic, Sophia shepherded the world's health organizations through the management of a Halo App specifically designed to harness the scientific world within one common crucible. In addition to identifying redundant pursuits, it also provided access to immense volumes of unstructured data; the entirety of which represented nothing less than the accumulated knowledge of humankind.

Although the requirement to crunch the interrelationship of variables in unending genetic sequences far surpassed any collective of the greatest human minds, pandemic-related data collected during the crisis provided only one aspect of the solution. The other: enter an unlikely hero, an archaic human ancestor.

When the genome of Neanderthals was sequenced several years ago, scientists found that all non-African humans possess between one and three percent of that human subspecies' genetic code. Rose laughed, still hardly believing it. "It's true," Simon stated, smiling, before continuing.

The Neanderthal genes, which are present in most modern humans, are actually related to our immunity. As a result of twenty-five thousand years of human evolution, our present day genes bear close resemblance, but differ slightly from the Neanderthal immunity sequence.

Researchers discovered seventy-eight similarities where Neanderthals had the ancient gene and modern humans had the newer, derived (evolved) state. Five of our common genes had more than one sequence change. When Sophia fully understood the relationship of two proteins, PCD16 and CAN15, she discovered that Neanderthals possessed an ancient immunity to the present day SARS Variant virus. They key to the evolutionary process, she informed Simon, lay in our dietary differences.

Evidence originating in fossilized teeth suggested Neanderthals ate bitter tasting plants that contained little if no nutritional value. Did they know something we don't? Rose reflected. Microfossils in the same molars also yielded ancient bacteria rarely found in today's world. When the primitive bacteria were hybridized with chamomile and yarrow root plants, the ancient gene was awoken in modern humans. Incredibly, the world turned to simple agriculture for the cure.

"I wish I could have seen the look on my brother's face," Rose stated, smiling.

Simon couldn't help laughing. "I remember the press conference well. I don't know who was more stunned, the collective world or... or your brother." He looked up and noticed they were arriving at his floor. When the elevator doors opened, Simon took Rose's hand. Simon felt comfortable in his element as they walked. As for Rose, she was both excited and aroused.

"I'll just check in with the night shift, if you don't mind?"

"Of course," Rose replied.

A retinal scan caused a click in the door to Sophia's System's Integrity Unit. Pushing the door open, Simon looked inside. A half-dozen software techs (protein monitors, as they were affectionately known) lurched upward in their chairs. The sound of papers being shuffled on desks was followed by displays coming out of sleep mode. A hand-held gaming device broke into several pieces after hitting the floor.

"Ahh... Mr. Taylor," Gary, the lead analyst, gasped. He awkwardly stood up, his eyes glancing toward the movie playing on large flat screen just beyond his boss' view.

"It's alright, boys. I'm just here to show off Sophia. Is she busy?"

The young tech glanced at his monitor. "She's presently running at seventy-eight percent, Mr. Taylor."

"And the power blip?"

"We cruised right through the last one, sir, but the Space Weather bulletins are suggesting it's not quite over."

"Alright. As you were then, gentlemen. I hope the rest of your shift is less eventful." Closing the door, Simon and Rose chuckled. Simon's heart was further buoyed by the fact that, throughout the exchange, Rose never relinquished the grip of his hand.

When they approached Simon's office door, another retinal scan caused its lock to click.

Allowing Rose to proceed into the office first, they found it dark. Simon reached for his cell phone to make an adjustment to the programmed lighting, but when Rose asked, "Leave it, will you?" Simon agreed.

The expansive footprint was somewhat enchanting, _at least as any dimly lit office could be_ , Simon thought. Further into the office, Simon's desk was off to the left. Up two steps, it backed onto the building's glass perimeter and looked inward. Sophia's wing offered an aqua colored glow. It spilled beyond its dimensions out into the room's larger space. Walls, defined primarily by floor-to-ceiling windows, could be made opaque, transparent, or any degree thereof. Simon also controlled the electronic blinds from his phone; they were presently blacked out, and the skyline was not yet visible. Simon passed his slower walking guest until he stood proudly in front of Sophia.

"Simon," Sophia said, after her face appeared.

"Sophia," he replied, "we have a guest this evening."

When Rose joined Simon's side, she cast her eyes on the hologram who she had heard so much about. Her senses were almost overwhelmed.

"Rose, this is Sophia. Sophia, meet Rose."

Simon noticed a uniqueness befall Rose's subtle expression. A pleasing blend of greens and blues complimented her skin's darker tones.

Likewise, Rose beheld a very attractive face. "I am pleased to finally meet you, Sophia."

For a moment, a subtle array of grid-like hash marks covered Rose's facial features. "You are Roshnie Gill," Sophia began, analytically. "Sister of Praveen Gill, CEO of Indi Pharm. A man you once referred to as a murderer..."

"Sophia," Simon interjected.

"A scoundrel..."

"Sophia, stop it."

"A dip-shit."

"Sophia!" Simon admonished. "Is discretion no longer the better part of valour? She must be jealous of you being here." Turning to Rose, Simon found her laughing.

"A dip-shit," Rose repeated, smiling. "I haven't called my brother that since I was fifteen." The humor of the moment was indulged before it evaporated. "Wait a minute, how much does she know about me?"

Simon rolled his eyes. "Apparently, too much."

Sophia continued. "I can see why you would be attracted to her, Simon."

"What is wrong with you?" Simon asked. He turned back to Rose. "She gets a little cranky when she's..."

"I'm sensing elevated pheromone levels," Sophia added.

Rose raised her hand in an attempt to contain her laughter.

"That's it, now you're really embarrassing me."

"I wasn't referring to you." Sophia's eyes rested on Rose.

An awkward silence reigned for a moment. "Ah," Simon stammered. "Maybe we should leave Sophie to her work." He took Rose's hand. "Would you like to see the view?"

Rose agreed, her body language speaking for her secret being found out. Simon sensed her perceived vulnerability. It was irresistible. If she were willing, he would make love to her right here, in his office.

"I'll be over here, if you need me," Sophia said.

"I think we'll be alright," Simon replied. With that response, Sophia dissolved into nothingness.

After ascending the two steps to where Simon's desk was located, Rose walked toward the expansive, blacked-out windows behind. Simon took his tuxedo jacket off, swinging it over the back of his chair. "Are you ready?" he asked.

"I don't know. Did I mention I'm afraid of heights?"

"Trust me," Simon stated. "When you see the night sky, you'll appreciate your perspective." When Simon used his phone to deactivate the electronic blinds, the horizon was filled with amazing ribbons of greens and pinks. It was the Aurora Borealis. From ninety floors up, the Northern Lights over the New York sky were nothing less than breathtaking. Rose gasped at the spectacular interaction between the earth's magnetosphere and the charged particles emanating from the sun.

Simon had guessed that the earlier coronal ejection might yield its visual dividend, an unexpected celestial show. When his hunch was rewarded, he looked at the smile on Rose's face, caught a glimpse of wonder in her eyes, and reveled at the beauty before him. He got up from his chair and walked over to her. He spoke quietly. "In case you're wondering why this is happening so far south, in addition to the CME, the aurora's intensity is enhanced by the weakened magnetic field over North America."

Rose stood in awe. "It's like the heavens are communicating with the earth."

"It's also the result of the earth's electromagnetic field being in flux. Did you know it flips on a regular basis? It hasn't done so in seven-hundred and eighty thousand years. The average period is about two-hundred thousand."

"Is there anything to worry about? I mean, could this be bad for the earth's biology... for us?"

"There's no evidence of any extinction events being associated with a pole reversal. Satellite data confirms the field is presently weaker throughout the Western Hemisphere and stronger around the Indian Ocean. Power grids and communication systems will undoubtedly be susceptible, as we saw tonight."

Rose spoke without taking her eyes of the horizon. "It makes you appreciate how wondrous our universe really is."

"And how tenuous the relationship is between beauty and the power it sometimes conceals." Simon stood at Rose's side and was happy that she found the humor in the truism.

During a few moments of silence, he sensed a pleasant intimacy drawing them closer. When he reflected on what they had been talking about, he couldn't believe the last few minutes has been consumed by scientific minutia. The realization was compelling itself. His instincts, however, soon honed in on observations less mindful. The fact that Rose seemed in awe of the whole experience made her even more attractive. Simon turned to her and sensed the moment was right for something more, possibly their first kiss. Rose responded to Simon's subtle gestures, to his hand taking hers, to his revealing eyes now focusing on her lips, but when a bright burst of light appeared near the horizon, Simon sighed; he presumed the distraction was unrelated to their encounter. He quietly lamented: "Not another one." Both he and Rose turned to look out over New York.

To their dismay, the city's lights began to go out. Section by section, Manhattan cascaded into darkness. Simon knew how fragile the highly interconnected utilities of the northeast United States were, and that the second CME had indeed arrived. Seconds later, his own building switched to backup power.

The next sound that filled Simon's office was Gary's voice. "Mr. Taylor, are you there?" Letting Rose's hand fall from his, he offered her a crestfallen expression before accepting the intercom prompt on his phone. "Yes, Gary."

Sophia reappeared, capturing the attention of Simon and Rose.

"We had a bit of a system crash on that one. We're going to have to do a complete _Halo_ reboot."

Simon muted his phone for a moment. "What's our vulnerability level, Sophia?"

"I'm presently quantifying the effects of that last pulse," Sophia replied.

As Gary typed furiously on his keyboard, Simon was prompted by a text on his cell phone. 'Everything ok?' Derrick asked. System protocols must have alerted his Director of Operations to the shutdown. Simon's favourable reply was followed by another text from Derrick: 'Just emailed the draft you wanted.'

Simon shook his head, knowing that Derrick worked crazy hours, often from home. He didn't respond to his text, however. He had other things on his mind and reconnected with Gary instead. "How long until we're back up and running?"

"We should be back online shortly," Gary stated. Pausing typing, he quietly added: "Hello."

Rose walked over toward Simon and used her left hand to caress his back. The sensation elicited an exchange of smiles.

"Can I leave it with you then, Gary?"

"We're on it, Boss," were the words Simon wanted to hear.

CHAPTER FIVE

Three days later

"SIMON, I THINK YOU SHOULD SEE THIS," Sophia stated, interrupting Simon at his desk. He had given himself over to catching up on some correspondence, both business and personal; not the least of which was fueled by a desire to exchange another provocative set of emails, texts and social media encounters with Rose. The illuminated outline of a keyboard on his office desk vanished. A transparent glass monitor froze with his last words typed. He sat back in his office chair and watched Sophia project a scaled image into her holographic space. A news anchor appeared as realistically as she did in her downtown Toronto studio. It was 9:18 a.m., Tuesday morning.

"This is streaming live," Sophia stated.

"Turning to business news," the female CNN News anchor stated. "Increasing his stake in the world of technology, Indi Pharm's Praveen Gill is attempting to lengthen a string of acquisitions by upping his latest hostile takeover offering. Gen Tech Laboratories opened this morning at $26.00. Headquartered in New York, GTL's market capitalization is primarily based on their Sword supercomputer and its niche client list, those who represent the elite of America's defense industry contractors. Prav Gill's offer carries a full forty percent premium, bringing it in at a tempting $36.40 per share."

"In other financial news," the anchor continued, transitioning to her left camera. "Another high-ranking Wall Street executive was indicted by a Federal Grand Jury this morning. This extends the list of those allegedly involved in the now infamous Rivera Ponzi Scheme to eleven. The latest arrest, seen here," the announcer stated, before Sophia allowed the newscast to disappear.

Simon got up and stepped away from his desk. It concerned him to think that his good friend, Christian Saunders, could possibly lose control of the company he spent a lifetime creating. And if talk on the street were true ˗ that his company's substantial retained earnings, or accumulated savings, might be used by Gill to finance the hostile takeover ˗ that would add insult to injury.

Simon turned his thoughts to the predator in pursuit of GTL. "So, our old nemesis has resurfaced."

"You are referring to Mr. Prav Gill, of course," Sophia stated. A hologram of Sophia's face had replaced the anchorwoman.

"He has a flair for the dramatic, I'll give him that," Simon stated. "But then again, Christian had his own affinity for theatrics. Sword," he repeated, referring to his friend's creation. "Sounds a little melodramatic, don't you think?"

"Too medieval," Sophia responded. "I think there's more rattle than thrust there."

Simon descended to the main office level, stopping in front of Sophia. "Should we..."

Sophia interjected. "Why didn't you name me Arrow or Shield?"

"Sophia suits you just fine."

"Why?"

Simon smiled. "Because you are the perfect mix of wisdom and intelligence."

"You know how to cut straight to a girl's..."

"Are there any updates on their XNA research?" Simon interrupted, cutting off Sophia's banter.

Simon was referring to Gen Tech's proprietary work in the field of Xenobiology. Known to be leveraging a decade of scientific study, the company's SWORD supercomputer was working toward synthesizing and manipulating biological systems.

Similar to our own DNA structure, XNA, or Xeno Nucleic Acids can store and retrieve genetic information, even evolve on their own. The major difference being they are artificial, synthetically created in a laboratory. Until recently, DNA and XNA existed in separate worlds, neither possessing the ability to recognize the other. Millions of years of evolution fell beyond the reach of the manufactured newcomer, while the human helix remained relatively fragile, incapable of assimilating the more robust, better built man-made gene. Their only commonality? They were equally powerless at inheriting the qualities of the other. This all changed, however, when Sophia developed a unique synthetic sugar, one that could at first imitate the makeup and then inherit the performance of its natural predecessor.

The ground-breaking discovery was PurIntel's contribution to its partnership with Gen Tech Laboratories. The two were successfully working in parallel toward a comprehensive DNA –XNA hybrid when Simon learned of GTL's hostile takeover. Being Stanford University Alumni, each company was kept abreast of the others advances, both possessing files pertinent to the others research. As the takeover bid neared its reality, Christian Saunders agreed to delete everything associated with PurIntel's contribution. Without Sophia's synthetic sugar, GTL's XNA program soon stalled and drifted to a stop. Neither of the two good friends wanted an evolving XNA molecule to fall into Prav Gill's hands.

Nevertheless, Sophia displayed in open space several pages of data pertinent to the partnership. Simon glanced at each before using his right hand to swipe them off-screen. The human genome was shown beside its synthetic counterparts. Data on subsequent polymers were reviewed in turn.

Simon knew the possibilities were endless. A militarily enhanced human would make a formidable foe on the battlefield. Heightened awareness, stamina, and improved healing powers were but a few considered for future deployment. Fear itself might soon be eliminated from the modern warrior's sensory perception.

And while the prospect of emerging revenue streams were poised to drive up Gen Tech's worth on the Dow Jones, a fact not lost on India Pharm's hostile takeover bid, Simon saw the post-theatre applications as the upgraded gene's most compelling feature. Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder could soon be a thing of the past.

For some time, Simon had been running hypothetical scenarios with Sophia, which suggested it might be possible to manipulate the way in which humans commit experiences to memory. Overlaying a synthetic XNA gene onto its brain equivalent, in particular that which dictates the strength of a neuron's membrane, might cause higher potential electrochemical memory pulses to be repelled, thus dissipating across the one hundred billion nerve cells which the human brain possesses. The dual elasticity property of the XNA strand lay at the heart, so to speak, of Simon's assertion.

In theory, a lightning bolt type of experience would be refused entry into any given neuron, thus eliminating the severity of the memory event with which it was associated. After the acute occurrence was attenuated into its residual, less energetic nerve impulse, those consistent with the range of normal memory events, the complex synthesized gene allowed the weaker stimulant to be stored in the same way mundane daily events are captured. Although the implications of eliminating the effect of traumatic experiences on the brain were obvious, vis-à-vis, the importance they represented throughout human evolution, Simon was giving serious consideration to how these and other advancements in PTSD could be used to lessen their effects on combat veterans. How this breakthrough could be utilized to help those troubled by existing conditions remained to be seen. Nevertheless, Simon believed he would eventually find a way to temper Lionel's disability, to reset the neurological clock in his brother's mind.

~

By eleven-thirty the same morning Simon was readying himself to leave his office. While snapping his briefcase closed, his cell phone lit up. It vibrated about on the desk before him, offering the all too evasive, Private Number.

"Simon Taylor," he answered. At the same moment, Samantha walked in. Seeing her boss on the phone, she accepted his glance as her cue to pause before entering further.

"I'm not sure I have time. I'm leaving for JFK in two minutes." Simon turned toward his Executive Assistant. Samantha was, if anything, proficient at making her presence felt. Simon checked his watch. "Alright, same place, in fifteen." Terminating the call, Simon dropped his phone into the pocket of his loose-fitting jeans. He put on his favorite ball cap, threw a leather overnight bag over the shoulder of a light-colored sport coat, and met Samantha halfway to the door.

"Marcus is waiting for you at the usual spot," she instructed, passing Simon his itinerary. The pair walked side by side on their way to the elevator. "Your charter flight leaves at 1:30. You'll be arriving in San Francisco approximately five hours later. Your appointment with Professor Nielson is on campus at 7:30 p.m."

Although Simon rarely agreed to meet prospective beneficiaries of Sophia's capabilities on their own turf, this trip seemed a timely occasion to chance a meeting with someone more important.

Simon and Samantha stopped in front of the elevator. "Isn't that a bit tight?" Simon asked.

"It's a half-hour drive. Your rental will be waiting for you at the airport." Samantha glanced over her sleek glasses. "It's do-able."

"Sorry, for a moment there I forgot who I was speaking with."

"No need to apologize,' she stated as the elevator doors opened.

Simon stepped into the lift. "Is contriteness an attractive color?"

"Timeless," Sam concurred, before the doors closed.

~

Simon walked out of One WTC and onto Vesey Street. Marcus would be near the corner of Greenwich. The adjoining streets had only marginally settled down by now, the financial day having dawned by 7:30. Money enjoyed its immunities, though, and could be recognized at any hour. Its potency was felt by Simon, as sure as the neighboring Wall Street exerted some unseen force on the world. Most days it added value to the human experience through the age-old tenant of remunerating risk. Corporate equity was real, tangible, and almost always redeemable. In other instances, sensational transgressions reinforced how a geographical feature, a mere island, could all too often be defined by a lack of integrity.

Despite the duality of the district's reputation, Simon appreciated the sensation of getting out of the office. The street level air seemed different here, somehow uniquely New York. And while the aromas from sidewalk food vendors were always welcomed by his olfactory sense, some days they were given little time to be savored.

Marcus, Simon's driver, stood beside the rear right door of a dark-blue Escalade. He seemed eager to make eye contact with his boss. Unfortunately, Simon's preoccupation with the street's moneyed vista prevented him from noticing a small group of placard carrying protestors. They recognized him before he saw them, and they were moving to intersect.

"Your car, Mr. Taylor," Marcus almost shouted.

Simon's head turned, but it was too late. They were upon him. "Who gave you the right to play God?" was an accusation all too familiar. "If God wanted this... He would have given us that," others harassed.  
Simon waded through them, having heard and seen most of the faith-based sayings before. As if unconcerned, he stepped into the car. After Marcus closed the door behind him, Simon only looked forward. They were at his window, shouting. "God will punish you for your arrogance!"

_Arrogance?_ Simon thought. _Isn't pretending to know what God wants the height of that very accusation? And debilitating genetic abnormalities are all part of what... some grand design?_

"Sorry, Mr. Taylor," Marcus stated, getting behind the wheel. His New York accent was subtle, definitely east side. A tailored suit was equally well fitting. A tattoo protruding from under the collar of his right sleeve bespoke of an interesting, still emerging storied past.

Marcus had been employed by Simon for three-and-a-half years now, having been selected less for his driving abilities and more for his other, less obvious skills. And although each accepted the fact that the relationship between driver and the driven is sometimes founded on few words, Simon was equally eager to acknowledge that many of the world's oldest, most long-lasting structures had likewise been built and rebuilt on a hand-full of worthy cornerstones.

"It's alright, Marcus." Simon offered, looking out the window of the SUV as it pulled away. "I didn't expect them this soon. They must be the advance guard to this week's genetics convention."

"You'll have to show me how to use this new phone you gave me," he said, quickly glancing over his shoulder. "By the time I figured out the text app, you were coming out the front door."

"Not to worry," Simon reassured again. His attention was drawn to one of the protestors. The man was running, placard in hand, trying to keep pace with the SUV. Marcus pressed down on the accelerator then took a left. It was the disturbing expression on the activist's face that caused Simon to turn and look back. The man appeared desperate, to the point of being dangerous. _The chasm is widening_ , Simon thought.

He welcomed the fact that he and Marcus were well beyond that fork in the road. Those who were willing to embrace technology, and had the financial means to do so, Simon knew they would define one future for humanity. The unwilling, the ideologically driven, the religiously captive, they would join the masses defined by geography, most notably the place on Earth into which they were born.

Simon breathed again. Shaking off the burden of heavy thought, he looked to his left, toward the Hudson River. Near the entrance to the Holland Tunnel, and heading north on West Street, Simon watched Marcus wheel the electric-hybrid to the right. Turning onto Spring Street jogged something in his mind. He realized he had something for Marcus. "You wouldn't want a couple of tickets to a Yankees game, would you?" He reached into and took something out of his inside jacket pocket. "The Blue Jays are in town for a few days."

Marcus glanced into his rear-view mirror and noticed the emblem on his boss's cap, the familiar blue jay and red maple leaf. "What... you're not going to miss your beloved team are you?"

"I've been asked to speak at an upcoming convention," Simon said. Then realizing they had turned down East Houston Street, he added: "You're a good man, Marcus."

"The usual?"

"Yes, Marcus, the usual."

"Anything for you, Mr. Taylor... anything for you."

Moments later Marcus eased the Escalade to a stop in front of his boss's favourite Canadian coffee shop. The logo, which was made all the more equitable when seen abroad, had provided Simon with the necessary caffeine to get through many long nights while earning his Bachelor of Math at the University of Waterloo.

"Tim Horton played for the Maple Leafs, didn't he?" Marcus asked.

Sitting on the right side of the back seat, Simon appeared preoccupied, as if he were looking for someone. "Almost twenty years," he replied, still scanning the sidewalk. "He played for the Rangers for a couple as well." Then Simon saw who he was searching for. "Would you mind parking around the corner?"

"Around the corner? I can do that."

"Thank you, Marcus." Simon fumbled through his pants pocket. "Here," he said, handing a twenty forward. "Would you mind doing the honours? Take your time. I need about ten minutes to get a hold of someone. Get yourself a doughnut or a muffin."

After putting the vehicle in park, Marcus took the money and opened his car door. "Medium double-double, anything else?"

"Just the coffee, thanks." Simon replied.

Simon watched Marcus disappear around the corner to the store's East Houston Street front entrance. He then unlocked his own right rear door and slid over to the left side. In only moments, a man opened the door and climbed inside.

"Good morning, Allan," Simon stated.

"Simon."

It was the pair's third meeting to date, their second having re-established a connection made many years previous.

Their first encounter took place in early 2010 at UCLA's Anderson School of Management. They were both attending the third in a series of conferences entitled: 'The Future of Financial Regulation in America.' At the time, Simon was pursuing his doctorate at the Information Sciences Institute, a research and development unit of USC's Viterbi School of Engineering. He had become part of a team assisting with IBM's Watson project. At the conference, Simon sought out one of its impassioned speakers, the same Allan Forbes, and the pair hit it off right away.

Their common interest? The possibility that cognitive computers might become useful tools in the pursuit of financial criminals. Having sown the seeds of future cooperation nearly two decades earlier, when Allan Forbes finally got the go-ahead to consult outside sources, he knew immediately with whom he should reconnect.

Simon looked at the forty-something man, surmising that his bulky windbreaker and ball cap were only worn as often as they met. Illusionary impressions aside, Simon was eager to focus less on the gifted financial analyst's attire and more on the reason for their meeting. The New York Bureau of the Security and Exchange Commission had recently become the focus of a significant amount of national media attention, largely the result of the maverick style of its new Director, Steven Phelps.

"My boss is arranging a meeting with the Commissioner. He wants to broaden my latest investigation, establish a task force. The Rivera scheme took some time, but this one's bigger, Simon... much more complex."

Simon removed something from his right jacket pocket. "This will give you special access to Sophia's Halo platform," he said, handing a memory device to Allan. "There are only two people who can tap into a higher degree of intelligence, and one of them is me." Simon was referring to the different Halo levels to which his clients subscribe. Retail, commercial, as well as institutional portals were standard packages in addition to the one offered to Allan on a trial basis. Only Simon and Derrick enjoyed greater insight to the world's wisdom.

Allan took the device. "That sounds ominous." Both he and Simon knew the arrangement between PurIntel and the SEC would remain off the books for now. If the relationship proved fruitful, their partnership would expand and eventually go public.

"The way I see it," Simon stated, "the Equity FX deal won't conclude for several more weeks. If the insolvency proceedings don't turn up what you're looking for, you'll have to wait until the new owner is announced. When that entity is made public, you can task Sophia to watch for patterns of activity. I don't think you'll find anything until the hidden investment funds are reanimated."

Allan concurred. "If the aggregate assets were splintered into thousands of smaller amounts, the reconsolidation process will begin slowly, one account at a time. I'm hoping at some point a cascading effect will offer us the lead we're looking for."

Allan was referring to the lost funds associated with the collapse of Equity FX, a wealth management company based in Manhattan. It had become the subject of fraud investigations several years before it finally succumbed to the full weight of tighter banking regulations. Several of its top executives were indicted on charges relating to the disappearance of hundreds of millions of dollars.

In recent years Ponzi schemes had become very proficient at avoiding detection. Sophisticated computer programs were routinely used to provide the perception of legitimate investment vehicles, while complex software dispersed accumulating assets throughout the financial world. Layer upon organizational layer easily led investigators on time-consuming worldwide pursuits. With constant program cuts compounding limited resources, the SEC frequently couldn't sustain the funding that these complex cases required.

"Let's just see how this plays out for a while," Simon said, appearing confident enough for both of them. "Why don't we meet again after the new owner is announced?"

Allan used his right hand to crack to door open. "If Phelps gets the results he's looking for, he's assured me he'll go public with the role PurIntel is playing."

Simon nodded. He fully appreciated the relationship between better governance and a sustainable economy that was unhindered by its detractors, namely greed.

"Until then, I'll get a hold of you in the usual way." At the same time Allan stepped out of the car, Simon slid across and resumed his usual spot. He lowered his window halfway. "If anything else comes up, I'll let you know."

Allan put his sunglasses back on. Looking to his left, he caught a glimpse of Marcus rounding the corner.

"Hey!" Marcus yelled. No further admonishment was needed. Allan quickly turned and hurried down the street. When Marcus approached the Escalade, Simon lowered the window on his car door.

"You should be more careful, Mr. Taylor. You have no idea what motivates some of these people."

Simon chuckled inside. _Actually, I do_ , he said to himself.

Anxious to savor his coffee, Simon rubbed his hands together. "Thank you," he said, as he was handed his paper cup. Marcus seemed less enthused with his steaming beverage. He obviously still belonged to the ranks of the unconverted; those who orbited beyond the gravity of the dark bean. The way Simon described it, most people north of the forty-ninth swooned helplessly under its power. 'The British have their tea, Canadians have their coffee.' Simon often said.

'It's just coffee, for Christ's sake!' Marcus muttered, as he walked to his driver side door.

CHAPTER SIX

Near Tilden Park, north of Berkeley, CA

SIMON'S SELF-DRIVEN RENTAL CAR rolled to a stop. He was accustomed to handing over driving duties to his vehicle's self-navigation system. It allowed him to listen to his favorite tenor quartet, attend to a backlog of electronic correspondence, but as the CEO of a highly valued corporation, freed-up time was most often allocated to business matters.

Simon's custom cell phone had a specialized application that displayed a real-time threat assessment of Sophia's operational integrity. The standard color bar of red through green, and shades thereof, kept him abreast of the threat level with which his cyber protection specialists were presently dealing. He could also scroll through Sophia's task register in order to see how her time was being allocated. With few exceptions, resource management fell under the responsibility of Simon's Director of Operations, Derrick Landry.

While looking at his hand-held device, Simon was happy to see that his daughter had finally activated her Halo account. He would have preferred that she go to a private, more secure university, but negotiations with Jennifer's mother were fruitless. Jennifer and her friend, Stacie, were both adamant about attending Berkeley.

Grizzly Peak Boulevard had just taken Simon north into the Berkeley Hills. Rising some two thousand feet during the unfamiliar drive, the region's favorable vistas would have unreservedly offered themselves along the way, had he not made the trip in the dark. San Francisco Bay and the Pacific lay to the west while the snow-capped Sierra Mountains unfolded to the east. The stunning reveal would have to wait until another visit. Simon had something more personal on his mind.

Turning off his electric vehicle's headlights, Simon gave the tranquility of the rural setting a moment to sink in. He did, in fact, make his meeting with Professor Nielson on time. And yes, the professor did confess to being, as Simon's father suggested, a disciple of Hawking. The educator, Simon found, was nothing if not a typical prof.

Notwithstanding the stereotypes driven home by his own experiences, the erudite aura, the immodest demeanor, sometimes framed by the blazer, loose-fitting pants and loafers, what Simon enjoyed most about their evening meeting was that the tables had been turned. If during his university life Simon felt compelled to re-gift a reaffirming version of what his lecturers dispensed to him ˗ tonight, he was the one presiding over any possible derision of the norm, any speculation not within the framework of anything meticulously tutored.

Simon knew of the item that formed the basis of their meeting. The James Ossuary, as it was known, rose to a measure of fame several decades ago. He actually came face to face with it at the Royal Ontario Museum in Toronto. A young man at the time, Simon attended with his mother. Sadly, it was the last outing the pair enjoyed together. When the item was raised during his meeting with Professor Nielson, a distraction arrived in the form of a related memory. The prof – student dynamic, Simon reflected, was difficult to unlearn.

He remembered his mother's enthusiastic smile throughout the long queue to glimpse the historic relic. Seeing her as more spiritual than religious, he knew she would be fascinated by the assertion that James in the James Ossuary referred to James, Disciple of Jesus; the same James who, by Biblical Scripture, was named as being the brother of Jesus. When the artifact burst onto the scene in 2002, authorities in the fields of antiquities and entertainment competed vociferously to brand the find.

It's most contentious feature was contained in a simple phrase, a  
collection of words and names adding up to seven. They were inscribed into the 2000 year old limestone box by a hand well invested by the period, but the reverberations caused by the chiseler were nothing compared to the chiseled; 'James, son of Joseph, brother of Jesus.'

Indeed, ossuaries were used by Jews of the first century; that unique period in human history which framed the life and death of Christianity's Savior. A closer approximation of their usage was further reduced to the years: 20 BC to 70 AD. They were employed as a cost-saving way of entombing remains of the deceased. First interred in sepulchers, the bodies were allowed to decompose before being laid to rest one last time. This ossuary's bones had been removed, possibly by its original founder, unknown ages ago.

While the undiscovered bones, and any residue thereof, remained the focus of Professor Nielson's interest, it was the inscription on the James Ossuary, which mobilized the doubtful in addition to the faithful.

Scholars on both sides of the argument advanced compelling conclusions. The ossuary itself was deemed genuine, but its Aramaic engraving lacked similar consensus. When the Royal Ontario Museum used ultra violet light to conclude they found 'nothing suspicious' with the inscription, Simon gave greater credence to, what else, the mathematical part of the equation.

While the names James, Jesus and Joseph were very common during the relevant period, advancers of the item's authenticity suggested that, of the thousands of ossuaries discovered, only one has been found with a reference to a brother. This fact forms the basis of the ossuary's importance. Further statistical evidence, which Simon confirmed himself as being ninety-five percent accurate, suggested that only 1.71 men in ancient Jerusalem could have met this unique criterion.

Whether this ossuary really belonged to James, brother of Jesus, Simon knew the facts would remain immaterial to the converted. Yes, the James Ossuary was viewed by many as archaeological evidence that Jesus actually existed, but others saw it as a convincing example of how the faithful wandered senselessly in the dark, eager to embrace anything remotely relevant. Professor Nielson, being a member of the latter camp, saw the artifact as an opportunity to take it one-step further.

Although Simon believed statistical vulnerability should never form the basis of further analytical pursuit, he decided some time ago that he would place only a handful of restrictions on the universities to which Sophia's time was periodically donated. While listening to the professor's pitch, Simon wondered how he would explain this one to his mother. He saw himself in line with her again and imagined how sad he would be to see the smile evaporate from her face.

The Professor was obviously hoping for sensational results; that the so-called 'James Genome' would be found to be blandly typical of the human species. Either way, the subject would be further hashed out during tomorrow's lecture. Professor Nielson had invited Simon to audit his class of second year anthropology students. Simon agreed, offering the caveat: Would his daughter, Jennifer, feel comfortable with the idea? A moment of explanation revealed an uncomfortable fact; they hadn't seen each other for several years.

~

Simon opened the car door, stepped out onto a gravel surface, and found a large illuminated dome dominating the night sky. The fabric-type structure was part of the Blackstone Ranch. Simon recognized the family-owned brand on the horse-riding enclosure as the same that appeared on the invoices that Samantha processed. It was late in the evening now, but this journey began several hours ago, after placing a call to his daughter's mother.

Although married a lifetime ago, the pair's conversation was surprisingly respectful, even cordial. Each could detect in the other's voice a yearning for their relationship to evolve. Further inquiries at the university village led Simon to the Ranch's home/office. It was obvious the small business understood the ten percent rule that he mentioned during his Carnegie Award Ceremony, and with what Jennifer meant to the family-run organization, the ranch's owner was more than happy to point her father in the right direction.

Simon's attention was drawn first to what was being silhouetted against the semi-transparent dome. _Some fanciful trick of lighting must be generating those clever images_ , he thought. A minor distraction then arrived in the form of a car slowing to a crawl on the country road adjacent to the ranch. After coming to a stop on the shoulder, two people emerged, a mother and her young daughter. Simon glanced back to the horse-riding enclosure, realizing what had captured the pair's attention. It was the performance of a pony-tailed rider being projected against the luminous material from the inside. At times the image filled the length and height of the dome.

Walking closer, Simon recalled taking his daughter to a Broadway play, one that utilized full-size horse puppets on stage. Jennifer loved the way their puppeteers made them prance around. Simon easily envisaged two silhouettes of the same effortlessly holding young Jenny's attention. After looking back toward the road he could see the mother and girl pointing toward the grand-scale theatre. With the company's domain name emblazoned across the top of the dome, Simon saw if for what it was, a brilliant bit of marketing.

When Simon opened the nearest door and entered the enclosure, the mother-daughter pair at the road noticed an image of a man likewise projected larger than life. The horse and rider came to an abrupt stop right in front of him.

From her elevated perspective, Jennifer just stared at her unexpected visitor. Simon's visual embrace longed to make up for years of missed opportunities. He wanted his daughter to glimpse in him some small measure of the parental blessings bestowed on the young girl outside. His soul yearned for forgiveness, for a chance at redemption. "I'm sorry it's been so long," Simon offered. He squinted slightly and tilted his head away from the bright lights on the opposite side of the dome.

Jennifer thought to ask how he had found her tonight, but decided against it, remembering the resources at her father's disposal. Her blonde hair was held back in her black helmet, her medium length ponytail descending just passed her shoulders. She glanced down at her riding attire. Her loose fitting long-sleeved shirt matched the well-worn appearance of her light colored slacks. They were tucked into tall boots of a similar usage, brownish in tone. A look of resignation offered an air of having already come to grips with the inevitable, that her father would eventually try to re-establish contact. When Jennifer's eyes finally connected with those of her father's, she knew in her heart it was time to put the past behind them. It was time to move on.

~

Seeing an extended interruption in the horse-choreography, the mother at the roadside guided her daughter back into their nearby car. While rounding the front of the vehicle, she noticed the horse's rider had dismounted. Three objects remained motionless. She opened her driver's side door and took one final look. "Let's go, Mommy," her daughter said, now seated in the back. "Just a minute, Dear," she responded. Her smile became warm-hearted after noticing the silhouetted horse stood alone. Its rider took two steps forward before accepting the full embrace of the person in front of her.

Soon thereafter, Jennifer shut off a heavy switch, extinguishing all but the dome's overhead lighting. She then removed the blinders, which reduced her steed's sensitivity to the floor-level floodlights. While cooling her mount, father and daughter walked and talked. Simon did his best to keep his demeanor in check during their conversation. He was cautious not to indulge any expectations beyond what the moment provided. When Jennifer told him the marketing idea was hers, he couldn't help indulging a small laugh. _I should have known_ , he chuckled to himself. Recovering quickly to a smile, he struggled to contain a renewed sense of happiness; a pleasant mix of joy and contentment had been successfully spliced together as one.

CHAPTER SEVEN

UC Berkeley, Anthropology Dept.

"MANY OF YOU are now familiar with the tabloid headlines," Professor Nielson announced, standing at the front of his class. To further embolden the already salacious caption, he raised his right hand. "Greatest discovery of humankind." The theatrical dimension between his thumb and forefinger suggested a four-inch font. "The God Sequence. Mapped for Eternity!"

Amid a predictable range of audience reaction, the professor exchanged glances with his guest. Simon was seated in the front row, off to his left. In an attempt at being inconspicuous, the near celebrity CEO was dressed casually, so as not to become the focus of a distraction. Though many attending the lecture knew their fellow student had a famous father, only the faintest of murmurs confirmed his presence.

"Yes, the immutable power of the press," Nielson said, lethargically. "But before we move on with this, our latest series of lectures, let me take a moment to confirm a few suspicions that seem to be percolating up from our front rows."

Professor Nielson looked over to his left and found his guest suppressing a smile during an acknowledging nod. Like many Berkeley lecture halls, this classroom rose upward, similar to that of an amphitheater. Its two-hundred seat capacity was nearly three quarters filled with second year anthropology students.

"If you would allow me to direct your attention to the front," Nielson stated, gesturing with his left hand. "It gives me great pleasure to announce that we have a special guest today. Yes, and as guests go, I can assure you few are as deserving of being recognized for their achievements." As the professor continued with his introduction, each successive tribute made more than just Simon uncomfortable.

"I'm not sure I'm ready for this," Jennifer anguished. She was seated halfway up the theatre, on the opposite side.

The girl sitting beside her leaned forward and looked down to her right. "Hey, is... is that your father?" Stacie asked.

Jennifer became the portrait of uncertainty. She only nodded her head.

"I thought you weren't on speaking terms."

"I'll explain later."

Professor Nielson finally concluded by stating: "Please let me introduce the Chairman of PurIntel, Doctor Simon Taylor."

Simon stood up and casually buttoned his tan-colored blazer. He nodded modestly, as if a reluctant recipient of the room's polite applause.

"Doctor Taylor has offered the services of his company's supercomputer to Berkeley University." Simon returned the professor's admiring glance. "Yes, a valuable measure of Sophia's time will soon be divided between the departments of Economics, Environmental Health and of course, Anthropology. Thank you very much, Doctor Taylor for your generous and valuable contribution to science."

"It is my pleasure," Simon said, smiling awkwardly.

"And please feel free to interject at any point in today's lecture. We'd be more than happy to consider any reflections you may have on the subject matter."

While Simon felt relieved to return to his seat, his daughter remained somewhat embarrassed. She strained a glance toward her father. "Tell me that girl is not..."

"Yep," Stacie interjected. "I think she's trying to get your father's autograph."

Jennifer slunk into her seat before putting her hand over her eyes. "This is horrible."

The professor cleared his throat, indicating the session would resume. A broad lecture table lay before him, while two large video screens hung behind his left and right.

"The God Sequence," he repeated, after consulting his notes. "Does it exist? Can it exist? Any thoughts on that audacious headline?" he asked, throwing it out to his students.

The class remained silent.

"Then I'll ask you this: to what degree have the artifacts of religion become irrelevant?"

Again, silence. "Are we beyond the age old battles between religion and science? Does God even matter these days?" the professor added, trying to elicit a response.

"Of course He matters," a voice shouted. All eyes turned to a student seated several rows behind Simon. The girl was obviously offended by the professor's flagrant dismissal of God. She had little choice in attending the core anthropology course; Intro to Skeletal Biology and Bioarcheology. What she didn't realize, though, was that her professor was frequently too eager to turn their latest 'Religious Artifacts' component into an examination of the relevance of theology itself.

While Jennifer joined her classmates in watching the girl pack up her things, her friend, Stacie Turner nudged her. "Say something. Tell him what you told me."

Jennifer resisted the desire to lash out verbally. Stacie's efforts, on the other hand, fell considerably short. "It does matter, Sandra!" Stacie shouted. Their friend stopped in her tracks. Only steps from the classroom door, Sandra turned and momentarily stared at her defender.

"Please explain," Nielson interjected, glancing from Sandra to the upper rows.

Stacie's pause allowed a poignant, heartfelt visual exchange between the two girls. A tearful Sandra then glared at her professor before storming out of the room.

The professor prompted Jennifer's friend further. "Why does the so called 'God Sequence' matter, Miss Turner? I for one intend to prove it does not exist, that the genome recently derived from the James Ossuary bones is routinely human, that it contains no heavenly helix, no Divine mutation."

Professor Nielson's students knew he was referring to the stunning announcement, which accompanied the James Ossuary's recent debut at the prestigious National History Museum of Los Angeles. In the lead up to the exhibit's opening day, a sensational revelation, originating in the Middle East, suggested the lost James Ossuary bones had, in fact, been discovered. While the timing of such claims were usually reserved for the weeks leading up to Easter, the surfacing of the James Ossuary Bones, as they became known, was humoured by many as a shameless Hollywood-style promotion of the Los Angeles event.

The fact that a member of the Israeli Antiquities Society confirmed a paleographic examination of the skeletal remains as being consistent with the geochemistry of the original ossuary find only added to the hype surrounding the already controversial artifact. When Simon read the pre-exhibit advertising, he was tempted by a sacrilegious vision; a reanimated version of James would soon be talking about his Divine ancestral lineage with actor Ben Stiller. The Night at the Museum movie series would undoubtedly be revived.

Professor Nielson had reviewed the evidence in a previous class, which pointed to the possible authenticity of the new discovery. He underscored the claim's micro-analysis and how it could, in this case, be interpreted as revealing two things: that a chalky substance embedded in the bones bore a ninety percentile resemblance to that of the ossuary in question, and that trace elements of the soil, which tied the ossuary to the sight where James was actually martyred, were also found on the bones. Again, the Professor thought to himself; those well invested in faith will look no further.

In an attempt to restrain her friend, Jennifer grabbed Stacie's arm. "Do you want an F?" she quietly implored.

"He can't give me an F if I withdraw first," Stacie stated, while getting up from her chair. "Look, if you don't say something, I will."

"Have you anything to add to this debate, Miss Turner?" Professor Nielson asked.

Jennifer's eyes begged her friend not to leave. "Please, Stacie."

"Are you going to speak up or not?" she glared.

Jennifer's nodding agreement convinced Stacie to acquiesce, if only temporarily.

"Perhaps another time?" Nielson added, rhetorically.

Stacie tempered her indignation before retaking her seat.

"Moving along, then," the professor announced. "If you will direct your attention to the monitors on my left and right, you'll recognize the phylogenetic tree of life." The professor looked upward at his class, before moving about casually. The three-and-a-half billion-year-old tree remained captured on the screen to his left, while the one on his right evolved quickly through millions of evolutionary branches. With three significant offshoots and just five-hundred million years to go, the video slowed in order to focus on one small twig on the top right corner of the tree. Professor Nielson continued unscripted. "Now who can remind me how closely we are genetically related to... say a chimpanzee?"

"99 percent," a voice answered."

"And we split from that ancestor when?"

"Approximately 6 million years ago," another offered.

"How about a mouse?" Nielson continued.

"90 percent genetic similarity and that branch occurred some 100 million years ago."

"Thank you, Mark. How about... let's say a simple yeast?"

No answer was immediately forthcoming. "Alright,' the professor quickly relented. "Our human genome is 30 percent similar to that of common yeast. Yeah, that's the stuff that makes your sandwich bread rise." The professor paused just long enough for a light-hearted laughter to subside. "Yes, we can trace that unique relative back to something in the neighborhood of 1.5 billion years."

"We should also be aware by now of how all of this similarity is coded in only two percent of our genome; the other ninety-eight percent being 'dark,' archived pairs still relegated to obscure regions of our ancestry.

"Having said that, today I want to demonstrate not only how our ancestors are related biologically, but how their distant civilizations can be further connected both geographically and chronologically. Connected to what, you might ask? To every event that defined human history. I like to think of it as a multi-dimensional look back through time. I'm suggesting the title: Humanity in 3D." The professor turned to Simon and prompted: "Doctor Taylor."

"Thank you, Professor Nielson," Simon stated, getting up from his chair. He buttoned his coat while moving towards the large desk at the front of the class. He pulled from his coat pockets three devices, which would soon help explain the real reason for deploying Sophia's resources on the professor's behalf. After spacing them equally on the desk, he took several paces to his left. The professor took up a position off to the right.

Simon smiled up at Jennifer before beginning: "Your professor has eloquently described how closely we are related to our distant ancestors." The first device on Simon's far right projected a holographic image of simple organisms evolving into higher life forms.

"You have also learned in various history classes of the well-documented societies that have punctuated our illustrious past." The device on the opposite side of the table, closest to him, came to life. The earliest examples of recorded history scrolled forth in their three dimensional form.

"But what you will glimpse today is how your history can be combined with your world in order to better understand your past." The third device instantly projected a rotating globe above the desk. It was much larger in size than the two flanking scenes. Smiles and gasps accompanied an amazed audience as the mega-continent Pangea showed signs of cracking apart.

"Soon to be deployed on your behalf, the supercomputer, Sophia, will be instructed to assemble every single archaeological remnant the Earth has to offer. Every bone fragment that has ever been catalogued, every rock sampled, ice-core drilled, every bit of data that connects paleontology with geography will be cross-referenced."

The rotating globe slowed as rays of light from the first device were beamed onto a nearly still earth. A cloud of noxious gas hung over the Earth during the second last of five known extinction level events. Visualizations of the life it suffocated were offered up from the first device. When the vapor cleared, the globe seemed barren. It took nearly ten million years for life to re-establish itself. Dinosaurs of every type were displayed in turn beside the hollow, see-through Earth. When an asteroid came into view, everyone knew what was coming next. The impact caused a fireball to disperse over the planet. Again, on the left, animated dinosaurs fell where they stood.

As Simon's narrative continued, three-dimensional humans began to walk upright. Their fossilized remains were beamed onto a newly formed African continent. Ice descended from the north only to retreat more than ten times during a period not restricted to one-and-a-half million years. The familiar twenty-four hour clock depicting a timeline of the Earth's entire history was soon found to be ticking away above the third device. The hour was late, only three minutes remained. All record of modern human achievement would transpire in the timepiece's last few seconds.

"Every scrap of papyrus will be studied, every dialect decoded. Sophia will connect every human event with its geographic and geological counterpart. More importantly for you, every available strand of bioarcheology will be sequenced against its modern geographic contemporary. This will be undertaken in order that you better understand ancient, historical migrations. Animal data will supplement that of our hunter-gatherer relatives."

"The cataclysmic events, which the Earth thrust upon its occupants, will be correlated with relevant archaeological and geo-chemical data. The decline of the world's most noteworthy empires will be mapped and understood within their proper three-dimensional context."

On the slowly rotating globe, the massive eruption of the Indonesian volcano Krakatau in 535 AD, and the subsequent climate disaster it caused, was followed by a dispersal of the area's human occupants. A pall seemed to drift over Europe, the Dark Ages ensued. The fall of the Mayan Empire was followed by the assimilation of its surviving progeny into surrounding geographic regions. Migrations of humanity were depicted by lines fleeing destruction on an animated global scale.

"I don't know about you," Simon said, smiling, "but I'm excited to see the results."

When clock's hands met at the top, the images contracted back into their respective devices. "Sophia will begin her task as soon as I return to New York. I expect Professor Nielson will be presenting her results before the end of this term," Simon concluded.

"Thank you, Doctor Taylor, for that wonderful presentation," the professor announced.

Simon acknowledged Professor Nielson with a nod and a smile. He made his way toward the three devices before the professor caught his attention. "You wouldn't mind leaving those behind, would you?" he joked.

Simon laughed. "I'm sorry I need them for an upcoming conference."

Professor Nielson shrugged in disappointment while resuming his position behind his desk. He looked out over his audience. "Does anyone have a question for Doctor Taylor while we have him?" The Professor turned to Simon. "You don't mind, do you?"

"Of course not," Simon replied.

"Alright then, if anyone has a question, this is your chance, so please speak up."

A voice rose from the crowd. "I heard that approximately seventy-five thousand years ago a geological event reduced the earth's human population to near extinction; something in the range of some two-thousand people. Do you think Sophia will be able to trace the ancestry of everyone in this room to those two-thousand individuals?"

"A very good question, Judith," Professor Nielson proudly stated.

"If there is evidence of any kind out there," Simon responded, "data on any event, structured or unstructured, however obscure, Sophia will cross-reference that occurrence from as many angles as is possible. If something that big took place, it shouldn't be difficult to corroborate."

The professor hoped for more intelligence to be reflected in his class. "Anything else?"

An awkward pause was followed by a sheepish voice emanating from the second row. "They say Sophia's face is a composite of the world's most beautiful women. Is that true?"

Professor Nielson's heavy sigh was followed by a female voice. "That would make her the smartest and most beautiful woman in human history."

"Don't you find her intimidating, Doctor Taylor?" a male student asked.

The professor was not amused. "Alright, that's enough from our contingent of tabloid reporters. Does anyone have a question pertaining to today's lecture?"

This time Professor Nielson was quick to stifle any further embarrassment.

"Because if that's all there is, I think we should offer Doctor Taylor a sign of our appreciation." But before Nielson could raise his hands to clap, a voice hollered out from the back right. "Do you think Sophia will disprove the existence of God?"

Jennifer scolded Stacie. "What are you doing?"

Stacie shrugged and said: "You promised you'd say something."

CHAPTER EIGHT

"SORRY," the professor stated, looking upward. "Would you please repeat the question?"

Stacie slunk down in her seat. "The God Sequence," she repeated, before clearing her throat.

Simon looked up toward the voice and saw his daughter trying to deflect any further inquiry. Very reluctantly, she inched forward in her chair.

Simon spoke up. "You want to know if Sophia will disprove the existence of the so-called God Sequence?" At this point, neither he nor the professor knew with whom they were speaking.

With Stacie's verbal and physical prompts, Jennifer finally got the nerve to stand. "Uhm, isn't it true," Jennifer stuttered, before gaining a measure of composure. "Isn't it true, Professor Nielson, that it is difficult to prove a negative?"

Simon looked up at Jennifer with trepidation. With their renewed relationship only hours old, he looked to the professor to carry the argument on his own.

"If you're referring," the professor answered, "to the well-known quote, absence of evidence is not evidence of absence, I would counter with something offered by a mentor of mine. Carl Sagan suggested we should not so quickly indulge impatience with ambiguity. The null result is empirically significant."

"That may be so," Jennifer said, trying to get her argument off the ground.

"There is no may be so on this one, Ms. Taylor," Professor Nielson interjected. "Inductive reasoning will be a valid means to defend your thesis."

"Then what is this elusive 'God Sequence' if it is not simply a collection of genes which might determine one's morality?" Jennifer asked. "I mean, maybe someday these rumors will be confirmed ˗ that the virtues are close to being mapped. Isn't that what the tree of life is all about? Are we not all a work in progress, clinging to some branch, struggling toward becoming a better species... a higher being? Are we not all here to investigate that journey?" Jennifer asked, more confidently.

Although she was settling in with the attention she was now drawing, it still required some effort to remain focused. "I, for one, subscribe to the growing belief that certain genes influence different types of behaviors, good and bad, and that the love gene will not only be confirmed in humans, but many other species on that tree as well."

Jennifer paused to regroup. She glanced at her father and was happy to recognize the expression on his face. Simon's sense of pride was accentuated by a nod of encouragement.

"Yes, many of us have read the same rumors, Ms. Taylor," Professor Nielson remarked. "And thank you for bringing this discussion back to today's topic. Are you suggesting that love, as we know it, is present throughout the entire animal kingdom?"

"As we humans understand it, possibly not, but that doesn't mean it doesn't exist in animals. I mean, who would deny it's not in some form present in animals both domestic and wild. Instinct may be on one end of the continuum, Professor Nielson, but a more perfect version of love, possibly Divine, might indeed reside on the other."

"Then is love more than just an emotion?" Simon asked.

"Research has already revealed that, like every emotion, love is an amplifier through which our experiences are committed to memory."

"You seemed to have spent a lot of time on this subject, Ms. Taylor," the professor stated. "I assume it will be the subject of your final paper?"

Professor Nielson turned to Simon and gave him a subtle nod of acknowledgement. "Does anyone else want to add any thoughts, provide any supporting examples to the discussion?" he asked.

"What about species which mate for life?" Judith asked. "A cohesive social structure is a well-documented survival advantage."

"Excellent," professor Nielson agreed.

"Studies have shown," a male voice offered, "that many animals are acutely aware of their fellow species' body language, visual responses. These are key survival mechanisms. If one can differentiate them, it stands to reason a species would possess their own reference points to interpret them."

"There's logic in your point, Mr. Stuart, thank you for that. Any more examples?"

Without any further opinions being offered, Professor Nielson turned to Simon. "What do you think, Doctor Taylor? Is science finally breaking free from the age of religion?"

"Possibly, although based on the resistance I've experienced in the field of genetics, I'm not quite sure. I have to say," Simon added, smiling, "I still prefer peer review over traditional forms of judgement."

Professor Nielson joined his class in appreciating his guest's sense of humor. "Many would say we are living in the golden age of science; that without the burden imposed on Copernicus and Galileo we might one day achieve immortality itself."

"That maybe so," Simon agreed, "but if these great scientists taught us anything it is this ˗ pursue the science even when it is unpopular to do so, for in your discoveries you will find the truth about your world and yourself. If you value excellence, avoid shortcuts, especially the ones that draw you into the sphere of popular opinion. Treat the social contagion like it is a black hole. Defy its gravity and your name may become synonymous with those Professor Nielson just mentioned."

"Wasn't Bruno burned at the stake for his beliefs?" Judith interjected.

"He was," Professor Nielson agreed. "Among his other 16th century assertions, he claimed that our sun was just one of many stars, that our universe contained an unimaginable number of habitable worlds."

Professor Nielson noticed the time. His class was almost over. He looked up and noticed Jennifer was still standing. "Do you have anything further to add, Ms. Taylor?"

"If Bruno allowed me to further his claim, I would suggest one day we will discover another constant in our universe; that insofar as a higher life-form was inevitable on this planet, it will surely someday be discovered on another world. And when it is, we will find it is on the same continuum as we are, struggling toward a better version of their present existence."

Professor Nielson looked somewhat bewildered. "You're suggesting..."

"I am suggesting, Professor, that, similar to life itself, some day we will discover that love is a constant in our universe; that despite all attempts to prove otherwise, from this one realization will come the perfect marriage of science and spirituality."

Looking downward, Jennifer realized her whole class was staring at her. They seemed stunned by her intelligent argument.

"That's my girl," Stacie said, proudly.

Jennifer feigned a smile, before looking beyond her class. Her father was the only one without a deadpanned expression. His smile beamed ear to ear.

CHAPTER NINE

One World Trade Center, NYC

"SO, DO YOU THINK you'll go?" Simon asked, while on the phone with Rose. They were both still at the office, working well into a Friday evening. Rose's UNESCO Liaison office was located within New York's UN Headquarters, and although her organization promoted international peace and universal respect for human rights the world over, she was currently considering matters closer to home.

"At the moment, I'm leaning toward, yes," Rose admitted. She looked at the stilled image on her laptop and then to the display of white lotus flowers on her desk. The recent delivery was obviously a peace offering ˗ white signifying purity and the lotus representing the national flower of India. Having signed for the unusual aquatic arrangement, the deliveryman must have activated an electronic confirmation to the sender, because a pre-recorded video message arrived on Rose's computer soon thereafter. It was her brother's latest attempt at reconciling their differences.

Rose stared at the on-screen bust of her brother. His dark hair and manicured three-day beard only partly concealed his striking, yet severe face. A cream-colored blazer further buoyed his contrite demeanor. She recognized the video's backdrop as being consistent with the stately luxury to which he was accustomed. "I'm in town to complete the Gen Tech deal," he suggested, during his short monologue. "I was hoping to discuss some family matters with you personally before I return home. Our Hindu faith teaches us to free ourselves from passed transgressions. I am truly sorry for the hurt I have caused you. I am not asking you to forget, only forgive. Please, Roshnie, time is of the essence. We need to talk."

Rose looked out her west-facing window and saw the world's slimmest high-rise off in the distance. Despite its daring street-level footprint, the thirteen-hundred foot tower knifed through the diminishing Manhattan sunset. Simon's residence was located on the eighty-fourth floor. Even the sight of it sent shivers through her spine; subsequent impulses raced toward her amygdala, the lobe of the brain associated with fear. With each floor representing the sum of only a 100-foot square, Simon's two levels seemed to tempt several laws of nature. Rose swung around in her chair; she had to look away. The memory of taking in the Central Park view from Simon's flat revived the distinct feeling of swaying in the wind.

"I think you should go," Simon said. He touched his glass composite computer screen and enlarged a picture he had taken of Rose. "I thought I'd never say it, but I think I can relate to your brother on this one."

Rose remembered the look on Simon's face when he told her that he and Jennifer were back on speaking terms. She put her cellphone down on the desk and switched to hands-free. Her black dress bore the familiar designer cut and was equally fitting to the responsibility she was accruing at UNESCO. Their conversation was relaxed, almost intermittent. "He's sending a car for eight o-clock."

"He's expecting you, then?" Simon said, glancing at the beautiful photo of Rose on his computer screen. The bottom right corner of the monitor caught his eye next. It was almost eight o'clock. Simon's attention was further diverted to his office door. It was Derrick Landry. Seeing his boss on the phone, he stood at the doorway until Simon waved him in.

Rose sat back in her chair. "I can still send the car away."

"He's confident... but wise enough not to take you for granted," Simon said, simultaneously acknowledging Derrick's arrival at the side of his desk. Derrick glanced to his right, at the frozen-in-time scene within Sophia's holographic space. He recognized the figures as those who made up Simon's favorite rock band, U2. Simon had obviously paused the three dimensional concert when Rose's call came through. It didn't bother Derrick that his presence had reduced his boss's conversation to a few polite agreements. Simon was letting Rose do most of the talking.

Derrick imperceptibly shook his head. He never understood his boss's penchant for retro technology, his bulky record player, his love of 1970s, 80s, and 90s music, as well as grainy black and white movies. But what he did appreciate was Simon's taste in women.

Simon noticed his DO's eyes were glued to the picture of Rose. In any pose, she appeared very striking. Derrick was disappointed when his superior leaned forward in his chair and minimized the on-screen photo. It wasn't that Simon felt possessive, it's just he was acutely aware of his second-in-command's notorious past.

Derrick Landry was recruited by Simon several years back, having risen to some prominence at one of Wall Street's top brokerage houses. Derrick, a brilliant mathematician himself, developed groundbreaking encryption solutions for his employer more than a decade ago. Although the financial rewards were incredibly lucrative, Derrick found himself immersed in a lifestyle that ultimately led to addiction and divorce. The intervening years represented an arduous journey for Derrick, but they allowed him to overcome his past and become sober for more than five years. Simon's present concerns, however, had less to do with Derrick's conquered demons and more to do with those which simmered on; his DO's weakness for beautiful women, those who flowed freely with every known intoxicant through the highest levels of Manhattan's financial elite.

While Simon waited for an opportunity to interject, Derrick passed him a memory device, an update, most likely, to a file on which he was working.

Unaware she was carrying the conversation, Rose continued. "You know, he reminds me of..." she stopped mid-sentence. Her office phone rang out. She hesitated, then asked: "Do you mind if I take this?"

"No, go ahead," Simon replied.

Rose pressed the speakerphone button. "Yes," she answered.

The voice was from the front gate security checkpoint. "Ms. Gill, were you expecting a car this evening?"

"Yes, I was. Sorry for not informing you earlier."

"That's quite alright, Ms. Gill," the officer stated. "I'll let him through, then?"

Simon detected an extended pause.

"Ms. Gill?" the voice asked again.

"Yes, tell him... tell him I'll be right down." She reached for her office phone and terminated the call.

"I'm sure everything will go fine," Simon offered.

Rose seemed unconvinced. "Promise?"

"Would you like me to pick you up afterwards? We could go for a drink."

"If you're trying to get me back up to that apartment of yours, I'll need more than one drink." Rose got up from her chair and readied herself to leave.

Simon smiled. "That can be arranged."

CHAPTER TEN

WHILE SITTING in the left rear seat of the limousine, Rose used her right hand to massage away the tenseness in her neck. The FDR was taking her around the eastern perimeter of Manhattan Island. She turned to her left, toward the borough of Queens, but before her eyes could look out over the East River, she caught her driver stealing a glance in his rear-view mirror.

Like most beautiful women, Rose had accustomed herself to such attention at too young an age. At first it was unsettling to see older boys, even men casting extended appraisals. She hadn't yet been equipped to put that sort of attention into any sort of perspective, but as time went on she became more adept at dealing with inquiring eyes. Sometimes she stared them down, even embarrassed the onlooker with a contemptuous, startling expression. A young Roshnie often found herself looking to her maternal reflection for reassurance. _Such is the fate, my child_ , her mother empathized, _of one so outwardly blessed_.

With an inner zeal to define oneself by things less physical, Rose eventually earned her place within the family business, having achieved her Masters in Biosciences from India's Institute of Technology. After accomplishing what few women in her extended family had experienced thus far, she also acquiesced to the fact that beauty does not come without its perks. Indeed, she could have any man she wanted. Wealth was equally surmountable. For Rose, though, meaningful love remained elusive. Although she was the progeny of a prearranged marriage, her mother insisted her daughter would not be promised to a predetermined future.

Nevertheless, a small number of relationships, save for one, went unfulfilled. The pedestal Rose sometimes found herself on was frequently unrewarding, almost dehumanizing. She therefore found few aspects of the past worth reliving, even worthy of reflection. So with her drive transitioning from the old country back to the new, the elevated FDR Highway offered up the only calming influence at its disposal: The East River. It helped her think of things similar in nature, of Simon, and how he treated her. She could feel herself wanting to spend more time with him. She longed for that type of love, that contentment, and realized only too poignantly that she wanted to experience it again, soon.

"Damn!" her driver muttered.

Rose leaned forward. Her driver was obviously annoyed. Rose thought to inquire, but an inquisitive glance was enough to garner a response.

"The self-drivers are all getting off at the 23rd," her chauffeur offered.

Rose looked ahead and noticed they were the only car that passed the 23rd Street exit. She glanced out the rear window and noticed all of the self-driven cars slowing before dutifully filing off the FDR. An accident ahead must have caused them to choose an alternate, unobstructed route.

"Sorry, Ma'am, but my on-board nav (navigation) updates are never as quick as theirs."

It took only milliseconds for New York's Traffic Management  
System to realize a bottleneck of sorts was occurring further up the highway. Rose's driver knew only autonomous vehicles were allowed to pull off to the right and then, when the way was clear, backup on the shoulder of a redirected highway. Self-drivers were courteous to a fault, much more than their human counterparts, and always allowed other vehicles to safely merge into moving traffic. Those past the point of no return, so to speak, would have to continue on and suffer through any impending annoyance.

Once again, Rose caught the eye of her driver in his rear-view mirror. "I hope you don't mind being delayed?" he asked.

"That's alright," she said, sitting back in her seat. "I'm in no hurry to make this appointment."

If Rose lamented the fact that she had become the victim of less proficient technology, it wasn't for a lack of embracing it. Rose frequently utilized the UN's pool of electric autonomous vehicles. AVs, as they were called, were everywhere now. The automobile, like many of its industrialized counterparts, had finally reached the fourth and final phase of its existence. It had become ubiquitous.

Driverless vehicles came with the added perk of cheaper licensing. Lower insurance rates also reflected the single most prevalent factor involved in most collisions, human error.

In addition, like many other major cities of the world, traditional automobiles were shunned within the downtown core. In fact, many people were now purchasing access to AV's much in the same way they bought bandwidth for their electronic devices. It could be said, the Island of Manhattan was becoming synonymous with autonomous driving.

Rose's corporate car, on the other hand, was something of a throwback to times less restrained. Prav Gill's newly acquired corporation, Gen Tech Laboratories, had built its reputation on the un-manned drone and therefore embraced autonomous or remotely piloted vehicles long ago. But Rose knew her brother had a preference for things more discriminating and culturally refined. It made her smile knowing that the technological resources at her brother's disposal were being made ineffectual by the most powerful entity on any roadway ˗ the traffic control robot wielding the Stop and Slow sign.

Both driver and passenger couldn't mistake the unique smell of  
asphalt. It wasn't an old-fashioned highway 'accident' after all. It was another demonstration of crumbling infrastructure; an emergency road repair was underway. The constant electronic 'hand-shaking' between Traffic Management and autonomous vehicles provided AVs with an advantage over commercially available navigation systems. It was painfully obvious to Rose's driver that they always seemed one-step ahead.

With all lanes now diverted into one, Rose's limousine had to wait until the Stop sign was turned to Slow and the self-driven cars were allowed to pass through the construction zone first. "Would you like a refreshment of any kind, Ma'am?" her driver asked.

"I'm fine, thank you," Rose replied.

She opened her purse in order to pull out a mid-sized tablet. With password inserted, she decided to review the file she had sent Simon earlier in the day. It was a first draft tutorial meant to bring interested UN staff and delegates up to speed on the latest developments in retail genetics. The field of epigenetics had been around for some time, but in recent years it had been expanding at an exponential rate. Rose had just been asked to be part of an IBC (International Bioethics Committee) task force charged with designing a framework of guidelines for the rapidly expanding sector.

She scrolled through a draft presentation for the initial working group and then switched over to a series of correspondences. 'In the interests of full disclosure,' she informed Simon, during one series of texts, 'I'll have to let my superior know I'm in a relationship with one of the key players in the industry.' Rose remembered holding her breath, hoping Simon's reply would confirm what she felt was her 'relationship status.'

After a short pause, Simon offered the reply Rose was looking for. 'I think that would be wise. I wouldn't want to undermine your credibility.'

Rose smiled, breathing again. 'Your reputation would only add to the report's stature. Besides, it's only a working group for now.'

If it were a full-blown committee, they agreed, that might be another story. Detractors aside, most in the industry agreed PurIntel had an impeccable reputation for leading the genetic world in a sustainable, ethical direction.

Rose allowed herself to relax back into her comfortable leather seat. A subtle sigh testified to the fact that she had already spent a lot of time on the file. She closed her presentation, her tablet, and then her eyes. Just then the driver of the limo offered: "It won't be long now, Ma'am." The traffic-bot was finally allowing them through.

Although Rose's thoughts were soon redirected as well, to her meeting with her brother, she found herself reluctant to divert her concentration from Simon entirely. If only they could go for that drink right now. With a range of emotions accompanying the rest of her journey, she felt herself being transported to a distant memory from a lifetime ago. It was her very first relationship, one that offered some perspective on why it had taken her so long to find only the second man she truly loved.

As her limousine drove on, Rose touched the necklace descending from her neck. It felt as if her father was clasping it behind her for the first time.

~

Rose remembered turning sixteen. The family party was wonderful; almost everyone she loved was there. Her mother always made sure her birthdays were special.

The occasion was everything a young girl could ask for, but if anything was missing, it was a gift promised earlier in the day. It would be presented to her later, at a time when she was alone.

Night had descended, the celebration having concluded some time ago. Rose opened her second floor bedroom window, giving access to more than the sultry summer breeze. The family estate represented an expanse of some acreage, its historic residence so grand it testified to a lineage almost royal. The bedroom wing was a complexity of rooftop a-frames, turrets, and dormers, easily navigated, however, by one whose dexterity was enhanced by an ageless emotion.

Rose helped her young lover through the opened window, stumbling, laughing, wanting to hug him before he was entirely through. He was so lovely, she felt. She couldn't help desiring his shirtless, light colored skin. He was two years older than Rose, the grandson of their nearly retired head grounds-keeper. When she stepped back, Sajan pulled his own gift from his pocket. Knowing it would be something hand-made, possibly another necklace, she had removed the one her parents had previously gifted. Rose felt the warmth of Sajan's breath in her hair, as he fastened his offering from behind. Suddenly, a knock was heard at the door, startling them both.

"Quick, hide in my dressing room," Rose whispered, almost too loudly.

The scuffle of feet was detectable from outside her bedroom. Rose opened the door, slowly. She feared it would be her mother, but worse ˗ it was Praveen.

"What do you want?" she asked, forcefully.

Her brother pushed his way in, half-knowing what was most likely taking place. He had been aware of the budding relationship for some time. When Rose turned to physically prevent him from entering the room any further, she didn't notice her brother catch a glimpse of the newly adorned necklace.

Prav stopped in the middle of the room, acting like a sibling many years his senior. "You're alone are you?"

Rose stood several paces away. "Of course I am." By now Rose was so incensed by her brother's intrusion that she forgot about her young lover's gift.

"I thought I heard voices," Prav said, trying not to glance at the incriminating necklace.

"What gives you the right..." Rose blurted.

"Alright, alright," Prav acquiesced, before retreating to the door. "But don't come to me when you need someone to pull him off you."

"Get out, you bastard!" she blasted.

Prav stopped at the door and turned toward Rose. His aloof demeanor was not lost on his simmering sister. In a purposeful delaying tactic, he opened his mouth to say something, knowing Rose would beat him to the punch.

"Out!" she growled.

In the time it took for Prav to let his head droop acrimoniously, he devilishly slipped something into the slot into which Rose's bedroom door would have to latch. He offered one more inflammatory smile before closing the door behind him. He knew his sister would rush over and latch the doorknob, giving her the misperception she was locking the door. He held the door closed from the outside so as to not let it drift open on its own. His plan had obviously been in the works for some time, as he used his own door locking mechanism to fabricate the small block of wood required to defeat his sister's. Prav drifted down the hall with ulterior intentions.

It took some time for Sajan to ease the contempt out of Rose, but as her consoler persisted with caressing hands, so was her annoyance assuaged by a mutual desire to embrace one another. Rose fell back onto the bed where they were sitting. Their love for each other was made all the more compelling by its daring nature. Rose knew her father would furiously disapprove, but that didn't matter now. Nothing mattered,  
except for Sajan.

Soon their half-clothed bodies felt the passion of the other. Sajan was on top; his skin bringing Rose's alive in turn. It seemed so fitting, so innocent to make love to one you so helplessly adored. Rose gave herself over to Sajan, willingly, lovingly. The notion he would be her first sexual encounter barely tempered her desire. But before the moment could be sealed for eternity, Rose's eyes were defocused from her lover and were drawn to her bedroom door. It was opening, and someone was walking in. It was Prav. He stood motionless; his stature bore an accuser's demeanor.

Sajan grabbed for a blanket to cover himself and Rose. With a sinister grin, Prav pulled a camera.

"No!" Rose screamed. Before she could cover her face, the flash went off. Prav chuckled at the photo's poignant expressions; the accompanying date sealing the moment for all time. He took one look at Sajan then his sister, before walking out of the room in triumph.

Whether it was out of spite or simple jealousy, Prav had something to hold over his sister for time immemorial. A threatening narrative to the photo was uttered the next day. If she wanted to avoid the shame, the fury of her parents' accusations, she would have to never see Sajan again.

Prav eventually convinced his father that Sajan's intellect was wasting away among their estate's flora. The young gardener-apprentice was soon sent off to an exclusive private school with his grandfather's full endorsement, the budding botanist's tuition being as much an investment as it was an unexpected reward for a lifetime of loyal service to the Gill family. Rose was heartbroken.

She would ruminate for years to come on how that one event became the foundation for future relationships. In the months ahead, Rose felt powerless to get out from under her brother's thumb. She eventually did, though. In the same way every cornered animal resigns itself to an inevitable outcome, so did Rose find a resolve in her contempt for Prav's self-righteous morality.

When she discovered how easily, how willingly men would accomplice themselves to her impulsive, vengeful plan, she set out to embarrass her brother into submission. Rose decided to turn the tables on Prav by having sex with whomever she pleased. Worse still, she engaged in the carnal compulsion with little concern for being caught in the act. The more daring the better, Rose initially thought. But revenge soon gave way to something darker. It was strangely empowering to be the exclusive barterer to severances of her own soul.

With the fear of his own friends being likewise conquered, Prav soon pleaded for his sister to stop, to put an end to it before their parents' worst fears were confirmed. Acquiescing was difficult for Rose. An exciting intoxicant had become a potent drug.

Mealtime conversations were sparse and infrequent. The fear of something being said muted many exchanges. Frustrated by the lack of pleasantries, Rose's father was left to wonder if he would eventually be served the rumors and whispers that drifted among his household staff. He would shake his head in silence, resenting the nuances of the unspoken familial contract, the terms of which he was too often the last to know. Her mother's eyes testified to her own suspicions, while darting from son to daughter.

Rose dangled the non-encrypted secret over her brother's head as if she enjoyed the torment it inflicted. Prav would often leave the table early fearing indiscriminate words might be easily spilled. But as much as Rose felt she had won every battle of the demeaning campaign, she believed in her heart that the war could never be won, that she had lost the desire to put the consummation of love into its proper context. She knew she would always answer for that, but she was still young, and it was convenient to defer things to the future. In the short term, however, it was easier to blame her brother.

As the years passed, Rose fought, sometimes in vain, to put the episode behind her. She became devoted to remaining uncommitted, forever single, and went on to assume her place within the family organization. Notwithstanding the fact that words on the subject were never spoken, it eventually appeared to both siblings that Prav was the victor after all. The minor scars he experienced soon healed. The realization that most of hers were self-inflicted was a difficult pill for Rose to swallow, one whose bitterness would linger to this day.

~

As Rose's limousine finally came to a stop, she smiled, realizing the memory was the perfect pretext to entertain a peace offering from her brother. When the limousine door opened, she stepped out a confident, determined woman. She knew in her heart Simon was lucky to have her, and that she was blessed to have him. They were, she truly believed, as well matched as her first love. And it was going to stay that way regardless of any devious plan her brother could devise.

Rose looked upward and saw Simon's corporate headquarters; the impressive Freedom Tower at One World Trade Centre loomed high above her. She imagined him looking down at her. The nearby North Cove Yacht Harbor would undoubtedly seem small from his perspective. For Rose, though, at one-hundred-and-sixty-five feet in length, her brother's mega-yacht appeared anything but modest. Its exterior was a gold-pewter composite, one that definitely exhibited a militaristic aura.

_He's so predictable_ , Rose thought, subtly shaking her head.

The stunning cruiser, _Auspicious_ , dwarfed everything adjacent. A complicated array of communication and surveillance equipment topped its impressive, naval stature.

"If you'll follow me, Ma'am," the driver said, "Mr. Gill is waiting for you in the mid-deck lounge."

Rose nodded, as if to lead on.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

"WELCOME ABOARD, Ms. Gill," the _Auspicious's_ captain stated. He nodded, politely. "Mr. Gill is expecting you." Within several moments, two stained-glass French doors opened, yielding an impressive forward lounge. Like the rest of the ocean-worthy vessel, few lightweight composites made it through to the ship's final design, even fewer into the craftsman's hands. Genuine granite and mahogany drew Rose further into the room's grandeur. Her eyes followed the seamless, earth tone colour scheme, until she saw her brother stand and turn. He held his hands palms upward and to the side, "Sister," he announced.

Rose said nothing, only continued into the expansive space. She looked to her left, to a sizable wet bar and couldn't help noticing a striking woman sitting alone. Of East Indian origin herself, she embodied that of a protector more than a lover. Rose was struck by their sister-like resemblance. _That's a little unnerving_ , she thought. Then a blonde woman rose from behind her brother. She gazed past Praveen with the eyes of one knowing her place.

Again, Rose felt the appraiser's eye. This time, though, they were competitive, more scrutinizing. But Rose was determined to hold her own. She stopped short of the well-appointed seating area. Her brother would have to come to her, not her to him. Though India was still very much a male dominated society, Prav wisely acquiesced, realizing it would be prudent to let the meeting begin on his sister's terms. He stepped forward and offered a 'Namaste,' by placing both hands together and bowing. Rose bowed slightly, but kept a vigilant eye. "Brother," she replied, in turn.

"Roshnie," Prav said, clasping his hands. "Thank you for coming. It has been too long, has it not?" He glanced past his sister and gave a nod to the captain, who accepted the visual cue by responding in kind.

Rose seemed almost reluctant to speak. "It's been a while," she said, glancing over her brother's shoulder. Prav understood the nuance, his sister's desire to speak in private.

"At the risk of appearing presumptuous," Prav stated. "May I ask if you have eaten? My chef makes an exquisite Ras Malai. Is it still your favorite? I thought we could enjoy some champagne with dessert, maybe pretend we are reliving simpler times."

Suddenly, Rose felt the ship move. She was left with the distinct feeling that they were casting off.

Prav recognized the look on her face. "I hope you don't mind," he said, gesturing for her to accompany him elsewhere. "I thought we might enjoy a short evening cruise. Perhaps we could partake of a little refreshment while taking in the city skyline." Prav took one more step toward the door. "A table on the observation deck awaits us."

Rose agreed by walking slowly with her brother. She allowed him to open the French doors. Prav smiled while passing through. Rose, however, remained guarded.

After descending to the mid-deck observation lounge, another set of doors opened. Silently, two pocket doors disappeared automatically into their adjoining walls. "It's a lovely way to spend a calm summer evening, wouldn't you agree?" Prav asked.

Rose stepped into another striking room and instantly felt her hair buffeted by a light river breeze. Prav gave his sister a moment to take in the setting before joining her. Rose was first struck by a table off to one side. Its two place settings appeared as impeccable as the bottle on ice, chilling beside. Her eyes were then drawn to the left and then the right. The ship's thirty-foot beam was further supplemented by two push-outs; large sections of floor on the port and starboard sides, which extended outward beyond the hull. Their glass railings allowed those observing from either side to feel as though they were suspended out over the water. The space was, indeed, as striking as the view.

Prav watched as his sister was drawn toward the unfolding New York skyline. "Can I pour you a glass of champagne?" he asked.

"Champagne would be nice," she responded. Rose allowed the moment to permeate her resolve. She exhaled a deep, troubled breath.

The yacht rounded Ellis Island, and the Statue of Liberty was coming into view. _What a compelling perspective_ , Rose thought. Lady Liberty appeared bathed in a ghostly light. In a few more steps Rose was at the portside glass railing. In the time it took for Prav to open and pour two glasses, she let loose her firm grip. She returned to the table and sat down.

"When was the last..." Rose paused long enough for their male server to place two desserts in front of them.

"That'll be all, Raj, thank you," Prav stated, without acknowledging the nod from his staff.

Rose resumed her line of thought, in a lower voice. "When was the last time you spoke with Father?" she asked, matter-of-factly.

Prav smirked, wondering how long he would be able to put up with his sister's impertinence. He set a champagne glass in front of her. "You know how long it has been," he answered, sitting down across from Rose.

"You should visit him before ..."

"I intend to," he interjected, under his sister's glare. "I will, Roshnie, I promise."

"When, Prav?"

"As I've said before, when Indi-Pharm has been restored to..."

Rose seemed unconvinced. "Restored to what?"

"To its former stature, of course."

"But with the Gen Tech acquisition, you've exceeded every expectation. I'm sure Father would be more than proud of..."

"It's more than that, Rose. There's more at stake than," he said, pausing, "than restoring our family name." Prav got up from his chair. He looked out over the Hudson and took a slow sip of champagne. They were rounding the island on which America's most recognizable monument stood. The illuminated Brooklyn Bridge lay in the distance, beyond the Statue of Liberty.

"What I want, Roshnie, is for our country to resume its proper place in the world. India's brightest minds are no longer leaving to study abroad, particularly at American universities. The disheartening trend has been reversed, Sister. Many are also returning home to a burgeoning field of science and technology. We are poised, Roshnie, to emerge as a world leader. A growing number believe India's time has come."

Rose was not fully aware of how intensely her brother's consortium of like-minded countrymen had lobbied the American government to reduce the number of so called, 'Genius Visas.' For decades the United States drew the world's most intelligent students to achieve their otherwise untapped potential. And while foreign-born students sometimes accounted for more than half of the enrollment to the country's top universities, many remained after graduating. They often went on to establish their own high-tech start-ups. The benefits of the program were obvious to most.

The brainpower loss to a student's source country was made all the more poignant, though, when the intelligence gene was found to be sixty percent heritable. Those in the U.S. smart enough to realize the policy for what it was, a brilliant strategy to bolster the nation's gene pool, often fell victim to the lesser of humanity's attributes. With a steady rise in domestic job losses, and a troubling unemployment rate to match, many U.S. Senators were easily swayed by a vocal, yet predictable  
protectionist sentiment. Fear is the prey, which many hunt, Prav believed. Though few are capable of slaying it; fewer still labor to preserve, even nurture it. Other, less respectable incentives, which Rose was all too familiar with, were frequently deployed by Prav's consortium to reduce, if not kill the H1-B Visa.

"With our nation's vast resources, Rose," Prav added, "it's only a matter of time. Our investments... they are already paying off. It is our generation, Rose, not the next that will lead our nation, moreover, the world into the most prosperous era mankind has ever known."

"That may be so, Prav, but..." Rose paused, almost out of frustration. "Look, if you're trying to forge some kind of legacy for yourself ..."

"You know this will all be yours when I'm gone." Prav let the statement linger.

Rose leveraged the pause to her own end. "How have you been  
feeling lately?" she asked, cleverly changing the subject. "Honestly... you look like you haven't slept in..."

Prav turned away from his sister's inquiring eyes, but his sister would not relent. "I thought you said you were through with all that... age-related gene therapy."

"I need you, Roshnie." Prav stated, turning, resuming eye contact. "This goal can only be accomplished if we pursue it together. I will never ask anything of you again, if..."

"Enough, Prav, enough," Rose said, in disgust.

Her brother took another step closer. "Then you'll..."

Rose looked up at Prav, as if in awe of his arrogance. "So please explain to me again, Brother, why I would I ever want to help you?"

CHAPTER TWELVE

The Thousand Islands region of Ontario

"WHAT ARE YOU watching?" Simon asked Jennifer. They were both sitting in the backseat of a mid-sized sedan, which Marcus was driving down the Thousand Islands Parkway. The St. Lawrence River flowed west to east, and ran parallel to them on their left. Jennifer held her tablet with one hand, while the other scrolled from page to page.

"Rose sent me the link to her presentation this morning."

"Her State of Genetics tutorial?" her father asked, without breaking eye contact with his phone. Sophia's Integrity Assessment Display was now testing shades of yellow. Offshore cyber threats were becoming the cause of some concern.

Jennifer smiled. "Do you remember your high-school biology, Marcus?" she playfully asked.

Marcus glanced into his rear-view mirror. "Are you kidding me? Biology was one of my best subjects, or was that Rocket Science? I can't remember." Marcus smiled as Jenny and Simon laughed.

"Awesome. We should go through this together then."

"Do you think it'll revive any brain cells?" Marcus asked.

"It might have that effect on a few of mine," Jennifer softly said. She rested the tablet on her beige Capri pants. They complimented a yellow short-sleeved top. Her blonde hair was in a ponytail, tucked through the back of a ball cap with the insignia, Cal, indicating the University of California.

Simon leaned over toward his daughter in order to get a better look at Rose's tutorial. "That takes me back a few years." His light-colored golf-like attire represented a pleasant break from his usual darker suits. Marcus appeared slightly more formal than his boss. Grey slacks were topped by a dark blue-collared shirt.

Having flown in to the Ottawa International Airport only hours earlier, Marcus continued driving in a westerly direction, bringing the three of them closer to the Taylor summer retreat. Simon looked left out over an abundance of islands and stared past the many Canadian flags that were hung proudly along the route.

It was Wednesday, June 30, and tomorrow's Canada Day holiday would begin an extended weekend of celebrating. This year, America's July 4th would fall on the up-coming Sunday. And with the world's longest unprotected international boarder slinking its way through the many seaway islands, the next few days were destined to be filled with relaxing, spending time on the river, and watching the summer sun go down.

"Alright, Marcus," Jennifer stated, while scrolling back to the beginning of Rose's presentation. "Are you ready for a refresher in Genetics?"

"Refresher?" he quipped. "I think I need more of a system reboot than anything else."

"System reboot it is," Jennifer said, playing along. "What d'ya think our e.t.a. is for the cottage?"

"I make about twenty minutes, half an hour at the most."

"Ok, then let's try and make this fit. Are you ready?"

"As I'll ever be."

"Here we go... do you know how many cells there are in the human body?"

Marcus didn't bother glancing in his rear-view mirror this time. "I don't know... how 'bout a billion?"

"How about 100 trillion,' Jennifer responded.

"You don't say."

Simon smiled with an appreciation for Marcus' New York accent. His pronunciation of the word billion made him think of Carl Sagan. The memory echoed pleasantly in his mind.

"And did you know that those 100 trillion cells can be organized into about 200 different cell groups?"

"Cell groups?" Marcus asked.

"Yeah, you know, a cell group might be those that make up bone, cartilage, organs, tissue. Some of these cells, like skin cells, for example, they divide all the time. Others don't divide at all."

"Now what about the brain cells I kill this upcoming weekend?" Marcus interjected. "Are they all goners, or is there any chance I can replace them with new ones?"

Jennifer laughed along with her father. "Fortunately for all of us, Marcus, new research is demonstrating yes we can. So go ahead and indulge. Knock yourself out."

"Well," Simon added, "I'm not sure I'd go that far."

After the humor of the moment dissipated, Jennifer continued to relate some of the basics in genetics as they drove on. "Now, within every cell there exists a nucleus. And within that nucleus, Marcus," she stated, rather passionately, "is contained nothing less than what every living organism on this planet uses to store and transmit genetic information."

Simon couldn't help allowing his thoughts to drift between the composer of the unfolding genetic summary and his daughter's playful delivery thereof. _Rose would be pleased with Jennifer's enthusiasm_ , he thought. It reminded him of how a childhood interest in science was nurtured by his father. He wondered if he had provoked the same in Jennifer.

Though Richard Taylor was now a semi-retired political pundit, he began his career as a science and technology reporter back in England. Simon still remembered his father using his own common sense approach when relating new technology to his television audience. While watching Jennifer leverage the same inclination for Marcus, he reflected on how poignantly the genetic disposition to do so had passed so seamlessly to his daughter.

Jennifer continued to relate the fact that within each cell nucleus there resides forty-six chromosomes; twenty-three from each parent. "These," she said, "comprise the structure of every DNA molecule." While every single nucleus contains the entirety of your DNA, and a staggering three billion base pairs can be found within that helix, different sections of the strand reside on individual chromosomes. These base pairs can be further divided into genes, Marcus soon found out. He appeared interested to learn that every human possesses something in the order of twenty-three thousand genes, and even more pleased by the realization that it would take only the smallest of electrical impulses, which undoubtedly originated in his brain, to cause the muscles in his foot to push on the accelerator, thus hastening an end to the otherwise informative lecture.

Nonetheless, he persevered. He was informed, by his fully engaged instructor, that, while the average gene contains three-thousand base pairs, (some contain over a million) one gene can control more than one phenotype. "A phenotype," Jennifer qualified, "is a just a complicated word for the physical traits that make up an organism; like the color of your hair, the shape of your nose, or how efficiently your metabolism converts and then commits... say a doughnut to an eternity on your butt."

Marcus shot a wounded look into the rear-view mirror. "What are you saying?"

"What I'm saying is that you inherit almost all of your physical characteristics from your parents. So if there's anyone to blame..." Jennifer turned not so subtly to her father.

"Or thank," Simon interjected. He purposefully tucked his green golf shirt under his belted slacks, emphasizing his slender stature.

Marcus looked concerned. "Ok, so how many calories do you think there are in a Canadian-Maple?"

"Well," Simon said, chuckling. "Whatever it is, you'd better multiply that by two."

"And add one Boston-Cream," Marcus admitted, contritely.

Jennifer laughed as well. "Hey, I thought you were saving a couple for when Uncle Lionel arrives?"

Marcus glanced at the box beside him, before asking: "Is there another Timmy's between us and the cottage?"

"No," they said, almost in unison.

"Alright, then go on about the gene stuff. I need something to take my mind off how much I want the last one in the box." Marcus fidgeted, somewhat nervously, as if bothered by a rising internal temperature. He leaned forward and bumped up the air conditioning by one degree.

"Alright, I'm glad you're ready for more, because this is where it gets complicated."

Marcus listened intently hoping brain cells could burn calories.

"For every gene, Marcus, there are approximately four proteins. That gives us about ninety-thousand in total. These proteins carry out the instructions contained in our genes. They tell our cells what to do, how to act, the cell group to which they belong, etc. To further complicate things, proteins themselves are made up of amino acids."

"Ok, I've heard of amino acids," Marcus interjected. "They're like... what do they call them... the... the,"

"The building blocks of all life," Jennifer stated. "That's right." She could see that Marcus was getting more involved.

"And if things weren't mind-boggling enough, these amino acids form into chains called polypeptides. It says here, they often consist of more than one hundred amino acids."

"Ok, now you're losing me," Marcus admitted.

Simon thought it was a good time to jump into the conversation. "I think what Rose is trying to demonstrate with this part of her lecture is that mapping the genome was only the first step. Figuring out how each gene is expressed in us is a very intricate process; the mathematical equations are incredibly complex."

Jennifer scrolled onto the next page. "It says here, that, while there are only twenty amino acids, a polypeptide chain of only five amino acids in length can have 3.2 million possible combinations."

"All I can say is thank God for computers like Sophia," Marcus stated.

Simon leaned over at Jennifer's tablet. "I wonder how far along she is? Have you got the link to the live feed?"

"Let me see. Yeah, here it is," Jennifer said. "Why don't I flip it over to the car's sound system and see where she is."

It was the perfect moment for Rose to take over where Jennifer left off.

"The best way to grasp the field of epigenetics is to relate it to the way in which every computer works," Rose stated, her voice streaming through the car speakers. Marcus nodded his head, meditatively. Simon was all too eager to imagine his girlfriend at the front of a large lecture hall.

Rose did, in fact, look out over a sizable audience, which varied as much in its ethnicity as it did with its familiarity with the subject matter. Her task: to bring interested U.N. members up to speed on the state of the genetics industry.

A more informed collective would undoubtedly better understand the challenges that lay ahead. Many nations felt a worldwide regulating body was not only needed, it was long overdue. A U.N. inter-governmental panel on genetic research would be commissioned soon. Guidelines would undoubtedly follow, but this was one of the first steps in a long and laborious bureaucratic process.

"Think of your genome as the hardware," Rose continued, "a device given meaning through its design, yet only made purposeful by a set of commands. Your epigenome, on the other hand, is the software. It represents the instructions through which your computer, your genome discovers its relevance."

"Your epigenome tells your genome how to behave; it helps differentiate one cell group from another; most importantly it can turn genes on and it can turn them off."

After walking about on an elevated stage in a dark-blue, business suit, she momentarily stopped at a nearby podium for a sip of water. A wireless mic was concealed within a gold-leafed lapel pin.

She continued. "How does it do this? Your epigenome is made up of chemical compounds, which are attached to your DNA helix. Now I won't go into detail on how these chemical tags, or methyl groups, as they are called, control your genome, but suffice it to say your epigenome is the communication link between your individual cells and the world that lies beyond.

"Subtle changes in lifestyle choices; environmental conditions to which we are exposed, these can impact your epigenome. What you eat or drink, whether you smoke, take medication, what type of pollutants you encounter throughout your life. These are just a few of the factors which scientists now agree play a role in determining the person you are."

Rose looked out over her audience and could see most were genuinely interested in the subject matter. She gave little concern to its demographic, though, hoping that she wasn't the cause of tipping the scales in favor of men.

"For decades, many believed the communication between our genome and its cytoplasm, the non-nucleus portion of our cells, was a one-way street; that the process of 'transcription,' or getting the message out, as it were, for a cell to be copied was unidirectional. Well, it's not.

"Reverse transcription is now known for the purpose it represents. It transmits messages back into the cell nucleus, which then can modify our DNA. This realization is having a profound impact on the way in which we understand the process of evolution.

"If only two percent of our genome determines who we are, then of what use are the remaining base pairs. A growing number of geneticists now advocate that our genome is like a vast library, one where the modern, more popular books are more easily accessible than their older, archived counterparts. Some suggest our distant ancestors are still there, within us, waiting to be called upon should our environment require their adaptive capacity. This might suggest evolution is a slow and responsive process, not one of mutating in leaps and bounds. We are all well aware of how the qualities of one distant ancestor were brought back to life in order to solve one of humanity's greatest challenges; the 2021 SARS Variant Pandemic. Will we leverage the dark regions of our DNA in the years ahead? Maybe the future will be defined by our past."

Rose took a deep breath before transitioning to the final phase of her lecture. "So how does this whole process relate to the regulations for which the U.N. might want to advocate? What is the present state of the art?

"Undifferentiated (stem) cells, meaning those that have not yet specialized themselves into any given cell group, are being used for an abundance of purposes. The associated ethical debate succumbed long ago to the technological advances in the health field. We all fully aware of how neuro-degenerative diseases, diabetes, and heart disease have benefited from a realigning of the ever shifting cost/benefit paradigm.

"What I will be attempting to bring into focus is the emerging science; the latest cutting-edge research that will undoubtedly test our cultural morays, our ability to put further advances into some sort of ethical perspective.

"Labs in the U.S., the U.K. and now in India have been using these stem cells to grow simple tissues, cartilage, even bone for some time now. Others with less intrusive oversight, shall we say, claim to be on the cusp of deciphering the genetic signature, which instructs a single stem cell to replicate itself until it grows into an entire organ. While the benefits to those with heart and kidney disorders, for example, are obvious, pursuits in the field of, what I call, Retail Genetics, pale by comparison to those, which combine our human DNA with its synthetic counterpart, XNA. Biology and technology are about to converge. And this, my friends, is a marriage which will never be undone."

Rose smiled along with her U.N. counterparts, before allowing the room to become quiet.

"Imagine if you will, a kidney never in need of dialysis, a heart without any predisposition to disease or, for that matter, ever wearing out. And if you can envision puncture resistant, even bullet-proof skin, then try to wrap your head around the eventuality of a bio-synthetic brain; an entity capable of seamlessly integrating into everything non-biological, someday, even the world-wide-web. Yes, some of these scenarios are still in their infancy, but let's be honest with ourselves, ladies and gentlemen, the future is being designed as I speak. These are not the moral and ethical dilemmas of tomorrow... they should be confronted... today."

~

While both father and daughter's eyes were glued to Jennifer's tablet, and images of futuristic laboratories confirmed Rose's testimony, they each moved subtly forward; Marcus was applying the brakes. He turned down the volume on the car's stereo speakers. "As much as I like your girlfriend's voice, Mr. Taylor," he announced, "I'll have to suggest we pick it up another time because we're here."

Marcus allowed several cars to pass by them in the oncoming lane as Jennifer leaned forward and watched their laneway's entryway gate open automatically. The proximity detector sensed Simon's cell phone as they approached.

The paved driveway wound its way downward toward a large brick and stone two-story estate house. A sizable well-manicured front lawn quickly emerged. Marcus was the first to notice a car parked off to the side. Then Simon saw his gardener stand up and wave. It was Mrs. Shields, a retired Englishwoman, who lived close by.

One of three garage doors was likewise activated. It rose upward, slowly.

"Do you mind if I get out here, Marcus?" Simon asked. "I'll just take a moment to say hello to Kate."

"My pleasure, Mr. Taylor."

"I think I'll hop out here too," Jennifer said. "I remember Mrs. Shields. I'd like to say hello as well."

"See you inside then."

After pleasantries were exchanged, and Mrs. Shields walked about the front of the house, bringing Simon up to date on the estates grounds-keeping status, Jennifer walked over to the front door of the house. She heard the lock unlatch. Pushing the door open and walking inside, she noticed the blinds scrolling up automatically. Jennifer smiled. She could almost feel Sophia's presence.

As the day's temperature had risen with each hour of their journey, the air conditioning had obviously been turned on several hours ago. Jennifer's room would already be at her own desired comfort setting. She walked in further and noticed Marcus enter the house from the garage off to her right. They both detected the subtlety of another click. The room's stereo lit up. Marcus shook his head and smiled as well. Sophia had selected the most played song on Jennifer's playlist, and the volume began to rise.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Simon's summer estate

"YOU SHOULD GO for a swim, Dad," Jennifer hollered, while jogging back from the river. "The water's perfect." In only moments, she was standing, dripping beside her comfortably seated, otherwise dry father.

Simon tilted his head forward and looked at his daughter over his sunglasses. He sat on a sizable wood-composite deck and took advantage of a large canopy awning, one that could be deployed or retracted from the rear of the house. "Is that the swimsuit you bought in Alexandria Bay yesterday?"

"Yeah," Jennifer replied. "It's perfect for Canada Day, isn't it?" She picked up a towel and began to dry herself off.

"It's patriotic, I'll give you that."

Jennifer eventually wound the towel up and around her hair. "Marcus likes the flags."

"I bet he does." Simon closed his eyes and tried to send the visual image to his mind's recycle bin.

"Don't you like it?"

Her father opened his eyes and adjusted his sunglasses. He made an effort not to look at the two maple leafs strategically placed on his daughter's bikini top. "It's... lovely," he said, awkwardly turning his attention back to his tablet.

"You don't mind if I join you?"

Jennifer didn't wait for a reply. She plopped herself into the seat beside her father and sent her gaze out over the well-manicured lawn to the river fifty yards in the distance.

"Of course not," her father replied. He set his preoccupation with work aside for the moment.

Jennifer reached for her own sunglasses from a nearby table. After putting them on, she noisily drained some melted ice left in her glass. "The river's busy today."

"Isn't it?' Simon agreed. Among the many other boats scurrying about, they both could see a very large freighter ploughing through the water in the distance off to their left.

Jennifer sighed. "Did you hear about Senator Anders? Surprise, surprise, another politician caught with his hand in the cookie jar." Jennifer grabbed her own tablet off the same table and reread the headline. "'Economic Treason.' Wow! Are you going to have to wear any of this? I mean, didn't you support him in the last election?"

"Would it do any good to repeat the fact that I supported both candidates?" Simon slid his sunglasses upward and rubbed his eyes with both hands. "I should have listened to Sophia on that one."

Sophia kept her 'I told you so' sentiment under wraps after the SEC's Allan Forbes pre-warned Simon of the announcement yesterday.

Jennifer read on. "So, let me get this straight. Anders was pushing hard to eliminate the so called 'Genius Visa' in return for an equity position in some of these tech start-ups in India?"

"He'll be accused of undermining America's ability to compete globally in the science and tech sectors."

Jennifer interjected: "In return for... what, something which may or may not pay off in the future?"

"I don't think he did it for the money." Simon stated, reflectively. "Protectionism is a dangerous thing. It draws on our less-evolved, tribal past."

"Now there's an investment that provides a diminishing return."

Simon and Jennifer looked at each other. They seemed equally struck by the realization that those very words could have just as easily come out of Simon's mouth. They both laughed for a moment before their attention was drawn to an audible prompt from the tablet lying in Simon's lap.

Jennifer offered her father a coy expression. "Another message from Rose?"

"I wish," he replied, after checking. "It's from Derrick. He isn't having much luck with our head hunter. We've got to fill a few key positions before I go public with something."

"I suppose that's code for Sophia being vulnerable."

Simon tried to change the subject. "Did I tell you we've recently launched a new Halo component? We're offering real-time uptake data on our clients' products or services. It monitors every available public response mechanism, social media, customer reviews, that sort of thing."

Jennifer understood what her father was referring to and picked up where he left off. "Yeah, with retail video surveillance so common these days, one could easily correlate the amount of time a customer stands in front of a given product with data on the items he or she eventually purchases. If I were a retailer, I'd offer my suppliers an LED pricing option, one that could change automatically in order to draw a customer back to a certain product. I'd be wanting as much real-time actionable data as I could get."

Simon seemed dumbfounded by his daughter's grasp of the subject.

"You'd have to preprogram a few parameters, obviously, but I think you're on to something. Adds a new dimension to behavioral profiling, doesn't it?" Jennifer turned toward her father and found him smiling. "What?" she asked.

"I'm just relishing the fact that they we're having a conversation that's lasting more than three sentences."

When Jennifer offered up another topic of conversation, her father was tempted to ask if any Red Bull had been added to her drink. "So what are you doing with all those surveys you've been collecting? You must have hundreds of thousands by now."

Jennifer was referring to the Exchange of Intelligence Agreement, which had become synonymous with modern university life. It was offered first domestically and then grew in demand until it included vast networks of students around the world. In return for their agreement to join a comprehensive, on-going survey, one that allowed Simon's company to correlate intricately designed questionnaires with a sample of their verified genome, a student would receive credits to access the _Halo_.

"We passed the five million survey mark some time ago. If you add the SARS Pandemic and other public projects, Sophia is leveraging a resource of about fifty million genomes."

"Fifty million?" Jennifer gasped. "What's she doing with all that data?"

"Well, what I can say is that we are nearing the limits of what the present state of computing can handle."

"You mean Sophia is nearing her limit?"

"You can only add so much computing power before you need a nuclear reactor to power it, or a river to cool it, for that matter." Simon gestured toward the St. Lawrence.

"But you must be drawing some conclusions from all that correlated data?"

Jennifer could sense that her father would rather be evasive. "You must have heard the rumors."

"What rumors?"

"That you've narrowed the moral profile; that you can distinguish between a person's genetic propensity for what's right and wrong. Whether they're destined to be virtuous or, shall we say, mired in the vices."

"You have your mother's way with words. Do you know that?"

Simon's evasiveness only helped to confirm Jennifer's suspicions. "Yeah, well, seems like you've inherited Grandma Taylor's skill at changing the subject."

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

July 1ST, Canada Day

SIMON AND MARCUS inspected the fireworks they installed earlier in the day. With only a whisper of daylight remaining, Jennifer had chosen the perfect seat from which to observe the display. With Uncle Lionel at her side, they had been joined by Mrs. Shields, Simon's groundskeeper, and her husband, Christopher. Excited banter was supplemented by intermittent laughter as several of the moments leading up to the show were expensed to Simon and Marcus. From the deck, the onlookers observed the frivolity of flashlights darting here and there. Their distant beams of light seemed a humorous, amateurish prelude of things to come.

"We're almost ready," Simon called out from the distance. The pyrotechnics would originate near the shoreline and hopefully follow a trajectory carefully considered to descend upon the river.

"They're like a couple of kids out there," Jennifer mused. Realizing the spectacle would soon begin, she got up to pour herself another glass of wine. "Can I get you anything, Lionel?"

"I'm fine, Jen, but thanks anyway."

"Are you sure, 'cause you look a little stressed."

Lionel took a deep breath. "Love the lights... hate the loud noises."

"Ok. Mr. or Mrs. Shields, how 'bout you, are you alright?"

"Oh, don't bother with us, my dear. Come and sit down," Mrs. Shields suggested.

Jennifer finished pouring herself a glass of wine. She was still wearing her swimsuit, but its nationalistic enthusiasm was now concealed by a plush red housecoat. Lionel sipped on his water bottle and then dried his lips with the same hand. His beard was short; its usual three-day growth, while jeans and a t-shirt lent themselves well to the evening's casual trend. Mr. and Mrs. Shields, on the other hand, were smartly dressed. Their comportment, it seemed, suited their proper English style and could easily be considered fitting to any social setting.

When the flashlights went out, the group's attention was diverted to Simon. He was jogging toward the audience he was about to join. "Marcus has agreed to set them off," he said, coming to a standstill in front of them. Simon clasped his hands together. "Is everyone ready?"

"Let the show begin," Mr. Shields concurred.

Jennifer suddenly had a bout of skepticism. "Has he ever done this sort of thing before?"

"Judging by his accent..." Lionel mused.

The stereotypical presumption that Marcus was familiar with gun-powdered projectiles fell short with Jennifer. "What d'ya mean?" she asked, still standing.

Lionel looked up at his brother. "Didn't you say he grew up in the Bronx?" he joked.

After her uncle's inference became clear, Jennifer threw a contemptuous smirk in his direction. She then looked toward Marcus. "Can he hear us from here?"

"I insisted he wear eye and ear protectors," Simon stated, still facing the single line of occupied chairs.

"He can't hear a thing," Lionel announced. "Yo, Marcus," he yelled, "You still owe me a Canadian Maple." Lionel turned to Simon. "Ya know... next time you have a look at that man's DNA you'd better check his cholesterol; pays to be thorough while you're under the hood, if you know what I mean."

"Don't worry," Simon stated, "there's plenty of longevity in Marcus's family."

"He's going to outlast us all, is he?" Mr. Shields inquired, his English accent infused with a jovial flutter.

"How do you know that?" Lionel inquired. "Cause I was just kidding about the DNA part."

"Look, are we ready to get this show going?" Simon asked. He turned and held up his flashlight readying himself to give the signal to begin. But before giving the go-ahead, he glanced back in his brother's direction. "Marcus's grandfather passed away this past winter. He was 103."

~

The fireworks lasted a full half hour in total. Marcus was a great sport about it and remained as entertaining as the colors themselves. He lit them in the order of furthest to closest, but despite his perceived familiarity with explosives, he provided his audience with the additional spectacle of running for cover every time, twice sometimes, when the intended device was unsuccessfully ignited. A robust standing ovation, punctuated by a few hoots and howls from nearby neighbors, was quickly followed by pats on the back when Marcus ascended the stairs to join his audience deck-side.

The Shields bid their goodbyes as Jennifer felt the effects of a few glasses of wine combining with a full day in the sun and water. She retired first and was followed sometime afterwards by Simon. He was eager to resume to some semblance of a routine, and an early morning jog would be the first order of business tomorrow.

Lionel and Marcus, on the other hand, decided to stay up longer. The night was calm, warm, and the pleasing riverside perspective offered a setting difficult to depart. Both still seemed undaunted by the approach of midnight.

"You don't mind if I have another beer?" Marcus asked. He got up from his chair and opened a cooler nearby. "How you doin'? You're still ok?"

"No, I'm fine. It fucks up my meds if I have anything to drink."

"Yeah, I know what you mean. My wife is on something new. It's experimental."

Marcus sat down and understood Lionel's visual cue. He opened his beer, before explaining. "My wife, Tanya, has Multiple Sclerosis. She was diagnosed about five years after we were married."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Lionel offered.

"Cheers to the 'in sickness and in health' part of life, eh." Marcus took a sip of his beer and almost spit the last part out. "Did ya here that? Your brother's got me saying the _eh_ thing now."

Lionel laughed along. "So, your wife, she couldn't join us?"

"I don't normally travel with Simon. It just worked out this weekend because Tanya is spending a couple of weeks in Florida with her mom."

"So how do ya like Canada?"

"It's cleaner than New York, I can tell you that." Marcus took another extended draw of his beer. He looked at the bottle in his hand. "The beer is good... but everything up here is about the coffee. Coffee, coffee, coffee. You know I think your brother is addicted to his double-double."

Marcus paused for a moment. He looked out over the river and turned introspective. "Yeah, he's a special man, that brother of yours. My company plan is covering all of Tanya's meds, even the experimental ones."

Lionel looked at his right arm and turned his palm upward as if to inspect it. "I suppose you heard he covered a few things for me as well."

"I heard you went through a rough patch in Africa somewhere."

"East Congo," Lionel interjected.

"You're Canadian Forces right?"

"JTF2." Lionel replied. Flashbacks of a firefight with a well-financed militia reverberated through his mind like a shockwave. The actual pain of being wounded in both the arm and leg accompanied reliving the event.

Marcus leaned over. "Do you mind if I have a look at that?"

Lionel complied by offering his arm. It was state of the art Gen Tech gear from the bicep down. Its full nerve integration was designed to work flawlessly with its host's brain impulses to move. When Marcus lightly grasped it, the seamlessly transitioned skin seemed indistinguishable from its organic companion.

"We were sent in as part of a U.N. contingent to put an end to the illegal trade in conflict minerals."

Lionel explained to Marcus about the ores that produce tin, tantalum, tungsten, and gold. That, like conflict diamonds, armed groups often use forced labor, including children, to extract these four minerals from dangerous underground mines. Profits were funneled into their campaign of terror, which was all too often borne by the surrounding civilian population, especially women. The majority of these minerals typically ended up in the technology supply chain, becoming electronic components in devices such as cell phones, portable music players, and computers. A social contagion of sorts finally caused western governments to intervene.

"That's amazing," Marcus stated, letting go of Lionel's arm. "And the leg too?"

Lionel gave him a strange look.

"Don't worry," Marcus assured him. He took another sip of his beer and then placed it on the deck beside his chair. "Simon mentioned you were held captive after being wounded."

"It was the worst eight-and-a-half days of my life," Lionel stated, clearing his throat. Again, a high-definition video, which highlighted the worst parts of the experience, tried to replay itself in his mind. He could still smell the squalor-like conditions in which his wounds festered unattended. Never knowing if he would live or die accompanied every indignity, including coming to terms with a preference for the torment to end.

"I don't know whether Simon told you," Marcus said, trying his best to move things along, "but I lost an older brother in Afghanistan. He enlisted after 9/11."

Lionel struggled to relate to a narrative other than his own. "That must have been a tough time for you and your family."

Marcus said nothing, only looked up at the stars. He blinked a few times, before getting his emotions under control.

"And you," Lionel asked. "You didn't follow in your brother's footsteps?"

"I was a hood, Lionel. Hoods don't do things like that. The tribe was everything in those days."

"I take it you're more than a driver to my brother."

Marcus smirked. "I still know how to intimidate people."

Lionel laughed, before Marcus continued. "You know, it's sad to say, but despite the things your brother has done for this world, there are still people out there that would do him harm."

The conversation between Lionel and Marcus was becoming more intermittent now, as if each were feeling the effects of the passing hours. "Did my brother tell you that he brought me home from the Congo?"

Marcus looked at Lionel and shook his head, "No," he replied.

"I suppose he wouldn't have mentioned that." Lionel leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "He chartered a jet and waited in Kinshasa until my release was negotiated. He kept a medical team on standby for a week. Can you believe that?" The better parts of Lionel's memory began to emerge, to conclude the drama still unfolding in his head. "I was transported to Germany where I was stabilized. Sometime later, Simon introduced me to his friend, Christian Saunders, at Gen Tech."

"That's where you got your prostheses?"

Lionel smiled and sat back in his chair. "At least that part of me got fixed."

"The important thing is Simon got his brother back," Marcus added.

Again, a pause was indulged. It allowed the emotion of the conversation to dissipate. During the ensuing stillness, Lionel wondered what it would be like if his and Simon's roles were reversed. He used the thought of losing his only brother to displace any previous, lingering images. In his mind he fast-forwarded to a funeral that would undoubtedly be attended by hundreds, if not thousands. Dignitaries would fill the front rows of the church. The remaining pews would be crammed and supplemented by standing room only.

A poignant, heart-wrenching service would be punctuated by many speeches, the most important being the one he would have to deliver himself. Lionel hoped he would be able to rise to the occasion. Setting his self-doubt aside, he couldn't help reflecting on the glaring differences between his brother's life celebration and the one that would accompany his own. He hoped his brother would be happy to preside over a small but respectful military service. The thought of leaving this earth behind seemed almost calming.

He imagined, for a moment, his own modest casket. He would feel pleased, truly honoured by the Canadian flag being draped over it. The image reminded him of a scene with which he was all too familiar.

Lionel cleared his throat and resumed the conversation. "I lost a buddy recently," he said.

"It's tough, isn't it?" Marcus stated. "I knew a couple of guys who rotated home safely only to take their own lives. Nobody knew it, but these guys were suffering for years."

Marcus was only somewhat aware of how keenly Lionel could relate. "I suppose the warrior type tends to keep it all inside."

"You're not thinking along those lines, are you bro?" Marcus asked. He turned and looked directly at Lionel.

Lionel seemed startled by the question. The Canadian veteran wasn't used to Marcus's direct American candor. It was as if he were being forced to confront a simmering fear, the degree to which his demons could rise up and take control of him. He thought about it for a moment and then discovered something he never realized.

Admitting how vulnerable he could be was undoubtedly the first step. This was his chance to raise his hand, to admit that the memories of his terrible experience sometimes got the better of him. It was during those times, the dark times, when he needed to be able to focus on something better, new neural pathways, perhaps, those that would be established and then strengthened by conversations such as these.

Lionel felt very uncomfortable, as if he were witnessing his own soul being unearthed. His eyes shifted side to side, searching for cover. Then he felt something truly unique. A calming sensation came over him. An outcome always seemed inevitable, but it suddenly appeared different from the one he expected.

From a safer perspective, he could see his own hand brushing the dirt, moreover, his fears aside. He had indeed uncovered a marker, but not of things preordained. A glimmer of hope began to penetrate his withering soul.

Marcus grasped for understanding, not fully appreciating their conversation for what is was. He didn't realize the degree to which, in this very moment, he had become the fulcrum from which another life would turn. The profound effect one person can have on another was left for Lionel to value. "Yeah," he began, slowly, his voice cracking. "I guess I have." He used his left hand to cover his mouth.

Marcus could sense the emotions swirling within his new friend. "Ya know, I think the courage needed on the battlefield pales in comparison to what you guys go through when you come home. Any time you wanna talk about it... you know, how it makes you feel, just let me know."

Lionel was moved by Marcus's compassion. The struggling veteran could only manage a nod.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The following morning

"GOOD MORNING, Marcus," Jennifer said, cheerfully. She had just emerged from the house and appeared to be ready for some sort of aquatic activity. A sleeveless blue wet suit was complimented by a dry-jacket slung over her right shoulder. There was a slight breeze in the air and Jennifer presumed it might be a little cooler out on the water.

"You're up early today." Marcus replied. He was sitting at a table on the outdoor deck, enjoying his morning coffee.

Jennifer finished a sip of the same from a bright yellow travel mug. "I'm heading out to do some kayaking."

"You certainly have a nice day for it. I'll let your father know when he gets back."

"I'll send him a text," Jennifer stated, as she hopped down several steps from the deck to the lawn below. She raised her right hand in the air, motioning to Marcus that she was also wearing her wrist phone.

Marcus glanced at his own new-fangled device. Another damn piece of gear to figure out, he lamented. He hoped its voice-activated applications were less complicated than his cell phone. After shaking his head, Jennifer became the object of his concern. "Stay close-by, will you? Where I can still see you."

"Yes, Dad," Jennifer replied, sarcastically. She continued walking towards the dock.

"Listen here, young lady," Marcus yelled. "I'm already in enough trouble with your father over that swimsuit of yours."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Jennifer mumbled.

Marcus still regretted the comments he made while shopping with Jennifer in Alexandria Bay. "All I said," he shouted, "was that the flags were a nice choice." With every word his tone descended as much in volume as it did in conviction.

After putting on her windbreaker, Jennifer pulled back her right sleeve in order to expose the phone on her wrist. Still walking, she began sending a verbal text to her father. "I'm just going for a paddle on the river, Dad," she narrated into the rectangular device. She knew that Lionel had joined her father for his early morning run.

Simon continued jogging and raised his left hand toward his ear. Jennifer's voice still resonated with sarcasm. "Don't worry, Father Number Three has already asked me not to venture too far."

Lionel smiled at Simon and seemed pleased by the close familial reference. He correctly presumed that he was number two.

Jennifer waved at Mrs. Shields. She was off to the left, near a massive weeping willow and a couple of tall spruce trees. She had already started her Friday routine by providing a couple hours of maintenance to the ground's perimeter gardens.

Lionel and Simon continued jogging along the paved pathway that ran on the north side and parallel to the Thousand Islands Parkway. They were still heading east and would soon turn around at the two and a half 360 ilometer mark, which Simon had previously noted. "I'll be another fifteen to twenty before I get back," Simon said, his voice echoing his stride.

Marcus went into the house and freshened up his coffee. He was casually dressed in sweat pants, a t-shirt, and a pair of white running shoes. When he saw the date squares on the counter that Mrs. Shields had brought over yesterday, he couldn't help himself. He placed two on a plate and returned to the deck. He sat down and exchanged a wave with Jennifer. By this time, she was paddling away from the shore in her kayak.

Sections of the dock ran both parallel and perpendicular to the shoreline. Moored there were a thirty-three-and-a-half foot cabin cruiser and two rough water sea-doos. An additional shed, off to the right, stored much of the gear required for water sports.

Marcus's attention was soon drawn to a bright yellow Sea-doo that approached Jennifer. It slowed and then came alongside. A protective father number three grabbed his binoculars and quickly realized that it was one of the young male neighbors he had seen in the last couple of days. He couldn't blame the guy for wanting to show off. Even with her life-vest and ball cap, Jennifer's smile beamed brightly. Marcus turned his attention back to his crumbly treat and eventually watched the young man zoom off.

Jennifer was testing the limits of compliance when Simon and his brother turned for home. Lionel appeared strangely energetic, even light on his feet. He managed to open up a little to Simon as they jogged back.

A reference to last night's conversation with Marcus became the entry point to a path toward better understanding. Simon was eager to help, offer anything he could, after understanding why his brother's stride seemed less burdened. They were half-way back to the house, however, when a car pulled over and kept pace with them. Like the pair of joggers, the late model Mustang convertible was heading in a westerly direction.

"Hey," a female voice yelled, from the passenger seat. "Aren't you that famous _Halo_ guy?" The young woman enthusiastically leaned out of the car. Her neon-blue bikini top spoke as provocatively as her words. "Didn't you save the world or something?"

Simon only waved, but the attractive young woman immediately caught Lionel's eye. He then noticed the car's driver; she was wearing a flattering bikini as well. The car slowed accordingly with Lionel's desire to engage them in conversation. He grabbed his older brother's arm. Simon slowed, then reluctantly stopped.

"I didn't know you lived around here," the blonde girl said.

"We're just up the road, on the water side," Lionel eagerly announced.

The driver offered a coy expression to the one more eager to play along. "Have you guys got a boat?"

The girl in the passenger seat noticed that he was smiling more than the other. "We were hoping to spend some time on the river today."

"It's up to you, Lionel," Simon stated. "If you don't mind, I think I'll keep going."

Just then the girl in the passenger seat got out of the car. Lionel noticed her athletically toned body right away. "Aww, come on," she pleaded, "can't we get an autograph or something?"

But before the two female admirers could close the short distance between the road and the pathway, Simon's wrist phone lit up. It was Sophia. "Simon," she stated. Concern seemed evident in her tone. "Jennifer's wrist phone has been underwater for too long. Its status is inactive. Can you confirm she's ok?"

"Of course," he replied, looking at his phone. In turn, he asked: "Jennifer, is everything alright?"

The four of them stood still, hearing no response.

"Jennifer?" Simon called, again.

~

Back at the house, Marcus heard a scream. He dropped his coffee mug into kitchen sink and then strained a look through the window above. The alarm seemed to be coming from somewhere off to the left.

His name resounded like never before. "Marcus!" Mrs. Shields screamed.

He bolted out onto the deck and saw her running toward the house. "My God, Marcus," she wailed. "Someone is taking Jennifer!"

"Simon!" Marcus yelled into his wrist phone.

Simon's eyes went wide. "What's wrong?" he barked. His legs felt a surge of adrenaline.

Marcus honed in a boat alongside Jennifer's kayak as the sound of two successive bullets whistled past Mrs. Shields. They splintered the house's stone exterior before she finally found safety behind a large tree. Only ten metres lay between her and the safety of the house.

"Be careful, Marcus," she pleaded, before watching him sprint toward the dock. By this time Jennifer was being dragged kicking and screaming over the boat's starboard side.

"Get back here, Simon!" Marcus yelled at his wrist.

Mrs. Shields made a run for the house. The gun was turned on her again. Shots were fired, but she made it safely inside.

Simon and Lionel were already in flight, running as fast as possible. They were nearly half a kilometre away, but the distance began to close. With Lionel's prosthetic leg preforming seamlessly in parallel with his other, he and Simon ran hard and paid little attention to the convertible they left behind.

Again, Marcus felt and heard the telltale signs of bullets being fired through a silencer. He needed to get to the boat, to launch a pursuit.

As all three men ran, Sophia announced: "I've accessed the local 911 system. I've also given the three of you an open com link. Simon, I've directed a call to the Royal Canadian Mounted Police."

"Who am I speaking with?" Simon asked, running hard.

"This is the RCMP. My name is Inspector Mark Hansen. I understand a member of your family is becoming a victim of a crime."

"My daughter is being kidnapped!" Simon roared. "Marcus!" he yelled. "What's happening?"

Just then a bullet ripped through Marcus's right thigh. His leg gave out, and he careened into the grass. He was still twenty metres from the dock.

He grimaced in pain, but managed to look up at the boat. Its engines lit up, only Jennifer's empty kayak remained. "457985," he yelled. "457985," he repeated. Those are the only numbers I could make out." He staggered to his feet and began to drag his injured leg. "They're heading east," he hollered. "It's a small cabin cruiser and they're heading east," he repeated, gasping.

With one hand on his bleeding wound, he hobbled forward. "I'm going after them."

Marcus first went to the shed adjacent to the dock. He had to get the keys to one of the Sea-doos. Realizing he didn't know the code to  
activate the starting system on Simon's powerful cruiser, he opted for one of the other watercrafts. After untying the first Sea-doo, he wrestled his bloody leg over the seat.

Simon, Lionel and Marcus each heard the same question coming from Inspector Hansen. "Did I hear that correctly... has this become a water pursuit?"

"It has now!" Marcus yelled, before taking off.

When Simon and Lionel burst through the entryway gate, Marcus was already speeding out over the water, going full-tilt in the direction the boat sped away. The pain in his leg caused him to grimace, but he stood upright as much as he could in order to scan the water ahead. Being the Friday before America's July 4th weekend, the river was astonishingly busy. Marcus had to contend with crafts of all sizes, sail boats as well, even a freighter heading east up the seaway. He quickly surmised that such a large vessel might provide the necessary cover to evade detection from their side of the river.

"Marcus where are you?" Simon yelled. He keyed in his boat's  
ignition code.

Sophia quickly interjected with the appropriate GPS coordinates from Marcus's phone. "He's heading in an easterly direction," she stated. "I've just downloaded a search pattern to yours and Lionel's phones. Verbal instructions will enable you to keep your eyes on the water."

With Simon's dual engines roaring to life, Lionel helped to cast off its mooring ropes. "Have you got access to anything in the air, Inspector?" Simon asked, almost yelling.

"We should have something taking off shortly, Mr. Taylor."

Simon's pushed his helm's accelerator fully forward. White water enveloped the dock as Lionel jumped onto the second Sea-doo.

Simon scanned the water unsure of what to look for. "Where's the air assist coming out of and what's its E.T.A to our position?" he asked.

Inspector Hansen got up from his desk and was now able to look at a large flat panel monitor. A satellite view of the local area was being formatted by another officer to fit the screen. "I'm located at our Kingston Detachment. A helo will be taking off from CFB (Canadian Forces Base) Trenton momentarily. It should be over the search area in less than twenty minutes."

"What about jurisdictional issues, Inspector?" Simon asked. His voice fluctuated accordingly with the waves. "Is that going to become a problem?"

Simon knew the Canadian/American border made its way through the river, slinking in and around a multitude of large and small islands.

"You leave that to me, Mr. Taylor." Inspector Hansen wore a blue-tooth type earpiece and stood in front of his map. With an erasable marker he was defining a search area that included both land and water.

"Sophia," Simon yelled, as his boat careened over the waves. "Have you alerted the American authorities?"

"I have," she responded. "I've also been scanning every database on both sides of the river that would list missing or stolen boats." She also mined every website that might possibly list watercrafts for sale.

"And?" Simon asked, beckoning an answer.

"American authorities have a stolen cabin cruiser out of Alexandria Bay. Its registration begins with "457985. I'm downloading the full registration to you, Inspector Hansen."

"I'll have the FBI check out the address as soon as I have it. I've already sent out a crime in progress bulletin. We're asking for boaters, marinas, and residents to look out for anything suspicious."

"I've also uploaded the description given by Marcus to every social media account registered to the area," Sophia stated.

As Simon and Lionel's spirits were buoyed by their first lead, and continued following the search pattern set out for them by Sophia, time seemed to pass unnoticed. Everyone involved, especially Simon, allowed the task at hand to fully consume them. Had they been aware of how the minutes were quickly turning into a half hour and then an hour, concern for Jennifer's safe return would have multiplied tenfold. These first few hours, they all agonized, would undoubtedly be the most crucial.

Marcus finally managed to circumnavigate the stern of the large freighter only to be disappointed by the lack of anything to report. He slowed right down and began drifting, bobbing up and down in the water. He was losing feeling in his leg and wondered how long he could keep up the search.

A large swell caused his Sea-doo to turn northward. Though his head bobbed with the waves, he looked up and saw something in the distance, on the eastern side of one of the islands. His heart leapt. "Simon," he yelled into his phone. "I think I've got something!"

In order to hear Marcus's voice more clearly, Simon instantly brought his boat to an idle. "What is it, Marcus?"

"I'm just coming up on a boat now. It looks like the one..."

Detective Hansen intervened. "Do not engage the suspect boat, Sir. I repeat, do not engage the suspects."

"Marcus, what do you see?" Lionel asked. He too brought his craft to a full stop.

"It appears as though it's drifting," Marcus said, gasping in a lowered voice. "I don't see anyone on board... 457985... oh my God, this is it. This is the one."

"Relaying Marcus's coordinates," Sophia announced.

Simon's boat roared into action and came about. In an instant it was heading toward Marcus's location. Lionel did the same. By the time he arrived at the drifting evidence, the true extent of the tragedy was beginning to sink in. Simon's emotions had run the gamut and were poised to swirl into a dark abyss. He piloted his own boat close to the other and then made the jump. Simon disappeared below the covered forward section before quickly emerging. "There's no one on board," he yelled. He wanted desperately to investigate further, but when his call for help went unanswered, Simon's eyes searched for Marcus. He was adrift. His head bobbed forward as though he was ready to slump over the front of his Sea-doo. Lionel arrived just in time.

"Lionel, help me get Marcus onto my boat," he stated, jumping back onto his own cruiser. "We've got to get him to the hospital."

"Isn't there one in A (Alexandria) Bay?" Lionel asked.

"There is. Try to bump his unit with yours until he comes alongside."

It wasn't easy, but they managed to get Marcus on board. He was semi-conscious when they laid him down on the rear bench seating area. "Leave everything," Simon ordered. "We'll worry about it later."

Little was said while Simon piloted his boat toward the riverside hospital. As Lionel held a nearly unconscious Marcus in his arms, a grim reality was becoming painfully clear. Sometime during their desperate attempt to locate her, Jennifer had been transferred to another boat. The second boat probably passed them by during the pursuit for the first.

What Simon and Lionel didn't know was that the two women in the convertible had raced to the river's edge and jumped into a boat, which lay in wait, only a couple of kilometres away, somewhere near Rockport.

During the rush to the first vessel, Simon and Lionel didn't even notice the hooded, ball-capped pair piloting their boat right past them. They couldn't have known Jennifer was below; that she had been bound, gagged, and shoved into the forward compartment of another cabin cruiser. The original kidnappers were holding her there.

Simon's heart sank with the passing of every wave, with every thought of what his daughter might be going through. _There will undoubtedly be a ransom_ , he thought, but that realization didn't help much. The short journey to the hospital seemed so surreal, as if it unfolded in disjointed segments. Sophia had already called the hospital, and Lionel's tourniquet was appreciated by the awaiting ER staff. Simon went through the motions of helping to get Marcus out of the boat and onto a stretcher. He followed the gurney right up to the operating room, watching as Marcus's eyes periodically opened then closed. Simon and Lionel were stopped, however, at the entrance to the emergency operating room.

They paced the waiting area for some time before word finally arrived. "He'll be fine," the doctor announced. "He's lost a lot of blood, but he's going to be ok."

"If there's anything he needs, Doctor," Simon suggested.

"He'll be in recovery for a few hours. If you want to leave a contact number with one of the nurses, they'll give you a call as soon as he's able to see someone. I'm sorry, but that's all I have for you at this point."

"Thank you, Doctor," Simon said.

"My pleasure," the physician said, before returning to his duties.

Lionel exhaled a large sigh, saying to Simon: "Why don't you go home and organize things from there? I'll stay here until they move him into recovery. He'll want to know what's going on as soon as he wakes up."

Simon felt numb. "Father Number Three; that's what she called him." He remained motionless, staring down the empty hallway in which the doctor had just disappeared.

"I guess that makes him family, doesn't it?" Lionel joked.

"Speaking of family. I've got to call Tanya." The realization that he had to get a hold of Marcus's wife was soon put into context, however. Lionel instantly recognized the look on his brother's face. It had changed from helplessness to resolve. "Tell Marcus I'll drop in to see him as soon as possible."

Simon began to leave. "Sophia," he stated, with a newly found conviction.

"Yes, Simon."

"I want you to shut down everything that's not essential to your safety." Simon was already heading for the exit. "I'm going to need your undivided attention."

"You have it," Sophia responded.

"We'll establish a command center at the house," Simon stated, nearing the hospital's entrance. His confident stride caused him to burst through its front doors. "You have twelve hours, Sophia. I want Jennifer found by midnight!"

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

New York City

"TELL ME you had nothing to do with this!" Rose pleaded into her phone. Prav instantly turned away from the group he was now with. "Nothing to do with what?" he replied, quietly.

Rose was at her U.N. office and had just completed a harrowing phone call with Simon. The news visibly unnerved her. She offered to leave immediately in order to be at Simon's side through the crisis, but he insisted she remain in New York; further developments would be forthcoming.

Now desperate, she was praying that her brother had not crossed another depraved threshold. Her voice shuddered, grasping for reassurance. "Haven't you heard? It's all over the news."

Prav was presently in New York, touring the manufacturing floor of his new acquisition, Gen Tech Laboratories. He quietly asked his assistant to minimize her tablet's accompanying technical briefing, stating: "The latest news-feed, please."

His sister's breathless concern punctuated a short pause before the news story was brought to life. "To recap our latest breaking news," the news anchor stated. "We have just learned only moments ago that the daughter of Simon Taylor has been kidnapped. Simon Taylor is, of course, the founder and creative genius behind the corporate giant,  
PurIntel. For more on this story, we go to our Toronto CTV affiliate. Mark, what's the latest on this story?"

Rose was watching the same American news network at her office. A reporter appeared to be standing somewhere up the road from Simon's residence. Two RCMP officers stood outside its closed front gate, allowing only authorized vehicles to enter.

"She was taken sometime late this morning," Rose said.

Prav motioned with his index finger to the Gen Tech delegation as if he needed a moment alone. Numbering close to a dozen, they turned their attention back to a prototype prosthetic device. It was an arm similar to Lionel's, only this one included a few next generation features. Their guide continued elaborating on its skin-like composite made of a special spider silk protein, which made it impervious to any puncture or laceration type injury.

Prav slowly walked away. He lowered his voice. "This is not a good time for me, Sister."

"Look, please tell me you didn't have anything to do with this!"

"What, with the kidnapping? Of course I didn't, Roshnie."

Rose knew she needed to get beyond the layers of deception. "I swear... if I ever find out you're lying to me ..."

"Roshnie, please," Prav interjected. His tone was quietly condescending. "I am telling you the truth."

Rose was pacing the area close to her desk. She moved closer to the window, which looked toward Simon's residential tower. A thought came to her. "Prove it!" she stated.

"Prove what?" Prav asked.

"You can prove to me that you are telling the truth by calling him."

Prav was taken aback by his sister's suggestion. "Call Simon Taylor?"

"Yes, call him," Rose firmly stated. "I want you to make everything at your disposal available to him... to find Jennifer."

Rose only heard a pause on the other end of the line.

Prav's manipulative nature rose to the surface. He could feel the vulnerability in Rose's voice. He let the opportunity linger before seizing the moment. "So please explain to me again, Sister, why I would ever want to help you... or him, for that matter?"

Rose was startled by the phrase, even more by her brother's ability to use her own words against her. She struggled for something to say. The line remained silent.

"Then we have an arrangement?" Prav asked.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Simon's summer residence

"HOW IS HER MOTHER taking it?" Richard asked. A real-time visual of Simon's father was displayed on a large flat-panel television, which hung on the rear wall of the house between two sets of French doors. They led outside onto the expansive deck.

Simon recognized the chair in which his father was sitting. He was at home, thankfully, his laptop's web-cam presumably sat on the coffee table in front of him. In the highest resolution available, Richard leaned forward and put a face to anguish itself. His visible creases were made all the more evident by the worry that flowed freely within, deepening their appearance.

"She took it like any mother would," Simon replied.

Richard imagined, for a moment, the way in which his own wife, Catherine, would have reacted. Any reserve of empathy was depleted by the thought.

The conversation between Simon and Jennifer's mother had obviously not gone well. Leslie, Simon's ex-wife, was nearly hysterical, understandably. Simon's calming consolation appeared so genuine, though, that it gave Lionel pause; he was heartened by the realization that love's embers hadn't been fully extinguished, that they lingered longer than Simon would admit.

The arrival of television reporters to her front door only compounded Leslie's sense of growing anxiety. Simon made every effort to reassure her, but found a measure of his own simmering fear assuaged by the tenderness of her sobbing plea: "Find her, Simon," she cried. "Find her or I'll have nothing to live for." Thoughts of what could have or should have been, permeated Simon's already troubled mind.

Leslie eventually acquiesced to Simon's advice; that she stay home, call someone to come over, then only answer the door when a text confirmed their arrival. With the shared understanding that the next hours would be the worst of their lives, Simon vowed to update her constantly. Developments would be relayed by him personally as soon as they were available.

Simon could see that his father was equally distraught. "Look, Son," Richard choked, putting his hand over his mouth. Tears seemed anxious to spill from his eyes. "If there's anything I can do, please let me know."

Simon continued to suppress the emotions wanting to break through his determined exterior. "Thanks, Dad. I'll call as soon as we have something."

Richard was glad to see Lionel standing close to his brother. "We're all going to survive this, do you hear me?" Richard said. He feigned a smile to cover his cracking voice.

"We are," Lionel agreed, putting his arm on Simon's shoulder.

Simon turned his head after hearing his name being called. It was Inspector Hansen. He was sitting nearby at a sturdy oak table, focusing on his laptop.

"Sorry, Dad, but I have to go."

Richard directed his attention to Lionel. "Take care of your brother, will you?"

"I will."

Simon joined the inspector, looking over his shoulder. "We've established the search area as it appears here, but as you can see it's a labyrinth of countless islands."

Simon sighed, as if daunted by the prospects of searching each one.

The Inspector continued. "While this may initially appear to complicate the prospect of finding your daughter, I think in the immediate term it works in our favor."

"How so?" Lionel asked, joining the discussion.

"If I put myself in their shoes," the inspector suggested, "I'd use one of these islands as temporary cover. I'd hunker down for the afternoon and evening then move her after dark."

"That buys us some time then," Simon stated, welcoming the news.

"We can set up some check points east and west, make it impossible for them to get up or down the river," Lionel offered.

"What about the shoreline?" Simon asked. "They could also be at any one of the homes or cottages along either border."

Just then, Simon heard his name again. This time it was Sophia. "Simon, I've got a call coming in from Gen Tech Laboratories."

A call from Gen Tech? Simon wondered. "Put it through on the flat-screen."

Lionel followed as Simon walked back over to the large flat-panel TV. Simon couldn't have been more surprised. It was Christian Saunders, the former CEO of Gen Tech Laboratories.

"Simon, it's Christian." Saunders seemed a little flustered. He looked as though he was hastily adjusting his web cam in order to display a better image. The face of Simon's friend suddenly stabilized.

"Simon, I only have a moment to talk. First please allow me offer my deepest sympathies with regard to what has beset your family."

"Thank you, Christian, but..."

Saunders cut Simon off, interjecting: "I know you've got a lot on your plate, Simon, so let me get straight to the point. The reason for my call is to let you know that I've lobbied Gen Tech's Board of Directors to make available any and all assets which might be of some help to your cause."

Simon was genuinely surprised by the offer. "Assets? I don't understand."

"Now, I'm not sure how our new CEO will respond, but rest assured we have some very relevant gear in the pre-production phase of deployment."

"And you think this gear might help in finding my daughter?" Simon asked.

"I most certainly do. If you have a moment, I can explain."

Sophia seized a momentary pause to interrupt the conversation. "Simon, I've got another call coming through from Gen Tech."

"Another call" Simon replied, "from Gen Tech? Christian, do you know anything about this?"

"No, I'm not aware of... unless."

"Can it wait, Sophie?" Simon turned from Sophia back to the wall mounted TV. "Sorry Christian, but would you mind if I come back to you?"

"It's Mr. Praveen Gill," Sophia replied. "CEO of Genetic Technology Laboratories."

"Prav Gill!" Saunders repeated. He was obviously taken aback. "By all means, take his call, Simon, but if you don't get what you need out of him, call me back. We'd be happy to do what we can."

"Thank you, Christian. Thank you very much for your offer."

As soon as the image of Saunders disappeared it was replaced by a much more composed Prav Gill.

The smartly dressed Gen Tech CEO assumed a respectful stance, with hands clasped behind his back. "May I ask if I have the pleasure of addressing Mr. Simon Taylor?" A vacated test facility of some sort dominated the background; devices at varying stages of development lay out in the open as if to add weight to the impending exchange.

"I am Simon Taylor, what can I do for you, Mr. Gill?"

"Prav, please call me, Prav. May I address you as, Simon, Mr. Taylor?"

"You may," Simon stated, matter-of-factly.

Prav played the concerned adversary as if he were born into the role. "Please allow me to extend my sincerest sympathy regarding the unfortunate events facing your family."

"Thank you, Prav," Simon replied.

"Since time is of the essence, let us not waste any unnecessarily. The reason for my call is to extend to you the full technical resources of my company, Genetic Technology Laboratories."

Simon seemed at a loss for what to say. Inspector Hansen couldn't help overhearing the exchange and appeared behind Simon and Lionel. The three men stood looking at the flat-screen image of Prav Gill in front of them.

"What sort of resources are we talking about, Mr. Gill," the Inspector asked.

Although a reciprocal image allowed Prav to see with whom he was speaking, further introductions seemed in order. "This is Inspector Hansen from the Royal Canadian Mounted Police and this is my brother, Lionel," Simon offered. "Inspector Hansen has taken charge of the official investigation."

"Official being the operative word, Mr. Gill," Lionel stated. "How can you help us?"

"How can I help you? Well, I'm sure you are aware of my company's surveillance capabilities, the ability of our miniature drones to seek out and locate their objective however concealed."

All three men were familiar with the recent advancements in drone technology. Aside from their obvious military applications, miniature quad-copters were becoming well known for their civil applications in disaster recovery. Palm-sized helicopters could search for earthquake victims, for example, in areas too dangerous for human rescuers to venture.

Simon appeared eager to listen. "Go on," he said.

"If you are interested, I would be more than happy to offer an array of our latest prototypes."

"Prototypes?" the Inspector repeated. "I'm not sure I like the sound of that."

"Perhaps then," Prav paused, "it would be better if we had this conversation in private."

Simon understood the Inspector's concerns, but, placing a higher value in technological solutions and their ability to exceed expectations, he turned to his brother and offered only a visual cue. It was understood. Lionel placed a hand on the Inspector's shoulder.

Hansen took the hint. "You realize you may be putting your daughter's life in further danger."

"I can have a team on-site within three hours," Prav confidently stated.

Lionel knew it would be better if the plan of action were explained under less officious circumstances. "Inspector?" he insisted. Hansen reluctantly turned to move out of earshot.

A feeling of regret accompanied Simon's agreement to exclude the Inspector from further discussions. It was better that way, though, and everyone in the room knew it, including Hansen.

"We'll keep you up to date, Inspector," Simon offered.

CHAPTER EIGHTTEEN

Chelsea, Manhattan

DERRICK LANDRY was a meticulous man and felt well within his comfort zone while sipping on his customary Earl Grey tea. It was a Friday evening tradition of sorts for the PurIntel executive to spend a few quiet hours living up to his single, refined gentleman status. The Whiskey Cupboard, located on West 19th Street, had been his favorite haunt for as long as Simon knew his Director of Operations, and it was no secret that he began every weekend at the trendy, over-priced coffee house. The irony that The Whiskey Cupboard served no alcoholic beverages was rarely lost on its regular patrons, but anything stronger than coffee or tea had been out of the question for Derrick for some time. The bridge to all things intoxicating had been severed nearly a decade ago. It went through the usual slow and agonizing process of being wired for charges; its self-detonation only accomplished after crossing the threshold of all things dehumanizing.

Derrick was fully aware, of course, that his boss was still immersed in a tragedy beyond compare, but there was little he could do from New York. Sophia was essentially on-site with Simon. Her remote deployment capabilities had been transferred to the same visual system that he used during his demonstration at UC, Berkeley. Simon rarely travelled without the briefcase-size device. It was much easier, for example, to visualize how a micro array matched up with and adhered to a gene when its sequence was magnified and slowly rotating right in front of him. Phosphorescent additives enabled micro arrays to display how active a gene is by glowing. It was obvious, even to Simon, that Sophia's holographic capabilities were subject only to the limitations of one's imagination.

As per Simon's orders, Derrick had suspended all but a few of Sophia's obligations in order to redirect her remaining resources to the task of finding Jennifer. The _Halo's_ retail component remained active, but everything else was rendered off-line. It was a long weekend, after all, and Derrick knew few institution level clients would be requiring her services. This would also allow for a full interface with whatever state of the art gear arrived from Gen Tech. He did, however, utilize the infrequent opportunity to perform some background programming tasks on the otherwise distracted Sophia.

In a corner booth, Derrick stirred a fresh cup of tea, as he scrolled through an automotive after-market website. _A new set of composite rims would go nicely on the R8_ , he thought. After putting his spoon down on its saucer, he raised his cup to his lips. He paused, however, after seeing someone standing in front of his booth.

"Ms. Gill," he said, straightening his back. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"May I join you?" she asked.

"Of course."

As his unexpected guest became the model of repose, sliding herself into a comfortable seated position, Derrick didn't bother running the gamut of possibilities. Although Rose was the type of woman that could make some men uncomfortable, Derrick was intimately familiar with company so compelling. He had made the decision not to marry long ago. And since single life suited his work-centric lifestyle, relationships with the opposite sex fell into categories defined by narrow, seldom-bargained parameters. Women meant one thing to Derrick, and he was used to them deferring to his terms.

"So should I presume I am the beneficiary of some happen-stance meeting, or would you suggest I abandon the laws of coincidence and allow my ego free reign?"

"Neither, Mr. Landry," Rose stated. She loathed the idea of being compelled to fulfill her brother's demands. In order for Gen Tech's full potential to be deployed on Jennifer's behalf, a measure of quid pro quo was required to seal the 'arrangement.'

"Oh," Derrick said, slowly nodding his head. "Then you have my curiosity peaked. May I call you, Rose? If you don't mind, I'd certainly prefer you to call me Derrick."

Rose's demeanor fit well with the type of correspondence with which Derrick was all too familiar ˗ confident in her ability to leverage every resource available. Nonetheless, she remained focused on the reason for their meeting. "There's a small matter of some software I'd like you to look at."

Rose handed over a crystal-like memory device. "Would you mind looking at two files for me?"

Derrick took the memory stick and plugged it into his tablet. He was surprised to see what appeared on his screen.

"I assume you recognize the first program," Rose stated.

"I should. I wrote it when I was freelanced to Equity FX." Another revelation seemed to flash across Derrick's face. "How did you get your hands on this?"

"My brother is considering another acquisition."

"Equity FX?" Derrick picked up on Rose's subtle affirmation. "And what, he happened onto these files while kicking the tires, as it were?"

Prav had explained to Rose that he wanted to bring Equity FX back to life, that he needed an American subsidiary to Indus Bank, an Indian financial institution with which the Gill family of companies had a significant ownership stake. Rumors persisted, however, relating to hundreds of millions of dollars still unrecovered. Thus far, the SEC investigation had been fruitless in finding the FX funds. The fact that the last outstanding lawsuits had recently been settled for pennies on the dollar offered the best testament that, notwithstanding the investors' honorable intentions, all involved were ready to put the sordid matter behind them.

Having developed some of the software for Equity FX himself, at least the original, unaltered versions, Derrick closely followed the financial institution's demise, much of it from the booth in which he was presently sitting. Yes, he had cooperated with the investigation, but back then he was committed to the capitalistic notion that the markets should be allowed to regulate themselves. Relationships pertaining to institutionalized authority were, therefore, tenuous at best. He did, however, offer to find the money, to track it down through a pre-Sophia, painstaking process, but Director Phelps's predecessor turned down Derrick's so-called finder's fee as being ridiculous.

The thought of wanting a contemptuous ten percent of the funds recovered caused Derrick to smile as he scrolled through his adulterated lines of code. He knew there was no stale date on money; that someone might eventually come to him with an offer, such as the one Rose was proposing this evening. And with recent advances in computing power, he might even be able to find the millions without Sophia's help.

Rose returned Derrick's thoughts to the task at hand. "And the second program?" she asked. "That little gem of yours has apparently been lying dormant in the background for some time now."

"That doesn't surprise me. It was designed to avoid detection from prying eyes, so to speak." "You know," he said, pausing, "I still think this ranks as some of my best work."

The first software program on Rose's memory device was set up as an investment vehicle that provided micro-loans to underdeveloped countries. Sponsored by the U.N., and backed by its G20 member nations, it quickly became a popular tax avoidance tool. Its rate of return may have been mediocre, but the social contagion aspect of lifting the Third World out of poverty caused it to take off more rapidly than anyone expected.

Registration of peasant artisans and farmers amounted to the first of many hurdles, however. The poor of India suffered from logistical obstacles as much as those from African nations. The second problem was born, in part, from the first; a dramatic over-funding caused millions of dollars to be bottlenecked at source institutions.

Some brokerage houses discontinued the program, while others, like Equity FX, used ingenuity to solve the problem. Ancillary software was written to fabricate bogus entities. Once created, tens of thousands of approved applicants allowed the money to flow. And flow it did.

Although Equity FX benefited greatly from the brokerage fees they earned, it wasn't long before the program fell victim to its own success. The fact that Equity FX was succeeding where everyone else failed brought the company under U.S. government scrutiny. The Security and Exchange Commission eventually shut down the American version, but not before hundreds of millions went unaccounted for.

"You know I was cleared of all wrong-doing on that file," Derrick stated, vociferously.

"It's the second piece of software I'm interested in," Rose stated.

The second program Derrick wrote for the same firm was not designed to work in parallel with the aforementioned, but that's how it ended up being deployed. The following bit of programming genius became a cover to protect the assets of the first.

Originally designed to hide offshore assets from prying eyes, this program had the ability to make it impossible for regulatory agencies like the SEC to seize monies in suspect bank accounts. As soon as attempts were made to retrieve the assets, Derrick's software ensured any aggregate sum was splintered into dozens of smaller amounts. They would, in turn, be transferred to other foreign institutions whereby they would sit idle until the process required repeating. Every split, every movement of money, every transaction carried with it a unique electronic signature so that every dollar could be accounted for.

Equity FX executives were eventually indicted as a result of the ensuing SEC investigation, and Allan Forbes played a role in bringing it and other companies under control. While Equity FX's fledgling carcass languished under the pall of an uncertain future, the usual lack of funding caused S.E.C. investigations to founder and subsequently come to a halt. But as much as Prav Gill could trace the scent of financial opportunity, so did Allan have a nose for those bitten by the vice of greed. He was patient, moreover diligent, if anything.

Again, Derrick didn't break any existing American laws, so he was eager to remind Rose of his exoneration during what he considered a lengthy and exhaustive investigation.

As he scrolled through the program he created some eleven years earlier, Rose looked on with a measure of disinterest. Prav promised her a portion of the fund, if she would help in its recovery, but money never excited her the way other things did. She obviously had her reasons, not the least of which was to help Simon. However indirectly, she could play a role in finding Jennifer alive and safe.

Derrick continued scrolling through the program, looking for deficiencies, as Rose's mind raced with conflicting thoughts.

She truly believed her relationship with Simon was solid and safe, but was it too safe? To get involved with her brother's scheme was risky. He had a way of influencing her to do risky things, though. The danger of being caught or exposed, like she was with her first boyfriend, still resonated with her to this day, however faintly. She struggled to detach her mind from what still smoldered within the ash of her addiction. It was so crafty, exploitive, and sometimes too overwhelming.

Rose felt a resurgence of feelings she had long suppressed. She had sensed Derrick's lust for her from the moment she sat down. All she had to do was appear indecisive, react with hesitation to his inevitable advances. Derrick would interpret that as weakness and then take it as a sign to press for what he wanted. Daring to confront the eroticism that would define their encounter, Rose summoned the strength to look away. She focused her attention on another couple sitting several booths down. They were laughing, carrying on like committed lovers should. The romantic, more natural spectacle made her think of Simon ˗ how he was helping her to find inner health, become less fragmented, live like a whole person again. He didn't know how damaged she really was. He never would, Rose said to herself. She took a deep breath then looked up and found Derrick staring at her. "Is everything alright?" he asked.

Rose was accomplished at hiding her true feelings. "It's been a long day."

"Can I get you a glass of white wine or..."

"Are you able to retrieve the assets?" Rose interjected.

"Someone has done a hatchet job here, but with a little work... yes."

"I have three bank accounts," Rose said, sliding a piece of paper across the table.

"Three?"

"One is for you."

Derrick felt the presumption of being complicit to things unspoken, but he could also feel a palpable tension emanating from Rose. She was so close, so irresistible. "What if I don't need the money... if I'd prefer something else?"

Rose could feel Derrick undressing her with his eyes. She shuddered, trying to displace a desire to indulge herself, to acquiesce to Derrick's burning desire.

She quickly slid herself out of the booth. "I'll be in touch," she coolly stated, glancing toward the entrance.

Derrick's eyes followed Rose's every step to the lounge's front door.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The Thousand Islands

SIMON'S HEAD WAS SLUMPED FORWARD, his posture obviously burdened by the weight of what had just transpired. While standing at the extremity of the rear deck, his arms were outstretched, his hands firmly planted upon its railing. The ransom call they were waiting for had just come through, at 6:00 pm, exactly. The terms seemed impossible, almost too difficult to comprehend. Lionel and Inspector Hansen remained in front of the wall-mounted television. They looked at each other, still wondering if they had heard the demands correctly.

The perfect human genome is what Jennifer's captors wanted from Simon. And as if the audacious demand wasn't troubling enough on its own, the assertion that it even existed meant only one thing; a mole lurked within PurIntel. As far as Simon knew, none of his employees had the ability to hack into his encrypted personal files, save for one, possibly.

_The world is not ready for it_ , he often thought to himself. A genetically perfect entity, that is. Flawless organs, bone, and tissue were one thing. Their genes were already being spliced into otherwise deficient sequences allowing in-vitro embryos to disinherit the unpredictable laws of nature. Soon whole organs would be grown as replacements for those afflicted with disease. Humanity had proven itself capable of adapting to its ever-changing environment, but this was different. Simon wanted to plan this journey out, to chart its perils, and then reduce its obstacles to their fundamental, more manageable components.

_Change always experiences a lower rejection rate_ , he often reflected, _when it is undertaken one-step at a time_. Small steps, after all, are much less painful than leaping from one light year to the next.

Simon was more adept than most at envisioning the fallout from placing a powerful tool in the wrong hands. Lionel was dumbfounded by the prospect that a perfect human might someday exist. Like Jennifer, he had read the sensational tabloid rumors; that the God Sequence had been discovered; that the virtues had not only been identified, but the extent to which they were expressed in any given individual could be determined. You didn't have to be a scientist, least of all a geneticist, to appreciate the social ramifications. The process of natural selection would not be set aside for everyone, only those who could afford it. Genetic stereotyping alone could lead humankind down a dark path.

Simon had planned to go public with the file, but he never imagined having to do so under these circumstances. The media frenzy, he knew, would be nothing if not excessive. Fear would be the usual fulcrum by which knowledge and understanding were victimized.

The PurIntel CEO would have to divulge the fact that, yes, the process of recognizing the diamonds in the rough was the result of cataloguing millions of DNA strands. However, he would also have to concede the fact that the perfect human genome was not found among them in its entirety. In truth, it had been pieced together and then replicated in a soft-copy format. The fact that the perfect human genome was a construct, that it had been designed by Sophia, and that she accomplished the monumental feat on her own would offer the public a glimpse into the immense potential of supercomputers like her.

It was the one and only time Simon had given her permission to write her own software. The interrelationship of some inheritable diseases was too daunting for even Simon's programming ability. Still further, the most difficult revelation for the public to accept would be that the perfect gene sequence she blue-printed was both organic and synthetic. Sophia's theoretical model leveraged the XNA successes of Gen Tech's Sword computer and designed an entirely synthetic counterpart to her biological super genome.

It wasn't even an expressed goal, to splice together and synthesize all of its blemish-free human components. But that's what Sophia did, when given the opportunity. She leveraged the qualities that enabled her human counterpart to survive, moreover thrive thus far in the world: ingenuity, resourcefulness, the confidence to take matters into one's hands, so to speak. Simon was not surprised to find Sophia discovering these and other qualities within her vast accumulated knowledge.

When Sophia announced the synthetic aspect of her accomplishment to Simon, he knew immediately some troubling questions would soon have to be answered; the degree to which it could it be exploited, cloned, possibly weaponized? Sensational headlines would undoubtedly.resound with the revelation. Those explanations, however, would have to be deferred for now. Jennifer had to be found soon, by midnight, in fact.

To this point, Jennifer's captors had not made the ransom demand public. They would, though, if Simon didn't comply quickly. That would launch the tragedy into another stratosphere, one that Sophia would acknowledge, if she weren't consumed by zeroing in on the location from which the ransom message had been sent.

Her remote deployment system was ready to utilize its holographic image projectors to display any supporting image, but for now only Simon's laptop was needed to offer a visualization of the process.

A briefcase sat on the coffee table in front of Lionel and Inspector Hansen. Simon's laptop link to Sophia lay within. Behind them and to each side were three plush couches at right angles to each other; their focal point, the flat panel television on the wall. Several paces to the rear, a large gas-fired hearth commanded the centre of the room. Rising out of the floor in stone, it lay dormant beneath a vaulted ceiling. Bedrooms occupied the east and west second floor lofts.

The home's spacious and well-appointed kitchen was situated off to the right. An island stood between it and its complimentary oak dining table, upon which sat the Inspector's computer. Off to the left, on the other side of the hearth, a pool table lay equally inactive; it's taught covering was intact. Sophia's holographic image projectors stood at the ready, one at each of its four corners.

While Lionel's attention was drawn to his brother's troubled disposition, the Inspector's was captured by descending satellite images, which Simon was observing on his laptop. Its accompanying surround sound emanated from the room's entertainment system. "Can we get that image on the big screen?" the Inspector asked. He had returned for the more official aspects of the investigation.

"Of course," Sophia replied. Her speakers were inlaid into a hard-shell briefcase. Its computer was tightly fitted and continued to display the same image as the larger screen on the wall. Four half-spheres remained empty, their holographic projectors placed and ready.

The Inspector walked closer to the flat panel on the wall. From a geographic sector including the Greater Hamilton-Toronto Area, Sophia continued her ransom call trace to regions within Mississauga, North York, and Scarborough. A holographic image coalesced above the covered pool table. A three-dimensional City of Toronto soon took shape. The familiar skyline rotated slowly, while at the same time reflecting a narrowing of the zone in question.

To the right of the Inspector, Lionel stood in the threshold of two opened French doors. He was about to check on his brother, but something beyond the deck distracted him. "What the...," he said, just as Simon's attention was drawn to the same object out on the river. It seemed to be coming toward them. A craft of some sort looked as though it was both on and above the water at the same time. Lionel walked out on to the deck and called back through the open door. "Inspector," he stated, loudly. "I think you might want to come and see this."

Inspector Hansen joined Simon and Lionel outside. "I guess Mr. Gill is a man of his word," Hansen suggested.

A blacked-out vessel careened across the water. Striking as it was on its own, as it got closer, two additional figures appeared to be keeping pace beside it. Simon could make out the unmistakable twin V hull of the boat, as well as its lone helmsman, but it was the craft's flanking hardware that caught and held the attention of all three men.

As the convoy closed the distance to the Canadian side of the waterway, one thing became obvious. The accompanying escort was obviously airborne; each appeared manned by a single rider. They sped beside their counterpart, racing almost without sound. Both the craft that split the water and those that hovered over it bore the same audio signature. It spoke of one thing: stealth. _They must be battery powered_ , Lionel thought.

The boat throttled back first, allowing its escort to seamlessly traverse the transition from river to land. Had it not been for their addition, the militaristic looking vessel would have captured everyone's attention. The boat slowed, its helmsman readying himself to come alongside Simon's dock.

Lionel smiled before descending the few stairs to the backyard lawn. The Inspector followed as the two SWAT type operatives brought their vehicles to a hovering standstill. Their appearance was unmistakable, part jet pilot, part commando. Simon shook his head, realizing what they reminded him of; the famous two-wheeled Segway. These machines were not designed for ground transport, though. They were obviously suspended by powerful quad-copter engines capable of propelling their rider in whichever direction they were guided. Simon surmised that the same principles of steering applied to the Segway's air-borne counterpart as each pilot reduced rotator speed and brought their respective units to the ground.

The man on the left stepped off his unit first. "Mr. Taylor," he stated, taking off his helmet. He looked directly at Simon; his unit's on-board facial recognition system had obviously identified all those present on approach. "My name is Decker. My partners and I are here on orders from our employer, Gen Tech. This is my associate, Connor. Sims will remain with the boat, for the time being."

The second Marine-like individual followed the first up the stairs and onto the deck. Decker paused long enough to offer his hand to Simon. "Sorry to hear about your daughter, Sir."

"Thank you, Mr. Decker."

"Would you mind if we went inside?" Decker asked. He seemed officious and anxious to get down to work.

"Of course," Simon replied, leading the way indoors.

"The sooner we get things underway, the sooner we'll find your daughter."

The confidence in Decker's voice lifted Simon's soul its first notch above despair.

Decker gave the room a quick scan and suggested to his partner, "We'll set up on that table." A nod from Decker's associate was followed by the removal of a medium-sized backpack. From it, he pulled a small briefcase. After sitting down at the head of the table, he opened it, typed in a few commands, and began bringing the team's mobile processor on-line.

Having followed the group inside, Lionel couldn't help himself. "I hope you don't mind me asking, but who do you guys work for? That dick-head Gill or..."

Simon interjected: "Mr. Decker, this is my brother, Lionel. Inspector Hansen is with the RCMP."

Decker's tone transitioned to one of reassurance. "Let's just say, Lionel, that we're loyal to the logo on our paycheque. Nothing more, nothing less."

Connor silently evaluated each man in the room. He stared at Lionel for a moment, trying to get a fix on him, before turning his attention to Simon. "Mr. Taylor, we were briefed on your situation en-route. Our system is interface-capable with yours, so if you like I can provide Sophia with a visual feed. This will allow you to watch a real-time holographic representation of the search process."

Decker realized it was time to explain. "Mr. Taylor, I'm not sure what your expectations are at this point so let me bring you up to speed." While carefully skirting the perception of taking charge, Decker politely gestured for Simon to move closer to his partner's improvised workstation. "I assume you are familiar with most of Gen Tech's gear?"

"With what I've seen," Simon replied.

"Well, before Sophia steps in to fill in the blanks, maybe I should acquaint you what is presently being deployed on your behalf. Have we got 3D capability yet?"

"There we go," Connor stated. With outstretched hands he sat back in his chair. He was surprised to find his computer being taken over. "Hello, Sophia," he said, sarcastically, as Sophia assumed control.

The full complement of programming scrolled down Connor's laptop screen. In less than a dozen seconds, Sophia assimilated the new software into her own operating system. "Please direct your attention," she said, "to the holographic renditions of available equipment."

Simon and Lionel were the first to move closer to the pool table. Above it, unorganized, rotating points of light began to consolidate into an object.

"Is that what I think it is?" Lionel asked.

"Buteo Platypterus, the Broad-winged Hawk," Sophia stated. An image of the relatively small raptor rotated in front of the men. A three-dimensional line drawing morphed into a life-like version. Its wings spread out and then tucked themselves back in. "A forty centimetre body size and one metre wing span allow this mechanical replica to soar at heights of one-thousand metres, giving it a wide panorama of surveillance capability." The holographic bird then took off and ascended into the sky. It offered a theoretical visual of the ground below.

"It's a drone?" Inspector Hansen asked.

"It is, gentlemen," Decker replied. "And an expert bird-watcher would have trouble distinguishing it from its organic equivalent. Sims, our boat captain, has four onboard. Once we've established our search baseline, each will be deployed along the north and south shorelines. They have a four-hour fight capability and will support their counterparts in east and west directions.

"Their counterparts?" Lionel asked.

Sophia quickly changed the object displayed in front of them. "The Aglaius Phoeniceus, or Red Winged Blackbird," she stated, "will be supported by the Common Grackle and European Starling." As each bird was in turn rotated a full 360 degrees, the fowls' eyes focused in and out, mimicking the aperture of an HD camera.

Decker noticed Lionel subtly shaking his head. "I'll be damned. They're all drones."

"I've seen enough," Simon stated. "When can we begin?"

CHAPTER TWENTY

The Beaches, Toronto

THE BUILDING'S SUPERINTENDENT confirmed the lack of activity over the last several days. A call would have been placed to the residence, but nothing had been registered to that civic address for over two years. "I didn't make them out to be the dangerous type," the super attested. "I just thought they were wackos... you know, anarchist freaks."

A contingent of Toronto's Emergency Task Force waited outside a rental dwelling on the second floor. Their Tahoe SUV's remained out of sight, parked two blocks away from the otherwise trendy Beaches address.

When the authority to proceed was given, the door was quietly unlocked with the superintendent's key. Only a nod preceded the door being kicked open. Simon, Lionel and the Inspector watched as Sophia displayed a real-time video feed from body cams recording the actual raid. "Go, go, go!" were the orders followed by: "Toronto Police! I need everyone within the sound of my voice on the floor, now!"

Simon could see from the video that the apartment was empty. The scene panned to the left and then focused on a laptop in the middle of a coffee table. The camera shuddered with successive steps, indicating an officer was walking around to get a more accurate look. Simon's heart dropped. It was an image of someone tied to a chair. A burlap bag had been pulled over their head. Simon instantly knew it was Jennifer by her wetsuit. Her head moved, slightly, indicating she was alive, but when the bag was pulled off by someone out of frame, and Jennifer's tear-stained face was revealed, the video glitched, then repeated itself. It became painfully clear that it had been pre-recorded and couldn't be used to verify Jennifer's present condition.

Simon turned away from the television. Anguish made him look inward, to focus on the emotions which would be his undoing. Jennifer was out there somewhere. He empathized with the fear she must be going through; the fear of dying, of never seeing your loved ones again. A parent's fear of death often tested the depths of a deeper despair, though. The agony, which undoubtedly accompanies outliving a son or daughter, should only be glimpsed, momentarily, if at all, Simon realized. If it were embraced he would surely be of no use to anyone. He struggled to redirect his sense of peril into something more productive, into a resolve to find his daughter alive. The impending midnight deadline focused his determination. "What have you got for us, Sophia? Is there any data coming in yet?"

The holographic display over the pool table came alive. "Hawks one through four are approaching one thousand feet," Sophia replied. "A strong breeze at that altitude should allow video to stabilize at any moment." Literally, a bird's eye view was projected downward from a distance of some two metres above the covered pool table. The Thousand Islands suspension bridge to New York State appeared in the distance.

"Each of the drones will provide us with an overall perspective of the four search areas," Connor explained. "They're our AWACS, as it were."

The U.S. Airforce's AWACS, or Airborne Warning and Control System, to which Decker was referring, can detect and track hostile targets over both land and sea. Its 'look down' radar offers a 360-degree view of the subject area below.

"Our bird drones don't use radar, though," Connor continued. "Their visual navigation system allows them to recognize the essential components of their environment. It also provides us with terrain mapping and surveillance capabilities. While the higher altitude hawks present us with a broader perspective, individual starlings, grackles, and blackbirds offer a closer vantage point."

"No one will even know they're being surveyed," Lionel stated.

Decker continued to explain. "That's right. Sophia will also be able to focus in on any one individual point of view. This would allow for identification of a boat registration number or vehicle license plate, for example. Specialized software will also enable her to amalgamate the birds' swarming intelligence in order to provide a composite rendition of any given landscape or structure." Decker turned to Simon to emphasize a further point. "With assets on the inside of a building you'll have the capacity to see right through it, so to speak, in order to observe what's going on inside in real time."

"Unbelievable," Lionel said.

Inspector Hansen seemed equally impressed. "You wouldn't happen to have any business cards would you, Mr. Decker?" he asked.

Decker laughed. "I'm not sure this is within your budget, Inspector."

Sims, the third member of Decker's team was already out in the St. Lawrence River. The search commenced from where Marcus located the abandoned boat. Drone hawks were now flying in four separate directions. A complement of blackbirds, starlings and grackles had already struck off as well, each with their own pre-programmed mission.

An accurately scaled image of the Thousand Islands appeared above Simon's covered pool table. Grid-like lines moved forward with the constantly unfolding, uploading video. In addition to the shoreline, perimeter sketches also outlined each island as it came under its drone's flight path. Sophia cross-referenced this data with every available resource, adding coordinates, addresses, and names of each island.

The smaller birds swooped into every feature, adding municipal numbers, vehicle license plates, as well as moored boat registrations. Sophia worked to confirm the validity of the data, of what should and what should not be present at any given location. Any anomalies were red-flagged, literally, on the holographic image. This enabled Simon or Inspector Hansen to touch on the respective marker to see if further action should be taken.

Sophia zoomed her display into a different, finer perspective. One of the starlings had landed on an outbuilding, which belonged to one of the many riverside residences. Image balancing software worked to stabilize the picture, but the bird was obviously jumping about. It was looking for something, an entry point, perhaps.

"Did that bird just get inside that shack?" Lionel asked.

"Every structure has to be cleared," Connor answered.

A detailed high-resolution scan provided Sophia an accurate assessment of the building's interior. A lawn tractor, several kayaks and paddles came into focus, as did a variety of garden tools. Having completed the scan, the starling was given the all clear by Sophia. The bird quickly left the shed and was relayed the coordinates of its next target. Up/down data links to Sophia were channeled through the over flying hawks. Simon noticed the outbuilding, which had just been surveyed, turn green, indicating it had been cleared.

Sophia quickly changed the scene, again, to something of greater interest. "We've got a boat matching Marcus's description," she said. "It's inside a boathouse."

Simon's attention was peaked.

The bird's swarming intelligence beckoned several other drones to land in the trees nearest to the island structure. A complete scan of the enclosed building was completed from the outside first. Like an image produced by a mobile laser scanner, a multi-dimensional software rendition offered Simon the perspective of a Point Cloud, an image which can be manipulated, in this case, by hand. Lionel reached over the table and slowly turned the model in a clockwise direction.

Before anyone thought of it, Sophia sent a photo of the boat to Marcus's phone. He was still in the hospital, now conscious in recovery. 'It's a close match for sure,' he texted back.

No identifiable marking were visible, at first, but when a black bird fluttered down to a better vantage point a faint outline suggested a grouping of numbers had been hastily painted over. Again, the high-res scan did its magic. Numbers and letters, albeit unclear, began to emerge. A depth differential of only microns allowed Sophia to use her pattern recognition capabilities to compare millions of similar characters on the internet. In microseconds, the boat's identification was clear.

Inspector Hansen thought of the obvious inquiries, but Sophia was already cross-referencing every available database. "It hasn't been reported stolen," she stated, "but its owner's residence is listed as being on the Thousand Island Parkway, just a few kilometres up the road. It belongs to a Mr. Nathan Rickard."

"There's a Rockport residence," Sophia added. "Dialing now."

Simon felt his throat tighten with the thought of their first solid lead. He and the rest of the men listened as the ringtone went unanswered.

"I'm going to..." Connor stated, before pausing.

"Additional assets are already on the way to the boathouse," Sophia interjected.

"I was just about... to do that," Connor added. He seemed almost frustrated by the fact that Sophia was several steps ahead of him.

"Cross-referencing motor vehicle registrations," she stated.

A three-dimensional image of a Honda Hybrid was replaced by an older model Pontiac convertible. It was in turn was displaced by a regular cab pick-up truck."

"Wait a second. Go back!" Lionel shouted. Sophia went back to the convertible. "That's just like the one those girls were driving this morning."

An old showroom photo was quickly compared with every social media page connected to a Nathan Rickard.

"It was red, though," Simon stated.

"The registration indicates yellow," Hansen added. He was looking at the flanking data in support of the main holographic image.

Sophia scrolled through thousands of images, before arriving at a Facebook photo of a red convertible. It was parked outside a residence. Its owner was standing, smiling proudly beside it. The faint number on the house agreed with Nathan Rickard's address.

"It was probably painted by the owner, but the registration wasn't changed," Hansen stated.

Facial recognition software was compared to the portraits side by side. In short order, the man in the Facebook photo was overlapped with the vehicle registered to Rickard.

"It's a match," Simon stated.

"Inspector," Sophia announced. "Can we leave the residence to you and your men?"

"Of course," he agreed. He reached for his two-way radio in order to call the units at the front gate of Simon's house.

Sophia turned her attention back to the boathouse. "I'm sorry Simon, but an ultraviolet scan has indicated the presence of blood in the forward compartment of the boat."

"Can we type it?" he asked.

"We can do better than that," Decker suggested.

Lionel turned to his brother. "It may not be serious. Marcus thought they used a knife to cut her wrist phone off quickly."

A specially equipped red winged blackbird arrived at the boat's enclosure. It entered in the same way the others did, through a gap near the water line. The bird located and then pecked at the crusted blood. There were several drops in the same area, some larger than the others. One droplet seemed sufficient for an accurate assessment. A tongue-like test strip emerged from the bird's beak, allowing a sample to be tested.

"It's O positive," Sophia announced.

"That's Jennifer's blood type!" Simon stated, swallowing.

Lionel was getting impatient. "That's all we need, let's go!"

A replica of Jennifer's DNA appeared off to one side of the display. A version of the recovered blood rotated beside it. When Sophia joined them together, she stated: "It's a match, with a 98% certainty."

Simon ran his hand over the stubble now evident on his face. "Mr. Decker."

Sophia spoke up first. "Transferring all assets to the island known as Little Shield."

Decker looked at Simon. "There's one more thing we need to do, Mr. Taylor."

"We should go now!" Lionel stated, harshly.

"Gentlemen," Decker implored. "We need to confirm she's there first."

Simon took a step forward, stopping just short of a dreadful precipice. "Then what?"

"I can assure you, Mr. Taylor, if your daughter is on that island, there is no one on this planet better equipped than us to bring her out alive!"

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

The Saint Lawrence River

THE BLACKED OUT, double-hulled vessel moved slowly, silently through the water. It was larger than Simon realized and was more than capable of handling a six-man crew. Sims piloted the boat in stealth mode; its electric driveline was so quiet the only discernable sounds were those of an otherwise uneventful summer night: water gently lapping onto a shoreline, music accompanied by the odd premature 4th of July firework in the distance, the familiar slow engine rumble of a cruiser looking for a place to drop anchor and spend the night.

It was the better part of ten-thirty when Simon, Lionel, and Decker's men readied themselves for their imminent siege of Little Shield Island. Only the Inspector remained at Simon's residence. Several constables had already secured the location from which the stolen boat originated. An elderly couple were fortunately found alive. They were in rough shape, however, having been bound and gagged for more than twenty-four hours. The small Rockport community seemed completely unaware of the Mounties' covert intrusion.

Inspector Hansen thought it was a good sign that the older couple was allowed to survive. He suggested to Simon that the lack of violence boded well for his daughter's condition. A heavy sigh of relief was drawn by all from that revelation, but when the Inspector was informed that the island in question sat just inside American waters, he, in particular, was relieved by the fact that it provided him with a measure of plausible deniability; he could plead ignorance to what may or may not be transpiring beyond his jurisdiction.

The RCMP Inspector knew he could never sanction the type operation on which Simon was now embarking. Decker and his crew were, after all, hired operatives. And while they came across as being the freelance equivalent of a Special Forces unit, it was obvious the one advantage they possessed was their access to prototype technology. Everyone involved understood the degree to which state of the art gear provided its possessor with a tactical advantage. How long would it take for these designs to make it to the production floor, let alone into the hands of the JTF2 would depend on how long Gen Tech could deny their existence.

Decker's team didn't officially exist either. They were often deployed on behalf of Gen Tech's best clients, prospective, as well. Having put them to use on one occasion himself, Christian Saunders believed the corporate world sometimes needed things to be resolved quickly and quietly, without the media sensation that frequently accompanied the involvement of traditional authorities. Gen Tech CEOs, past and present, also appreciated that operations such as these were the perfect proving ground for pre-production trials.

~

Moments earlier, Connor had been putting on something that was nearly ready for commercial deployment. It was a specialized suit of some sort, which first drew the attention of the Inspector. When Decker pulled another from the same backpack, Lionel found the garb too intriguing not to inquire: "Hey, have you got any more of those?" he asked, with youthful enthusiasm.

Decker retrieved two more rolled up suits from his pack. "They're a Nano-fibre composite."

Lionel unfurled his. It was an incredibly lightweight, sheer-like black material. "This is amazing."

"It has the ability to enhance your movements," Decker instructed. "Nerve impulse sensors are woven right into the fabric. The subtlest muscle movement will trigger an amplifying response in the appropriate part of the suit. If you have to lift something, for example, your legs will find it easier."

"And if I have to hit someone?" Lionel asked, stretching his arm out as if he were backhanding an aggressor.

"It'll take a few moments to get used to, so be careful," Decker stated.

While Simon dawned his own suit, Lionel continued to be in awe of the muscular upgrade. "This would be amazing in a bar fight."

Inspector Hansen looked on with a healthy measure of trepidation as Simon was the last of the four men to get his thoughts into mission ready status. "You have one hour, Mr. Taylor," the Inspector stated. Simon was in the process of leaving, but stopped just short of the doorway leading to the back yard. Lionel was outside on the lawn, eagerly awaiting his brother. Decker and his crew were already boarding their specialized craft.

Inspector Hansen repeated himself. "One hour is all I can offer you, Simon. Beyond that I'll have to involve my counterpart at the FBI." Hansen had already put the American authorities on alert. With nothing concrete to go on, though, there was little the FBI could do but wait for an actionable lead.

Simon could feel the sympathy in Hansen's eyes, that quality that distinguishes a father from any previous masculine incarnation. Simon's voice almost cracked. "All I can say... is thank you, Inspector. If you don't hear from me before then, Sophia will know how to find me."

What followed was a blur to Simon. Although every gesture, every motion seemed strangely mechanical, Simon's enhanced physical prowess blended into a backdrop of simmering anxiety. He wondered what type of individuals they would encounter on the island. Who would undertake such an audacious criminal act in order to get their hands on the super genome? Despite the uncertainty associated with whom they were dealing, Simon knew that the technology to carry out serious gene manipulation had been commonly available for some time.

Although pet clones were just one example of back alley, garage type genetic engineering, they were not, unfortunately, the worst to date. Three-and-a-half billion years of evolution seemed at risk of being swept aside by irreverent hands.

Inspector Hansen had to agree that Jennifer's captors fit a non-professional criminal profile; that they may have indeed factored the ransom into an enterprise of their own making. But what if they wanted to sell Sophia's creation on the black market? Undoubtedly, they would make millions from flipping the super genome to a larger, clandestine entity. The endless possibilities only added to the night's mounting tension.

Fortunately for Simon, the struggle to set those concerns aside was hastened by Sims bringing the craft to a complete stop.

Sims stood before his navigation console and motioned for Decker to take a look at the computer screen concealed within its cowling. Sophia was providing a real-time video composite from all of the birds present. Again, swarming intelligence enabled the mini-drones to congregate in the vicinity of the target. The fact that the starlings' and grackles' natural counterparts frequently flew in swarm formations only aided in their ability to blend in with their environment. Bat-like echolocation sonar supplemented their visual navigation at close range, enabling them to disperse discreetly throughout the island.

A Point Cloud representation of the small sized island appeared on Sims's monitor. Simon and Lionel joined Decker, looking over his shoulder. The target in question was dead ahead, some two dozen metres away.

Sims rotated the high-resolution scan. The island was relatively small, approximately two acres in size. Elms, poplars, cedars, and spruce trees surrounded the otherwise rocky outcropping. They concealed more than the perched drone birds and hawks. A very modest wood-clad cottage was situated near the island's center. Its features were common to most summer residences, but the one item that Sims wanted to bring to everyone's attention was the sentry sitting quietly outside the dwelling's front door.

Decker nodded. "Go to the Micros," he ordered.

The Micros? Simon and Lionel wondered, sharing a look.

With a few typed in commands, Sims caused four cylinders to rise out of the forward deck of their boat, just in front of where the two hover-speeders were presently harnessed. When the tubes each rotated in turn, hundreds of micro drones were released into the air. Simon and Lionel were as astonished to see the small, wasp-like devices speed toward the island in front of them.

Back at the house, Inspector Hansen was no less amazed. Sophia offered a rendition of the micro drones both on Sims console as well as her own holographic display. "Vespula pensylvanica," she stated, as an image of the yellow jacket wasp rotated in front of the Inspector. Further schematic images showed the wasps' measurements ranging from fifteen to twenty millimetres.

"I thought I'd seen it all," the Inspector said, shaking his head.

Simon and Lionel were equally taken aback as they watched. When the full complement of some two-hundred micro drones left their cylindrical nests, they offered the definite appearance of flying a prearranged route.

"The heat signature of an infrared laser will guide them into position," Decker stated.

The laser, which originated from the boat, was aimed through a break in the trees at a staging area on the cottage's rooftop. The bulk of the wasps landed at the base of the building's only chimney. There, they huddled in standby mode, awaiting further instructions. A small cadre of yellow jackets wasted little time departing into the chimney. Their orders: map out the inside of the house. The assigned micros soon took up positions in the room's four corners, where each intersected with the ceiling.

A three-dimensional image of the cottage's main room appeared in front of Simon and the Inspector at the same time. The space measure approximately twenty by eighteen feet. It included a kitchen and eating area, as well as a couch on which one of the captors was found to be lying. The light provided by oil lanterns suggested the lone female occupant was listening to some music on a set of ear buds. A further drone landed inconspicuously nearby. The young woman's eyes were closed. Her head bobbed, slightly, to an almost imperceptible audio rhythm.

Finding the room otherwise silent, Sophia detected the main room could not account for the building's exterior dimensions. Another set of yellow jackets were deployed from the rooftop. In mere seconds, this group found their way under a couple of doorways, which obviously led to two adjacent rooms. After entering, both spaces were found to be dark.

"Switching to infrared," Sims stated.

When two separate images shared Sims's computer screen, Simon gasped. A single occupant defined one of the rooms.

"Jennifer," Simon whispered. Adrenaline surged within his veins. The desire to abandon all reason to his protective instinct was becoming too much to suppress.

"Easy, Mr. Taylor," Decker said, quietly. "When we've confirmed it's her, we'll move in."

The lone adult-sized subject, presumed to be Jennifer, was in the room on the left of the fireplace. In the other room, on the right side of the hearth, a male and female seemed to be fully immersed in the act of having sex. Their bodies were easily illuminated through infrared detection. "Perfect," Decker stated, knowing in his mind how the takedown would unfold.

"Alright, let's confirm our subject's identity," Decker ordered.

A specialized micro drone was dispatched to the room in question. It landed on Jennifer's exposed arm. Half asleep, she only flinched. When the yellow jacket stung her, and took with it a sample of her DNA, the only reply she could offer was a frustrated whimper. Simon's heart sank at the prospect of his daughter being so weak, possibly drugged. His spirits were quickly buoyed, though, by the fact that Sophia quickly verified the DNA in question. It was Jennifer.

Simon turned to Decker. "Alright, how are we going to do this?"

"We'll need to take the four targets out at the same time," Decker responded.

"Sophia?" Simon queried.

Sophia easily detected an elevated stress level in Simon's voice. "I concur," she replied. "That scenario minimizes the risk to Jennifer. I suggest approaching from the west. That area of the island offers the nearest tree cover to the house. "

Decker prepared to put his plan into motion. "Alright, Sims, move us in closer. After you drop us off on the island, I need you to stay with the boat. Resume a position some twenty metres offshore."

The boat drifted toward the island and then made contact with a stony section of shoreline. A thick covering of trees concealed their approach. In almost total darkness, Decker turned again to Sims. "Your targets are identified?"

"They are," Sims responded.

Decker continued with his instructions as Connor, Lionel and Simon went ashore. "Wait for my command," he ordered, quietly. "When I give the word, put all the micros into motion, understand?"

Connor seemed confident, to the point of being cocky. "It'll all be over in a matter of minutes."

Several moments later, the four men were peering through the trees at the male sentry sitting just outside the cottage's front door. A lantern burned beside him, faintly illuminating the scene. Simon wanted to bolt right in. It took everything he had to maintain his composure. Lionel sensed the subtle agitation in his brother's demeanor. He put his hand on Simon's shoulder. "Try to control your breathing. It'll help calm your nerves," he said, quietly. Lionel was beginning to feel in his element again.

"Connor, you take the sentry," Decker ordered. "Lionel, the female on the couch is yours." Lionel's thoughts turned to his target. He was eager to see the look on her face after recognizing him from this morning.

"I'll take the two in the adjacent room," Decker continued, "Simon, your job is to get your daughter to the boat." Decker tapped the slim pack secured to the front of each of them. "We each have everything we need to secure our objectives." Decker was referring to the zip ties, gags, hoods, and, of course, duct tape enclosed in each pack. "Is everyone ready?" he whispered.

The three men nodded.

"Sims, are you in position?"

"Ready for the order, Sir."

"Alright, we're a go for the micros."

Sims entered the command on his console. "Micros away. I repeat, micros away."

The remaining drones near the chimney instantly became animated.

The four men watched from approximately twenty metres away. They were crouched at a distance that wouldn't allow them to see the onslaught themselves, but Decker and Connor knew what to expect.

"Ow!... Shit!" the sentry complained. He smacked his neck and then stood up. The young man could see several yellow jackets swarming around him. "Get lost, you little fuckers!" he barked, realizing he had just been stung. His tank top and baggy shorts offered little protection from the ensuing onslaught. "Damn it!" he cursed, after a second and third sting. The wasps were obviously targeting his neck. He readied himself from the next attack, but soon found his legs wobbly. These stingers were anything but ordinary.

Again, he slapped the back of his head. "Got ya, you little bugger!" Then looking into his hand, he was startled by what he found: the mechanical remnants of his winged attacker. The shattered wings fluttered, the microelectronics sparked.

"What the...?" he said, before his vision went blurry. Succumbing to the attack, he couldn't help falling to his knees. Accumulating doses of a sedating neurotoxin were taking effect.

At the same time, the occupants of the cottage were falling victim to a similar swarm. The girl lying on the couch was quickly overwhelmed by dozens of wasps targeting her neck and head area. They offered little time to think, even less to react. She screamed loudly, while attempting to defend herself. Her flailing and swatting had little effect, however. She shrieked the name of the man outside. "Josh, help!" But her screams went unanswered.

Josh got up, staggered then fell to his knees in front of the cottage. Help was not available, not from Josh nor the couple in the other room. The yellow jacket stingers continued their work, streaming under the door to the bedroom.

The second female had already collapsed on top of her partner. The room was dark, except for a small offering of moonlight. The wasps' hyper infrared detectors allowed them to zoom in on their victims pulsating blood, specifically the carotid artery in their targets' necks.

Other wasps provided Sophia with a real-time video of what was taking place in and outside the cottage.

The naked man managed to push his girlfriend onto the other side of the bed. Another frantic call was made to Josh. No reply. Although Josh seemed to be made of sturdier stuff, he was in no condition to offer a reply, let alone help. He stumbled toward an open section of shoreline, some twenty-five metres away from the cottage. With an equal measure of desperation, his accomplice in the bedroom reached for the door, but collapsed before grasping it. He was the third victim to fall unconscious.

"The dwelling is secured," Sophia announced.

"Alright, let's move in," Decker ordered. "Sims, I need support on the north side of the island. Sims immediately answered the order. He released his hover-speeder and lifted off.

As the men left the cover of the trees, Decker continued to issue orders. "The sentry is still in play. I repeat, the sentry is still in play."

Connor ran for the only target still struggling to stay conscious. At the same time, Sims' aerial support came into view. When the sentry's feet stumbled into the water, he stopped and looked up. A blinding light hovered over him. His last thoughts must have entertained the idea of an alien invasion just before Connor tackled the man into the water. Little effort was required to subdue the semi-conscious man.

Simon was the first to reach the cottage, but Lionel was quick to take control. "I've got the door," he hollered, before smashing it open with his prosthetic leg. Lionel and Decker knew which rooms to secure, Simon as well. The silence of Jennifer's room only amplified her father's pounding heart. Finding the door was locked, Simon used his shoulder to burst in. He heard a moan. In a split second he was at his daughter's side. "Jennifer, it's me," he whispered.

He tried to straighten her up, but she resisted. She was obviously weak and was not fully aware of what was transpiring. "Baby, it's me."

He straightened her up and began to loosen the string around her neck. "Daddy," she whimpered. "Is that you?"

The bag over her head was gently pulled off. Simon allowed his daughter to squint several times. "I'm here, Jennifer," Simon said, his voice cracking.

"Daddy," Jennifer repeated, not believing her eyes.

Simon was clearly overwhelmed. His voice still shuddered with emotion. "You're safe now, Jenny. You're safe!"

A jubilant father worked quickly to release his daughter's hands. Jennifer felt the moment overtake her. Sobs accompanied the realization that her ordeal might finally be over. When her hands were freed, Simon gently pulled Jennifer toward him. Each fell tearfully into the others' embrace. "Please take me home, Dad!" Jennifer pleaded.

"Right away, Baby. Right away."

~

"Good God," was all the Inspector could say. He could hardly believe what he had just witnessed. The whole undertaking had unfolded on Sophia's holographic display in real time. He continued to watch as Simon helped Jennifer onto the awaiting boat. With all accounted for, it sped for home.

Then Hansen was surprised by the image of the cottage being replaced by a bust of Sophia. She appeared right in front of him. A hint of a smile seemed to belie the importance of what just took place.

"Sophia?" Hansen asked.

Sophia struggled to suppress her sense of accomplishment, the joy of seeing Jennifer being reunited with Simon. "Pleased to make your acquaintance, Inspector," she proudly announced.

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

San Francisco, CA

SIMON WALKED BESIDE JENNIFER through the San Francisco airport. Their pace was uncharacteristically leisurely and seemed wanting of the enthusiasm that normally accompanied those arriving home to SFO's international terminal. Expressions were mutually pensive. Jennifer glanced at her father as he towed her carry-on behind; her eyes probed the subtleties of his face as if concerns left unspoken could be found within. His unsettled smile suggested otherwise, that she relinquish the nuance of the moment to other things, perhaps her other senses, the ones to which grand architectural spaces speak. They continued walking, thinking. Luggage wheels rolled on.

Simon knew Jennifer's mother, Leslie, would be waiting impatiently in the appropriate spot. He envisioned her head moving back and forth trying to get a glimpse of her oncoming daughter. The inevitable encounter caused a multitude of thoughts to echo with every stride. In order to prepare himself, Simon imagined Jennifer embracing her mother. That, however, only stirred his expectations. What role should he play in the reunion: spectator or participant? Would he be able to control his own tears? That, unfortunately, would be answered soon enough.

While offering Jennifer a more convincing smile, he wondered if a mother-daughter embrace could ever be so poignant. A lump arose in his throat. _Thank God for large airports_ , Simon thought, while appreciating the time it took to walk by the first of several baggage carousels.

Recent telephone conversations with Leslie had gone surprisingly well, Simon recalled. Jennifer had passed the phone to her father more than once during her short recovery period at the cottage. He promised Leslie that he would bring their daughter home as soon as possible, insisting that Inspector Hansen had agreed to wrap up Jennifer's end of the investigation as quickly as possible. The kidnappers were presently the subjects of an FBI investigation, he assured, and would remain on American soil until they could be extradited to Canada. Simon also suggested that he would keep her in the loop as the criminal case progressed.

Simon's eyes searched the crowd ahead. He hadn't seen Leslie for some time and a tinge of guilt heightened his sense of apprehension. He suddenly became very conscious of the circumstances that precipitated their reunion. He would have allowed his neglectfulness to appropriately wash over him, however, longing, smiling faces soon came into view. Signs with names beckoned passengers on their bearer's behalf.

Leslie suddenly emerged, pushing her way to the front of the awaiting crowd. Jennifer surged forward as Simon slowed, then stopped. Jennifer's composure evaporated as she lunged for her mother. Her heartfelt embrace was equaled by a mother's desire to never let go. "Mom," Jennifer cried, as each of them let loose a torrent of pent-up emotion. "I thought I'd never see you again!" she added, shuddering.

Leslie was equally tearful, helplessly overwhelmed by the reunion. Simon struggled to contain his emotions, but he couldn't help being swept into the moment. Tears began to well up in his eyes. He covered his mouth with his left hand in an attempt to disguise any further vulnerability. It was all for not, though. When Leslie looked up at him, her teary eyes beamed into his. It was as if their glance sealed the moment in time. Each knew their family's future would forever be defined by this encounter.

As Jennifer separated herself from her mother's embrace, she too looked up at her father. Simon feigned a smile, using one hand to caress his daughter's hair. After pausing, the other reached out and settled on Leslie's shoulder. They all felt it; in one simple gesture, the future had been set free from the past.

"Thank you," Leslie said, her voice trembling. "Thank you for bringing our daughter home!" Simon only nodded, fearing words would be his undoing.

Jennifer sniffled before accepting a tissue from her mother.

"Would either of you consider sitting down... for something to drink?" Jennifer asked.

Simon and Leslie glanced to their daughter before each of them looked for an answer in the other. Their eyes appeared longing, as if seeking the other's approval. Short fragments of agreement were spoken, one awkwardly overlapping the other. The joy in Jennifer's smile confirmed their essence. "There's a little spot on the way out. Would coffee be ok?"

"Coffee would be fine," Simon replied.

Leslie's nod of agreement put Jennifer into motion. She grabbed her carry on suitcase before physically prompting, "Shall we then?"

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

Freedom Tower, late Friday afternoon

UPON RETURNING to New York's One World Trade Center, Simon stepped into the first available elevator. He was dressed casually in jeans, soft leather shoes, and a short-sleeved golf shirt. Most of the casual Friday had already come and gone, so the PurIntel CEO easily blended with the lift's other occupants, as it raced toward loftier destinations.

Simon had been away from the office since leaving for their fateful weekend in the Thousand Islands, and, after spending a few days in Stanford, he was anxious to see the world from a more predictable perspective, Freedom Tower's ninetieth floor. Getting back to work, he hoped, would be a pleasant distraction from the horrendous events of the preceding week.

The additional days spent in Stanford, he explained to Rose, were necessary in order to demonstrate that he had committed himself to being part of Jennifer's everyday life. His first duty, he felt, was to convince the soon-to-be third year student to enroll in a private, more secure university. But when he found his input the subject of stiff resistance, he was also reminded of the fact that a similar stubbornness could just as easily be isolated in his own genetic structure. Jennifer suggested she would consider this and other matters on one condition. Her father would have to make a concerted effort to re-establishing some sort of rapport with her mother. As a freelance technical writer, Leslie was between contracts. "She could use a little reassurance that she won't have to suffer through a similar ordeal," Jennifer suggested.

"Then you'll agree to the implant?" Simon asked. He was referring to a subcutaneous implant, which would not only be able to track Jennifer's real-time whereabouts, but could also monitor every health related indicator right down to an individual's genomic integrity.

With a visible measure of reluctance, Jennifer agreed. "I will if you'll take the time to explain it to her?"

Jennifer was pleased when her father agreed to reconnect with her mother, moreover gratified when her father suggested he would make amends for opportunities lost. Simon made two trips to Leslie's home while staying at a Stanford hotel. During one, Jennifer was pleasantly surprised to find her mother and father talking, even laughing when she walked through the front door. Jennifer's smile suggested she was heartened by her parents' ability to turn back time. Simon and Leslie empathized with the look in their daughter's eyes. Her youthful, almost girlish gaze seemed to hunger for a return to simpler times.

Jennifer would later divulge that she never felt as complete as she did in that moment. Simon promised to return sometime in the near future, however, before leaving for New York, Jennifer confided to him that she would endure the ordeal all over again if it meant rekindling her mother and father's friendship. Their willingness to work together as committed parents meant that much to her, she told her departing father.

As Simon's elevator neared the ninetieth floor, he recalled the promises he had made to both Jennifer and Leslie and, in turn, the one Jennifer had made to him. He pulled his cell phone from his pocket and quickly scrolled through a list of contacts. Lionel had given him the name of the biotech firm that implanted his geo-locator device. It was mandatory for all JTF2 Operatives to have one implanted prior to deployment. In Lionel's case, the coordinates it provided not only guided the extraction team to his location, but his unmanned ambulance drone hovered at a safe distance from the same GPS metric until the all clear was given.

Simon couldn't help reflecting on how profoundly technology had influenced his life. He marveled at how seamlessly it was embedded in his everyday experiences. From satellites to cellphones, its eloquence had long infiltrated elevators. Simon sensed his lift slowing; the ninetieth floor was but moments away. The elevator's processor was calculating its deceleration vector, one that weighted its cabin's load as a single 185 lb. occupant. By the time Simon considered the math involved in his safe arrival, the doors of his elevator opened. The transition to a full stop was almost imperceptible. He put his cell phone back in his pants' front pocket and found it had, once again, preannounced his arrival. A smiling Samantha awaited. "Gary was hoping you'd join him in the Systems Room."

Simon stepped out of the elevator. "What, no it's nice to see you, Simon... or ... You look amazing, considering what you've been through." Simon's demeanor matched his apparel. Appearing relaxed, he turned and made his way toward his office.

"You certainly are projecting an aura of contentment," Samantha said, while walking alongside her boss.

"So have we dispensed with the flesh tone references?" Simon joked. "We've moved onto auras now, have we?"

Samantha was obviously accustomed to a hectic work environment. In addition to her other obvious traits, her professional disposition, her impeccable business attire, the ease with which she kept pace was by no means restricted by the height of her heels.

"I'm just suggesting you look well-rested," she said. Glancing at Simon, she adjusted her black-rimmed glasses mid-stride. "I'm glad you took those few days in Stanford. Looks like the time was well spent."

Simon slowed to a stop in front of his office door. He turned to say something, but Samantha spoke first. "I'm not the only one here who is concerned about you, Simon. You've been through a lot."

"I'm sorry, Sam. I really do appreciate your concern." Simon searched for what to say next, but Samantha was always three steps ahead. "How's Jennifer?" she asked.

"She's doing ok."

"And her mother?"

"Leslie?" Simon asked, not expecting the inquiry. "She's managing. We're talking again, so Jennifer's happy."

Samantha noted Simon's glance toward his office door; that the subject might be slightly uncomfortable. She persisted, however. "And you?" she asked.

"Me?" Simon responded.

"Yeah, how does it make you feel to reconnect with Leslie?"

Simon reflected for a moment. "I feel like I've been given a second chance at being the father I should have been. And that, I have to admit, includes being a better ex as well."

Samantha sensed a rare moment. It made her smile.

Responding with the same sincere expression, Simon asked: "What?"

"Ergo the contentment quotient," Samantha replied.

Simon smiled at Samantha before offering his eye to the retinal scanner just outside his office door. The door clicked open, but before crossing its threshold, he turned back to an already departing Samantha. "Oh," he remarked. "What is Gary doing here at this hour?"

Samantha stopped and turned toward Simon. "It's the First Friday of the month."

Then it occurred to him. "Jeopardy! He needs help, does he?"

"Apparently 'Team Watson' is poised to win their second game in as many months."

The 'Team Watson' to which Samantha was referring included a similar number of software engineers from IBM's Watson design unit. Simon had accepted the challenge from his former doctorate alumni at the Information Sciences Institute, a research and development unit of USC's Viterbi School of Engineering. Simon was once part of a team assisting with Watson's development. Simon went on to give birth to PurIntel, while his aforementioned counterparts accepted key positions at IBM.

The idea that a computer could compete with the world's top Jeopardy contenders was conceived by IBM researchers some two decades ago. In addition to its machine learning technology, Watson was programmed to leverage automated reasoning in order to deduce the appropriate game show answer. While initial attempts at outwitting its human competitor exposed a weakness to questions with embedded humor and irony, Watson eventually rose to the occasion by using its vast accumulated knowledge to generate hypotheses, evaluate evidence, and predict optimum outcomes. In 2011 Watson won the $1 million dollar Jeopardy prize by defeating two of the game's all-time top money earners.

Games between PurIntel and IBM were played remotely and alternately hosted by their respective software engineers. PurIntel's contingent of players congregated in Sophia's Systems Integrity Unit. As a rule, the winner of the previous tournament provided the game host, while each team utilized several large flat panel monitors to view both the game board and their opposing players. Sophia and Watson were excluded from assisting their respective teams. They, of course, lacked a true competitive spirit, one that knew how to nurture the subtleties of a simmering corporate rivalry.

"That is correct," the IBM show host declared.

A momentary consult occurred between the IBM players before their spokesperson announced, "We'll take Science for $600."

A visible grimace invaded Gary's expression. His whole team listened as if their very lives depended on their ability to correctly answer the next question.

The announcer continued. "Evidence indicating mass could travel faster than the speed of light was in fact caused by an incorrectly connected GPS-synchronization cable."

Gary's hand held signaling device was pre-empted by only microseconds. "Ahhh!" he gasped, as the IBM team leader was given the opportunity to respond first.

"What is the faster-than-light neutrino anomaly?"

"That is correct," the host announced.

Gary gawked at his fellow teammates before succumbing to his despair.

While still standing outside his office door, Simon considered the fate of PurIntel's representatives, but thought otherwise. "I'd like to help out, Sam, but I have something more important to attend to."

Simon's demeanor transitioned to one of being more determined. It reflected his desire to find the mole within his organization. "Would you mind telling Gary I need to see him right away?"

As if defying the laws governing the movement of objects, a sleek cell phone suddenly appeared in Samantha's hand. "Will do," she stated, returning to her office.

Appreciating the tone of Samantha's text: 'Simon needs to see you, ASAP,' Gary wasted little time in arriving at his boss's office. Finding the door ajar, he knocked and announced his arrival. "You wanted to see me, Mr. Taylor?"

Simon waved him in. "How'd we do, Gary? With the game, I mean."

Gary's baggy pants and loose fitting shirt disguised his stockier build. In truth, he looked somewhat disheveled, as if he had been pulling his hair out. He walked toward Simon while glancing over at Sophia. Her face materialized as if in response to an innate suspicion of being watched.

"We could have used you, Boss," Gary stated. He adjusted his thick-rimmed glasses and turned back to Simon. "We came up short in the best two out of three."

"Maybe we'll do better next month," Simon replied, getting up from his chair. His demeanor belied the fact that he had just received a disappointing update from his contact at the FBI. Agent Dewar reiterated what Simon already knew; that, since their last update, the investigation had made little progress; that the kidnappers had acted on behalf of someone else, and that, to date, the identity of that person or persons had been successfully firewalled against discovery. Simon briefed Agent Dewar on his own pursuits, suggesting his investigation had been underway since the moment the ransom was received.

"Would you mind, Gary? I was hoping we could take a little walk," Simon asked, rounding his desk.

"Sure," Gary agreed.

After taking his cell phone out of his pocket, and sliding it onto his desk, Simon motioned for the talented programmer to follow. Joining his boss in front of the floor's elevators added a measure of drama to Gary's expression. When they stepped into the lift, and began their decent, he couldn't help asking: "I'm not being escorted out of the building, am I Mr. Taylor?"

Simon tried not to laugh. "No, no. Sorry for the theatrics, Gary. I just thought it would be best if our discussion took place in private."

The elevator sped toward street level.

"What is it you want to talk to me about?"

Simon took a breath. "I'm assuming you're aware of the ongoing investigation into my daughter's kidnapping?"

"I thought they had the culprits in custody?"

"They do, but it's seems they were acting on someone else's behalf."

"I don't understand."

When the elevator stopped at the ground floor, Simon's approach became more determined. "There's a mole in this organization, Gary, and I'm going to find out who it is."

Gary was instantly taken aback. "You don't think..." he exclaimed, as the lift's doors opened. The notion that he might be responsible had the visible effect of unnerving, even paralyzing him. For a moment, he found himself alone in the elevator. He then followed his boss into the building's busy lobby, several paces behind. "Mr. Taylor, wait," he pleaded. Gary dodged a group of people emptying out of another elevator, finally catching up with Simon at one of the floor's street level exits.

"Relax, Gary," Simon stated, calmly holding the door open to Fulton Street.

Drifting onto the street that was closed the traffic, he added: "You're a good programmer, but you're not that good."

Simon could see the two 9/11 memorial pools off in the distance. With crowds milling about, paying their respects, the scene offered a poignant backdrop. It also added a significant measure of perspective. "No, Gary," Simon said, pausing. "That file's encryption was bulletproof. Fortunately for you, there's only two other people in this organization that knew about the impending announcement."

Gary was only somewhat relieved by the perception that his skills were less than adequate. He correctly presumed that Derrick was one of the people to whom Simon was referring, but he then realized why they weren't discussing this in Simon's office, why he left his cell phone behind. "Wait a second," Gary gasped. "Are you kidding me? Sophia?"

Gary couldn't believe that Sophia might have leaked the existence of the super genome herself.

Simon appeared despondent. "At this point, Gary, I'm not sure what to think. Look, I know this wouldn't normally be part of your job description, but I need you to do something for me."

"Name it, Boss. I mean... I'll do what I can."

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

The southern tip of Central Park

'LEAVING NOW,' Rose's text read. Simon leaned forward, placed his cell phone on the coffee table before him, and then settled back into a very comfortable black leather sofa. A pre-recorded image of his father enlivened the wall in front of him, its mid-sentence, facially expressive pause disputing the importance of any audible context. Simon's flat, as he called it, was located in the architecturally stunning, _'The Gladium.'_ His eighty-fourth floor, two-story apartment boasted, among other engineering marvels, a street level footprint of only sixty feet square. With ninety stories in total, it lived up to its Latin translation by unapologetically 'swording' its way into the Manhattan skyline.

Rose's message prompted Simon to get up and make his way into the floor's spacious kitchen. Its overtones were definitely masculine. Stainless-steel appliances were supplemented by black granite countertops. He went straight to the humidity controlled wine fridge and pulled a light-bodied Pinot Grigio. In the time it would take for Rose to arrive, the grey-red grape variety would be gently teased toward the room's ambient temperature. Barring any traffic delays, Simon hoped the bottle would be uncorked before reaching equilibrium. Even with an enchanting evening before him and his exquisite companion on the way, he couldn't help imagining the two variables intersecting at a common value. In both minutes and degrees Celsius the optimum outcome was undoubtedly ten.

Simon knew how much Rose enjoyed toasting another workweek survived. He also remembered the degree to which his apartment intimidated some of its visitors, her in particular. The first glass of wine always helped to settle Rose's nerves. The effect of the second or third, well... that would depend on how willing she was to venture toward the building's glass veneer. If Rose lamented anything about the lofty abode's sparse I it was the troubling lack of window coverings.

Anticipating her concerns, Simon brought two glasses, along with the bottle of wine, and set the trio down on the table next to his cell phone.

"Resume program," he stated, after falling back into the sofa. The news program that his father frequently guest-hosted instantly came to life.

"Hold on... hold on," Richard proclaimed, directing a visible measure of light-hearted enthusiasm toward his two familiar guests. "You both know I am an ardent supporter of technology." He was seated behind the shorter end of an 'L' shaped desk, while his female and male counterparts sat alongside the lengthier part respectively. "But you know what annoys me the most?"

"You mean about us or technology?" Tracey Rushmore asked, laughing. The political pundit/newspaper reporter elbowed her closely seated guest, drawing him into the feisty exchange.

Richard's other guest, a fifty-something conservative waded in. "Don't get him started, Tracey," Doug lamented, playing along. "Richard would run out of time before scratching the surface of our deficiencies."

"You're right," Tracey agreed. "We'd need an entire show for that."

Simon laughed, while his father smiled. "Trust me when I say, what annoys me about you two could make up a six part miniseries. Commercial free, I might add," Richard taunted.

"I always wanted to be part of miniseries, how 'bout you, Tracey?" Doug chided.

The banter between Richard's two guests continued. "Would we have to do our own hair and makeup for that as well?" Tracey asked.

"Alright... alright," Richard pleaded. "Can we please get back to the topic?"

Doug Jenkins did his best to return the discussion to its proper tempo. "You were going to say what annoys you about technology."

"Yes," Richard continued. "What sticks in my craw is the fact that many people have the perception that we should be suspicious of technology, that its ubiquity will inevitably lead us toward destruction."

"What do you expect?" Tracey firmly stated. "Of course we're going to be suspicious,"

"Suspicious of what?" Doug interjected. "Who in their right mind would distrust the technology that our hospitals deploy on our behalf? No one thinks twice about how indispensable our smart phones are. How about the internet, should we be leery of that too?"

"Of course not!" Tracey argued.

Voices were raised and then lowered and raised again all the while the intermittent exchange of smiles underwrote the debate's friendly terms.

"Then what is it?" Richard asked. "Does it all boil down to our less evolved instincts?"

"You mean fear of the unknown?" Doug persisted.

"That's definitely part of it," Tracey agreed, as if ignoring the annoyance sitting beside her. "But I think we've been conditioned to expect a disastrous outcome."

Richard sat back in his seat. "How so?"

"In a word? Hollywood!"

"Hollywood?" Doug roared, laughing. "You mean we can trace this all back to Clark and Kubrick?

"The media," Tracey stated loudly over Doug's rambunctiousness. "The media defines our perception of reality. You of all people should be smart enough to recognize that."

"Are you sure about that, Tracey?" Richard asked.

Tracey seemed crestfallen. "What, about the media defining the world in which we live?"

"No, no," Richard answered, "I mean about this Jenkins fellow being smart enough to know that."

Doug's wit was momentarily paralyzed. Tracey laughed and couldn't help expensing the moment to her colleague's unfortunate lapse. She leaned back slightly while turning a doubtful expression toward Doug. "I am seeing a slight disconnect there," she said, glancing back at Richard. "Are you getting that too?"

Richard smiled broadly, 360 eveling in his excitable guest's distress. "Yes, there it is. The face of uncertainty itself."

"Wait just a second here," Doug stated, finally recovering. He looked Tracey in the eye. "You mean to tell me we can blame HAL from 2001: A Space Odyssey and... and... and Vicky from Asimov's I Robot movie adaptation for what... some latent distrust of technology?"

"Let us not forget the Borg," Richard added, with a smirk and a wink.

"Ahh," Tracey groaned. "Don't get me started. In my books the Borg undid all of the goodwill that Data achieved on the Star Trek series. Wouldn't you agree?"

Richard collapsed into his chair, playing along masterfully. "The Borg terrified me, terrified me!" he repeated, more loudly the second time. Doug and Tracey readied themselves for laughter. "I still have nightmares of being a part of some sort of Marxist/cyber collective."

Simon laughed and shook his head. He reached for his cell phone to check the time and then sank back into his plush sofa.

"You're a piece of work, you know that?" Doug intervened.

Tracey obviously agreed. "I think there's a thespian in there struggling to get out."

"Then how does this nightmare scenario fit into your acceptance of your cyber granddaughter?" Doug asked Richard.

"My what?" Richard asked.

"Your granddaughter, Sophia?"

Richard smiled and leaned forward in his chair. "You know, Tracey, I think our little friend here is not as daft as he appears to be."

"Are you sure?" Tracey asked.

"Should I take that as a compliment?" Doug inquired.

"You should, they're in short supply around here. At least for my male guests," Richard quipped. "What I meant was that in your own bumbling way you have stumbled us headlong into a perfect segue."

"Well, what'ya know," Doug offered.

"Yes, in the segment following our commercial break I would like to discuss with you what defines intelligence. And since you brought it up, Mr. Jenkins, we might as well ask ourselves do supercomputers like Sophia possess some form of consciousness?"

"Wow," Doug joked. "When are we going to stop talking about fluff on this show?"

"But before the break I want to ask one final question."

"Yes," Tracey answered first.

"Do we really make you do your own hair and makeup?" Richard asked. "I mean we all know there are limits to what can be done to a face like Jenkins, but honestly, Ms. Rushmore, I don't think you could possibly benefit any further from the hand of artist, makeup or otherwise."

"Mr. Taylor, you are too kind."

"Too kind," Doug interjected. "Are you kidding me?"

Richard leered at Jenkins then leaned over toward Tracey. "You wouldn't want to join me for a coffee after the show, would you?"

"I might be persuaded," Tracey replied, playing along.

Richard straightened up, slapped his hand on the desk, and directed his next comment toward the live camera. "On that note, we'll be right back."

~

Simon's concentration was deflected again to his vibrating cell phone. "Fast forward to the beginning of the next segment, then pause," he ordered his streaming video player.

'I'll be right up,' Rose's text read.

Simon leaned forward and uncorked the bottle of white wine. He poured two glasses and then set the bottle down on the table in front of him. He knew Rose would only be a couple of minutes, so he picked up his cell phone and touched on an icon, which displayed Sophia's real-time cyber threat assessment. The 'at a glance' colour bar at the top of his phone's display was presently testing the darker shades of yellow, indicating that Gary and his team would not have much time for gaming during the overnight hours.

From the moment Sophia's super genome became public knowledge attempts at cyber intrusions had been on the increase. People the world over quickly realized the helix's true potential. Obvious applications included how its entirety or parts thereof could be exploited financially. While most interested parties, corporations, and health organizations waited with baited breath for licensing announcements, others sought to possess it by any means necessary.

A knock was heard at Simon's apartment door. His Home Management System had detected Rose's cell phone as she approached then confirmed her presence through the use of 'peep hole' camera in the door. Facial recognition software quickly validated her identity. By the time the lock was unlatched Simon was standing in the apartment's  
vestibule. "Come in," he said. The two glasses of wine had been moved to an adjacent hall table.

Rose opened the door and walked in. "I hope the trip up wasn't too unnerving," Simon stated, stepping forward and offering Rose a perfunctory kiss on the lips.

"You've got me twisting in the wind in more ways than you know," Rose said.

"Uh oh," Simon replied. "You'd better have one of these then." Simon picked up the two glasses of wine and offered one to Rose. After putting her purse down on the same table, she relished the relief associated with kicking off her high heels. In one enchanting motion, she took a drink from her glass, tilted her head back and closed her eyes. Simon couldn't help being captivated by her beautiful face, her long, extended neck.

"I never thought this week would end," Rose lamented, before setting her glass down on the table. She unbuttoned and began removing a suit jacket that complimented her tan colored slacks. "Here, let me take that for you," Simon offered.

Although Rose's business attire was impeccably tailored, her sleeveless blouse spoke to Simon in ways that forced him to refocus his thoughts on what he originally had on his mind. They had things to discuss, the outcome of which would most likely determine how the remainder of the evening unfolded.

After putting away Rose's coat, he suggested: "Why don't you come in and sit down?"

Rose sensed a dispassionate note in Simon's voice; it was a continuance of what was lacking in his kiss. _He obviously has something other than me on his mind,_ she thought. After following Simon into the living room, Rose stopped at the foot of the room's coffee table. She glanced at the image of Richard on the wall, then looked at Simon. "Did I catch you in the middle of something?"

"How about a pleasant distraction? There's only a few minutes left." Simon had just sat down on the sofa and, sensing Rose's rising trepidation, he thought the diversion might have the effect of resetting the evening. "My father hasn't guest hosted for some time. They're about to discuss whether a consciousness is uniquely human."

Rose's expression seemed devoid of an appetite for theoretical discussions, but she sat down beside Simon just the same. The distance between them was not lost on Simon as he instructed the video to continue. Richard had barely finished his segment intro, though, before Rose asked: "I need to know whether you're going to come on Monday."

"Pause video," Simon stated, turning to Rose. "I thought we were going to leave our distractions at the office?"

The hint of a patronizing tone caused Rose to take another drink of her wine. "We need to discuss this, Simon. The Director General is pressuring me."

"To do what?"

"To find out what your intentions are, of course."

The momentary slump in Simon's shoulders indicated the subject was touching a nerve. He knew that Rose's boss, the Director General of UNESCO had called an emergency IBC (International Bioethics Committee) meeting for this upcoming Monday. The subject: 'What the newly discovered Super Genome means to the world.' He also didn't appreciate how quickly the conference was being convened. Barely a week had passed since the world was made aware of the genetic marvel and, from a personal perspective, a mere seven days seemed an inconsiderate amount of time to get over the events with which it would forever be linked.

"I need a little more time ..."

"For what?" Rose implored. "The Director General of the UN has asked his Science Advisor to attend. I got the notification this evening, just before I left." Rose stared straight at the stilled image on the wall. "I've also been asked to assist with a briefing of the Security Council."

"The Security Council?" Simon quipped. He didn't see the look on Rose's face, what the upcoming series of events obviously meant to her. "Do you really think they understand the implications of... of relinquishing Sophia's super genome to the world?"

Rose's thoughts turned introspective. "It could be the greatest gift humanity has ever received."

"Yes," Simon agreed. "But in the wrong hands..." Simon stopped short and looked at Rose. They both realized to whom he was referring.

A shared moment of awkwardness ensued, before Simon pressed the play button on the remote.

"But a consciousness is not a static entity," Richard stated. "The great physicist, Erwin Schrodinger, once hypothesized that a consciousness, simply put, is the product of being able to discern one experience from another. It's having the ability to differentiate any deviation from the mundane. If I remember correctly, he gives an example of a man walking to work. Much like you there, Jenkins, walking along the same street everyday with the same pathetic briefcase, taking the same boring sidewalk day in day out. I mean, can you imagine anything more mundane than that?"

Simon dared a smile. Rose was unimpressed.

"I'm not sure I like the sound of this," Jenkins stated, half chuckling, "but I think you're suggesting the same old same old tends to fade into the sub-consciousness. It's only when I encounter something out of the ordinary, like a piano falling from an apartment above."

"Which causes you to what?" Richard quickly asked.

"I don't know, dive for cover."

"It causes you respond and adapt to a changing environment."

Tracey concurred. "Adapt to your environment and you survive. If you don't..."

"I become a fossil," Doug interjected.

"Therefore, diving for cover becomes a new skill," Richard stated. "Your ability to assimilate new skills leads to learning, learning to intelligence."

"And isn't all life in this world somewhere on that continuum?" Tracey suggested. "From the instinct to adapt to possessing the intelligence to plan for the future?"

"I suppose one is as indispensable as the other, isn't it?" Richard waxed philosophically. "A consciousness raises a life-form's survivability above the threshold of relying on sheer luck or happenstance, and intelligence dictates the degree to which one seamlessly weaves itself into its environment."

"Then how does this all relate back to whether Sophia is an intelligent entity?" Doug asked.

~

Rose sat back into the sofa with a very full glass of wine and, knowing how to show her displeasure with the circumstances befalling her, she let loose an unmistakable sigh. The hint resounded above all things audible. Simon was wise enough to ask for a pause again. He topped up his own glass and then got up and made his way toward one of his apartment's floor to ceiling windows.

"There's something else we need to discuss, Rose," he stated, while looking out over the New York skyline.

Rose barely heard the words Simon spoke. All she could think of was, _He's walking away from me. He knows I won't follow him, that I can't bear the thought of looking down_.

Rose was definitely puzzled by Simon's actions. She took another drink of wine before leaning forward to put her glass on the table. Other tangibles, she reflected, were rarely allowed to slip as easily from her fingers. Her time with Simon almost always unfolded the way she wanted it to. Drinks and dinner were a familiar prelude to a memorable evening. But whether it was live theatre, a concert or even a spontaneous movie, the preceding was always a prelude to passionate lovemaking. The sex was amazing, both would agree. It was a wonderful expression of what they felt for each other, how much one needed the other, especially during those passionate moments. Neither partner seemed concerned, however, by the fact that their devotion to each other was dictated more by their hectic, professional lives and less by any shared vision of the future.

Although their time together seemed as much a convenience to Simon as it did to Rose, in reality only Rose knew how much she had grown during their relationship. She knew he would always represent the touchstone from which further personal fulfilment would be realized. But in circumstances such as these, when Rose allowed her mind to wonder into murkier, ambiguous territory, sex was a tool meant to provide leverage as much as it was an expression of physical love.

While Simon gazed out over the night sky, Rose made a motion to get up. She instantly felt the effects of drinking her wine too fast, however, and sat back down. The fact that she had barely eaten anything all day didn't help matters either. Rose leaned back into the sofa and began muddling through her options. Should I stay? Let my guard down for once? She couldn't help wondering: If I come clean now, maybe there'll be something worth salvaging.

Caressing her forehead she suggested: "The Director General won't be pleased, but I can tell the members of the panel..."

"If you think I'm worried about what the UN thinks, I'm not," Simon interjected.

Rose sensed Simon steeling his thoughts. It was a side of him with which she was unfamiliar. She seemed caught off guard. "Of course, I..."

"I can't afford to lose control of this, Rose. Nor will I allow this to become a euphemism for some new world order," he stated, still looking out over Central Park.

Rose took Simon's comment as a definite slight against both her and her colleagues. She stood up and instantly discovered a surge of adrenaline overtaking the effects of the wine.

"For what it's worth, my brother swore to me that he had nothing to do with Jennifer's kidnapping."

Simon appeared unconvinced. "And you believe him?"

"Does it really matter what I believe?"

Simon's thoughts turned inward and teetered on an unpleasant threshold. He clenched his teeth and chose to say nothing.

Rose's sense of disappointment was now complete. "Then it's all about the money, isn't it?" she quipped. "The licensing rights?"

Simon instantly interpreted the remark as it was intended, as a hit below the belt. "Look," he began, turning, "I'm willing to overlook that last remark..."

"Don't bother," Rose stated, before taking several steps toward the door.

"Rose," Simon stated, loudly. The firmness of his voice caused her to stop. "Try to see this from my perspective."

The selfishness of Simon's comment further fueled Rose's desire to flee, but she forced herself to stop. "I see the good that it will do, the disease that it will cure, the suffering it will end."

"End?" Simon repeated.

"Yes, End, Simon!" Rose yelled. "This is not about some wealth redistribution scheme," she said, passionately, "it's about helping people... it's about lifting humanity out of its misery."

"I know, Rose," Simon agreed, lowering his voice. "I know, and that it will do." He took a step closer to Rose. "But we have one chance, Rose. Humanity has one opportunity to get this right."

"I guess the question is, who is going to make the decisions on behalf of humanity? You?"

Simon and Rose stared at each other, longingly, wishing the evening could be rewound. The lack of a rebuttal from Simon was left for Rose to interpret.

An impasse, seemingly larger than the one unfolding before them, was tremoring in Simon's eyes. Rose could feel him slipping away. She wanted to say something, but feared what would come out. There was only one thing left to do, preserve a glimmer of hope that this would not be their last encounter. "Thank you for the wine," she stated, before turning for the door.

"Rose," Simon said, this time more softly. Again, it caused her to pause, but only momentarily. She turned her head to the left just long enough for Simon to recognize the look on her face. Forlorn, Rose hastened her exit from the apartment.

For a few moments, Simon stood there, wondering what had just happened. He shook his head before stating, "Resume program." Richard's voice filled the room. Simon could hear his father speaking, but he was deaf to the fact that words could be assembled into sentences, paragraphs, or any kind of meaningful narrative, for that matter.

He sunk into his sofa, poured what remained of the Pino Grigio into his glass, and took a healthy sip. Its fruity resonance lingered as if it were cultivated to assuage all earthly concerns. A palpable measure of sexual frustration would not be washed away as easily, however. He knew he could have handled things better, but after looking up at the program replaying in front of him, his father's familiar face and tone tempered the void left by Rose's early, sudden departure.

~

"How does this all relate back to supercomputers like Sophia?" Richard asked. "Doug, you mentioned Isaac Asimov. If I remember correctly, he was once quoted as saying: The saddest aspect of life right now is that science gathers knowledge faster than society gathers  
wisdom."

"Still true after all these years," Doug replied.

Richard continued. "Then shouldn't the process of transforming knowledge into wisdom be the best measure of intelligence?"

"Of course," Tracey agreed. "But wisdom is also the application of reason... it's deciding on the best course of action that truly defines a species."

"Aye," Richard declared, as if poetically. "Let us not bring words where deeds are required."

"So if supercomputers like Sophia," Doug began.

"Or Watson," Richard interjected. "In order to dispense with the accusation of bias, maybe we should refer to them as cognitive... or thinking computers."

"Alright," Doug agreed. "More and more people are recognizing the roll of cognitive computers and how they are transforming the way in which we live. So, I suppose by that definition, yes, they are intelligent."

"Would you agree with that, Tracey?" Richard asked.

"I'd go one step further and ask is Sophia is a sentient being? And if the answer to that question is yes, then where is this all leading us? I mean, I agree wholeheartedly that there is a place for the Sophia's of the world, but I also have to wonder about what we are witnessing here?"

"You mean, what are the implications for humankind?" Doug asked.

"It's inevitable, isn't it?" Tracey reflected. "That humans will be surpassed by these intelligent, cognitive computers?"

"That won't happen until the Moore's Law barrier is conquered," Richard stated.

"Ahh," Doug lamented. "Now look what you've done. You've got him onto his favorite topic."

"It's true," Richard said, smiling. "Micro-chip performance will remain at a comparative standstill until a replacement is found for silicon-based technologies. This isn't some cooked up Y2K millennium bug, Jenkins," he chided, responding to his guest's expression of skepticism. "This is a bona fide barrier that, if not solved, will cost the world economy trillions of dollars."

Doug went on to tease his host further, but he was, in fact, well aware of the challenge facing the technological world.

For decades, computing power had been doubling every eighteen months to two years. This exponential improvement, which was documented in a 1965 paper by Gordon E Moore, co-founder of Intel Corporation, all stems from the not so simple process of doubling the number of transistors within an integrated circuit on a predictable, biennial basis.

The ability to tune ultra violet light to smaller and smaller wavelengths allowed processor manufacturers to etch increasing numbers of transistors onto silicon wafers. But while consumers focused on sleeker, faster devices, physicists appreciated the limitations of UV light. With a wavelength of only ten nanometers (a nanometer is a billionth of a metre), a barrier to further miniaturization occurs when transistors approach the size of atoms. At this point, the principles of quantum physics take over and electrons begin to leak out, causing a short circuit in a transistor's micro wiring. Paralleling processors provided life-support to an ailing industry, however, it only postponed the inevitable.

The event horizon was predicted by many to occur during the third decade of the twenty first century. As the date approached it was feared that, without a replacement to propel further technological advancements, a driving force of prosperity, vis-à-vis the consumer electronics, communications, and defense industries, to name a few, would suffer from the lack of new products to offer their customers. If a solution were not forthcoming, economies the world over would be exposed to a potentially unprecedented pause in growth.

~

"We have options, though, don't we?" Tracey asked.

Still watching from the comfort of his sofa, Simon leaned forward. He knew where his father was taking the discussion and wanted to hear him say the words.

"Of course we do," Doug affirmed. "Quantum computing has had its breakthroughs."

"Its setbacks as well," Tracey added.

"Indeed," Richard agreed, clasping his fingers. "DNA computers might provide the answer, but one thing is for certain... the post-silicon era will be defined primarily by one thing."

"And that is?" Doug asked.

"Super intelligence," Richard and Simon said in unison.

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

Greenwich, Manhattan

LET US RAISE A STANDARD TO WHICH THE WISE AND THE HONEST CAN REPAIR. THE EVENT IS IN THE HAND OF GOD. — WASHINGTON, Simon quietly recited.

He continued to scroll through other interesting facts on his tablet, while seated in front of the statue of Giuseppe Garibaldi, just east of the landmark fountain located in the middle of Washington Square Park. His casual blue jeans and sneakers blended with the Square's local Greenwich residents. All were enjoying a pleasant, near cloudless Saturday afternoon.

Manhattan's cultural focal point could always be counted on to be a hub of humanity. The Washington Arch dramatically anchored the north end of the park and couldn't be mistaken for being modeled after Paris' Arc de Triomphe. Under the shade of a Yankees ball cap, Simon glanced to and from his tablet. His eyes looked past the selfie-taking tourists and the crowd-encircled street performers, intermittently scanning for the person who had requested today's meeting.

Simon continued waiting while reading through material formatted by Sophia. Sorted by relevance based on Simon's well-catalogued personal interest profile, Sophia presented the information in the same way a regular Google search did, only everything that came before his eyes was vetted based on his well-documented preferences. Simon appreciated the back-story on most things, so history was a prominent content filter through which data was weighted and then displayed. His analytical preference emerged in subsequent listings. They generally followed the human, more personal connection to the inquiry.

He quickly discovered the quote that adorns the south face of the Washington Square Arch underscored the centennial of George Washington's inauguration as the first President of the United States. And although the words were deeply etched into the top attic panel of the monument, further inspection revealed the quote may not have been spoken by Washington after all. Whether or not the text was actually uttered by the Founding Father was, of course, a matter for history buffs to debate, but it did cause Simon to reflect on whether disputes over such minutia were even relevant.

_He could have said it_ , he thought. Could I envision the man saying those words? Who couldn't? Maybe that's all that matters. After all, there are only so many meaningful words in the English language. And when you further distill them down to those that stir the human soul, isn't the pool of vocabulary from which inspired oration is drawn also exponentially diminished?

As a geneticist, Simon was acutely aware of how his three billion base pair genome could be reduced to its elegant components; that every DNA molecule can be represented by just four letters A, C, G, and T. He often questioned his own significance when comparing his species to nature's elegance, but when recalling a fellow mathematician's assertion that every symphony could be traced back to just eight notes, well, that gave Simon reason to pause. _Some things should considered as a whole and nothing less_ , he thought.

Nonetheless, the number four continued to resonate in Simon's mind. It was a good number into which Sophia's super genome could be divided and then stored in separate locations, for safekeeping, of course. The four forces, which define our entire universe, had recently been reduced to one unifying theory, but when the stunning announcement subsequently revealed that several other physicists were on the cusp of a similar breakthrough, the acknowledgement reinforced one of Simon's central beliefs; the pursuit of perfection, more often than not, only appears to be a lonely pursuit.

Take the greatest technological achievements throughout time immemorial. Inventions have to be attributed to someone. But digging into the backstory, which Simon greatly enjoyed, always revealed the others who were on the same track. Their only deficiency? They were one or two steps behind a similar, inevitable outcome. The thought caused Simon to wonder if the same notion applied to Sophia's achievements, specifically her super genome. Would similar announcements be forthcoming? Possibly. The only thing Simon was certain of was the first one to the mic had the best chance of defining the issue in their terms. Letting his tablet fall into his lap, Simon remembered what his father's guest suggested. The media defines our perception of reality.

Simon stared upward, thinking, while waiting. He thought about Rose. Should he give her a call and apologize for last night? Would she even pick up? He nurtured the belief that there was something worth salvaging between them.

When he refocused his eyes, he found himself gazing at the statue of Giuseppe Garibaldi. Known as 'the Sword of Italian Unification,' the bronzed Garibaldi can be seen ready to draw his sword in order to defend what he believed in: a unified Italy. Simon chuckled to himself, wondering if the Italian patriot was prompting him to be equally ready to do battle. Whether he would be able to summon the required bravado became a moot point, however, when a man sat down beside him. A moment of awkward silence ensued. Like the chess players in the southwest corner of the park, moves were carefully considered before they were acted upon.

"Do you think the end justifies the deed?" the man asked.

Simon was caught off guard. "Sorry?" he said.

"On the Arch... the figures flanking Washington represent wisdom and justice. The inscription above them reads, Exitus Acta Probat. It's Latin for..."

"The end justifies the deed," they both said in unison.

The man sitting beside Simon was, of course, Allan Forbes. "You bought last time," Allan said, handing Simon a coffee. "Double-double, isn't it?"

"Yes, thank you," Simon replied, taking the familiar cup from Allan. "Did you know that in 1917, a small group known as The Arch Conspirators made it to the top of the Arch and declared Washington Square to be a free and independent republic?"

"A new republic within the republic," Allan stated. "I wonder what they were drinking up there."

"Tea, apparently." Simon said, his demeanour remaining reflective. "I never knew that Washington advocated against the formation of political parties. He thought they would lead to a lust for absolute power. He also thought that religion was indispensable to a society's morality."

"I think he got the first one right," Allan offered.

"But isn't morality an evolutionary inevitability?"

Allan finished another sip of his coffee. "You're saying that... how should I put this delicately, that religion emerges from an evolving sense of morality, not the other way around?"

"Doesn't it, though? I mean, can someone be taught to have a conscience?" Simon asked.

"Not if you're born without one," Allan answered, vociferously. "You should consider yourself lucky you're not working in my industry. I think every budding financial analyst should be screened by a psychopathic checklist. Then their DNA should be cross-referenced."

Allan's apparent frustration caused Simon to smile. "It's that bad is it?"

"Introduce a psychopath to greed and then give him access to millions of dollars. Got any ideas on how we can head that one off at the pass?"

"That depends on whether you think it's possible to regulate morality," Simon stated.

Allan paused, while looking out over the park's visitors. "All I know is people prefer to be led than pushed." He glanced over to the square's central fountain. Water exerted its gravitational force, drawing people inward from every corner of the nearly ten-acre site. They stood, sat and were captivated by its universal appeal. Allan became equally reflective. "What does it look like?" he asked.

"What does what look like?"

"Sophia's super genome? Does it look any different than yours or mine?"

Simon wasn't sure how to answer Allan's question. He continued to sip on his coffee.

Allan continued. "Maybe that's what we need... the perfect benevolent dictator. I suppose Washington wouldn't go along with that, would he?"

Simon assumed the question was rhetorical and decided to move the conversation along. "Has there been any movement of the Equity FX file?"

"There has," Allan replied. "Looks like our friend Mr. Gill is the front runner in the acquisition. He's put a caveat on his offer, though. He wants the SEC to declare the original investigation closed. Gill maintains he shouldn't be held responsible for crimes he had no hand in. If he finds money under the floor boards, he also wants to be able to keep it."

Simon couldn't believe his ears. "You're kidding, right?"

"Director Phelps signed off on it this morning. If the lost FX funds suddenly reappear, he'll seize them under the auspices that any interest earned constitutes profit from a crime. He'll file a class action if he has to. In the meantime, he's contacted his Indian counterpart. The Gill group of companies own an extensive interest in Indus Bank. We're expecting the bulk of the money to flow through that institution."

"Flow to where?"

"My sources are telling me that Gill has committed himself to funding a dozen or so bio-tech start-ups in the Mumbai region. The consortium he heads is also merging two larger entities into one conglomerate."

"Are these the same companies Senator Wilkinson was involved with?"

"One in the same. Our friend Prav Gill is trying to establish India's Silicon Valley as the world's dominant center for biotechnology. And he's getting a lot of domestic support in the process."

"You mentioned the bulk of the money. What about the rest?"

"You haven't been monitoring Sophia's involvement?" Allan asked. He was referring to his exclusive _Halo_ portal, the one to which Simon had access as well.

"No," Simon answered. "I've had a few other matters on my plate lately."

"Of course," Allan said, understanding Simon's inference. "There have also been two amounts of five million dollars transferred into two Manhattan bank accounts. They're both registered under aliases, so I'll have to wait until someone moves on them."

Simon looked as though he was expecting news of a similar nature. He seemed slightly disheartened, nonetheless. "What's our present relationship with India's banking regulators?"

"If you're asking, can I shut down the money transfers into Indus Bank, we're working on that."

Simon thought for a moment. "What's the background on the companies he's merging?"

"Word is one is software based and the other is..."

"Genetic," Simon interjected.

Allan turned and looked at Simon directly. "If you don't mind me asking, Simon. How secure is your super genome?"

"Secure?" Simon repeated. He seemed somewhat put off by Allan's concern.

"I mean, what would happen if Gill got his hands it?"

Simon stared right back at Allan, saying, "Based on his history, I don't think we want to go there."

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

Monday morning

MARCUS WAITED PATIENTLY, while sitting on the front steps of his apartment building in New York's Upper East Side. Although intensive physiotherapy was slowly restoring the full use of his leg, he found himself, once again, involuntarily caressing the spot where the bullet had entered his left thigh. With crutches at his side, he glanced up and down his street lamenting the perception that, like this morning's commuters, his progress could be characterized as proceeding at an idle more than anything else.

He readily admitted that the pain was more mental than anything now. However, when his therapist suggested its phantom existence still bounced within his brain, form neuron to neuron, through passages reinforced by emotions associated with the original memory, he balked at the complexity of the notion, and thought otherwise.

Guilt was the primary culprit, Marcus knew. It still caused him to second-guess everything he did on that fateful day. Although protection specialist was not part of his official job description, never inferred, for that matter, it wasn't long before the lines between employer and friend were blurred by the best that humanity has to offer itself. Residing on the extremities of comradery, loyalty, and, without uttering it, love, was never part of Marcus's raison d'etre.

His wife, Tanya, was more than pleased when the moniker Uncle reduced the genetic overlap between her husband and Jennifer from some distant, prehistoric ancestor to something more familial in nature. Marcus's bond with Simon's family, after all, could now been captured in ways few relationships are sealed, with his blood. And although the loyal driver teased his employer that he was thankful Canadians valued the effort as much as they did the result, Simon likewise assured his friend that theirs was a covenant a father would never forget.

Simon smiled when his hybrid Escalade pulled over to the curb in front of the building where Marcus sat. With its temporary driver at the wheel, Marcus leaned his crutches against a nearby newspaper receptacle and climbed in the back with Simon. Conversations were usually intermittent during their drives together, however, with the essence of that horrible day still permeating every space the pair occupied, both men seemed eager to dispense with formalities. "Marcus," Simon enthusiastically stated. "You're looking good. How's the leg?"

"Almost there, Boss. Thanks for stopping by. I think Tanya is sick of me moping around the house." Marcus paused long enough for his replacement driver to step out of the vehicle. Simon had obviously arranged for some time alone. "How's the new guy working out?"

"Very temporary, I can assure you."

"Have you heard from Lionel, lately?" Marcus asked

"No, I haven't. Have you?"

"We exchanged a few texts a week or so ago."

Their back and forth banter was so refreshing to Marcus that he paid little attention to the audible prompt requesting Simon to refocus his attention on his tablet. "How 'bout your father, how's he doin' lately?"

Simon looked downward, at his mobile device. "I messaged him earlier this morning. Sorry, Marcus, but I've got to take this."

"Gary," Simon announced. "What can I do for you?"

Gary's face nearly filled the screen of Simon's tablet. The furnishings behind him indicated he was calling from home. "Hey, Mr. Taylor. I've got two things you might be interested in. You're probably already aware of the first one... that your friend Ms. Gill just made a sizable donation to the U.N.'s Africa Diversification Fund."

Surprised by the news, Simon quickly swiped his tablet, transferring the video call to his cell. He held it up to his right ear. "How sizable?"

"Five million dollars," Gary replied. "It got buried in a U.N. press release this morning. Most of it was about today's IBC Conference."

"That's generous, isn't it?" Simon replied. He presumed that the five million dollars came from one of the banks accounts that Allan Forbes had mentioned. The news cast an interesting light on the woman he thought he knew. "Is there anything more about it in the press release?"

Gary scrolled on. "It says the money's to be used in conjunction with the newly formed Africa Genome Project. The AGP will attempt to eradicate systemic illnesses through genetic research associated with the larger, soon to be established, World Genome Endeavour."

"Indeed," Simon answered. "And the other? You mentioned there were two things."

"Yeah, remember the conversation we had last Friday?"

"Of course."

"I'm still pursuing a few of your suggestions, but I've managed to come up with something else. I'm not sure if I mentioned this before, but I know a guy who does out-sourced video surveillance for a few of the Fifth Avenue casinos."

"OK," Simon replied.

"They're running some pretty sophisticated facial recognition software these days, so just out of curiosity, I asked him to filter through several PurIntel employees just to see what he came up with."

"And," Simon asked.

"Bingo. He came up with a few hits, but there's one in particular that you might be very interested in."

"Sounds interesting, Gary. I guess the salient question is, can we get our hands on that video?"

"We sure can. In fact, I've got it."

Just then, another audible prompt drew Simon's attention from his phone conversation back to his tablet. A real-time video of Simon's father popped up on the screen. "Listen, Gary. Can you send me that video right away? I've got an important call coming in."

"Of course."

"Why don't we get together once I've had a look at it?"

"Sounds good," Gary said, before their conversation ended.

Simon instantly focused his attention on his other call. "Dad," he stated, putting down his phone. He tilted his tablet upward in order that both he and Marcus could see it. "How are you doing? Are you at home?"

Simon then noticed a certain amount of erratic behaviour by his father. The webcam on his laptop seemed as though it was perched on the kitchen island, but Richard was going in and out of the camera's field of vision. "Is everything alright?" Simon inquired.

"Yes, Yes," Richard responded, still disappearing periodically.

Despite his father's reassurance, Simon muted the mic on his tablet. "Sophia," he stated.

A small bust of Sophia appeared in the top right corner of Simon's tablet. "Yes?" she answered.

"Can you give me the video from every security camera in my father's house?"

"One moment... they should be coming to you live now."

Simon unmuted his audio and saw several framed perspectives of his father's residence. He tapped on the one that offered the best visual.

"I've just got back from walking this bloody dog of your brother's," Richard stated. "He dropped it off here three days ago and I haven't seen him since."

Simon smiled as his father admonished the obviously excitable canine. "Down boy, down!" he heard. Marcus almost laughed out loud. He remembered seeing pictures of the otherwise handsome, medium-sized Golden Retriever mix during the July 1st long weekend.

After getting the leash off the over-grown puppy, Richard stated: "Alright... alright, if you'll let me through I'll get you a treat."

"So he hasn't been back since?"

"No," Richard said. He straightened up from grabbing a couple of treats from a box under the sink. After tossing them in the dog's bowl, he looked directly at his laptop camera. Simon still had a better view of the kitchen, though, from a well-placed ceiling-height perspective. Lionel's dog, Dakota, Dak for short, was now devouring a couple of bone type treats. Richard took a deep breath and caressed his forehead. "I know I shouldn't worry, but he's never left the dog with me for this long. I'm afraid he's... he's at one of his old haunts."

Marcus whispered: "I'll see if I can track him down."

Simon muted the mic again. "Sophia, locate Lionel." Another visual appeared on Simon's tablet. Successive satellite shots of Toronto zoomed in and soon pinpointed Lionel's active cell phone.

"I guess we all thought he was keeping his demons at bay," Richard added.

Simon unmuted the mic again. "I'm in the middle of something right now, Dad, but if Marcus can't get a hold of Lionel in the next couple of hours, we'll try to get in contact with someone at his support group. Worse come to worst, Marcus says he'll make the trip to T.O. himself."

Marcus nodded his head.

"I'd go myself," Richard stated, "but he doesn't like seeing me when he's... you know." He glanced from his laptop to Dakota. The thought that his son might be experiencing another setback in his fight against PTSD caused Richard to offer cues as much visual as verbal. "I've been doing a little bit of reading. They say it's all about the triggers; that it's like living with one foot in the present and one in the past."

Marcus got Simon's attention by clearing his throat. "He mentioned something in an email about an ex getting engaged."

Simon's ambiguous facial expression suggested the woman to whom Marcus was referring might be his decade-long girlfriend, Shelley Demers. Both she and Lionel had aspirations of a longer-term relationship, however, after Lionel's discharge from the Canadian Forces, Shelley was forced to acknowledge that she was being consumed by the process of trying to salvage what was left of her fiancé. Lionel, she discovered, wasn't the only one needing to be saved. Their on-again-off-again relationship finally came to an end late last year. Shelley moved on. Lionel never did.

Simon looked at Marcus, and stated: "I'll explain later." He then returned his attention to his tablet. "Is everything else ok, Dad?"

Richard looked somewhat flustered, more by his son's dog than anything else. "Everything will be fine when I'm rid of this new bunk mate of mine. You know he snores like a first class seaman."

The nautical reference caused Simon smile. He could see that Dak was sitting at attention, right in front of his father. Their eyes seemed locked in a non-verbal embrace. "What?" Richard asked Dakota. "You've been walked. You've been fed. What more do you want?"

"You don't mind if I leave you two alone?" Simon said to his father. "I'll contact you as soon as we have word on Lionel?"

"Please do, will you?"

"We'll talk soon, Dad."

After letting his father go, Simon reluctantly suggested to Marcus that they too would have to pick up their conversation at another time. Simon's temporary driver resumed his position behind the wheel and nodded at him in the rear-view mirror. The gesture was offered as a prompt to be on their way, that the time required to make this morning's meeting might soon become an issue.

After agreeing that a return trip to Simon's summer home was in order, Simon helped Marcus out of the SUV and made sure he was secure on his crutches. The short drive to their next destination was interspersed with a briefing by Sophia; names of those attending the meeting, likely agendas they might pursue, but having been forearmed with a framework of expectations, the concerns of only one person rose above all others.

Simon's driver came to a stop at a security checkpoint and lowered his window. "Simon Taylor," he announced, providing his cellphone's screen for authentication.

After the softcopy document was scanned and confirmed, the guard simply stated: "You may proceed."

When the gates swung open, The United Nations' New York Headquarters loomed directly ahead.

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

United Nations, NYC

WHILE LOOKING OUT over a bustling, filled-to-capacity auditorium, Rose appeared ready, moreover, eager to begin officiating from the room's head table. Her International Bioethics Committee meeting should have been underway by now, but only three of her four Advisory Panelists were present. One seat remained empty. Beyond those scheduled to offer expert testimony directly in front of her, the grand hall's semi-circular seating comprised Conference Room One of the United Nations Headquarters, New York. Rose glanced at her cell phone lying on the table and considered texting a last minute inquiry, but resisted the urge, thinking it might divulge an impetuousness unbecoming of her Chairperson status. She was, of course, Special Envoy to the woman seated on her left, Eloise Njoku, the Director General of UNESCO, the UN's Scientific, Educational, and Cultural Organization.

More than a dozen of the IBC's body of 36 independent experts filled the elliptical rows just behind the Advisory Panel. UN member states, Associate Members of UNESCO were supplemented by governmental and non-governmental organizations, institutional representatives, as well as invited guests. The subject of today's conference required a venue capacity second only to that of the UN's General Assembly Hall located next door. The agenda? Though the official press release suggested the present and future of science had indeed collided, many of those already seated felt there was much more than genetics at stake. Humanity's future might be decided here, today, in this very room.

An aura of excitement seemed palpable to all those present. With anticipation in Rose's eyes, she looked past her audience, one last time, toward the chamber's entrances. She then turned to her left. With a nod from Ms. Njoku, Rose's expectations were reconciled. He wasn't coming. The conference could wait no longer.

"Order," Rose announced. Successive thuds of the gavel added urgency to Rose's determined expression. As expected, murmurs of conversations persisted. "Order, please," she repeated. "Order." The gavel was brought to bear several more times before the room's attention was galvanized by its purpose. Rose's nerves were comforted by the authority bequeathed to the role she was eager to fulfill.

The room fell silent. But in the time it took for a demeanor of composure to take hold, the hall's attention was suddenly diverted to its main entrance. Many turned and found two grand doors being swung open by their attendants. A man took several paces into the room and then stopped.

Rose's heart leapt. It was Simon, the event's most anticipated guest, the only Advisory Panelist who could provide the conference, furthermore the world, with the answers it was seeking. Simon looked directly at the meeting's Chairperson and exchanged a modest smile. Rose tilted her head back, ever so slightly, and tried to conceal her first deep, comforting breath of the day. She was relieved, moreover delighted that Simon had come, after all.

All eyes followed Simon as he walked down the left of two main aisles toward the front of the hall. He recognized several faces, members of the IBC, the UN Director General's Special Science Advisor on Rose's right. Several dozen of Simon's contemporaries were present in the audience as well. The PurIntel CEO easily picked out a few members of IBM's Watson group and wasn't surprised to find its lead project manager among the Advisory Panelists. Christian Saunders' optimistic smile caught Simon's eye next. Proper decorum was tested further when Simon stopped just short of his destination and quickly offered an old friend his hand. A visible measure of mutual respect was exchanged between the pair. It was a different sort of gesture, however, to which Simon responded next. Saunders shifted his eyes to the right and tilted his head accordingly. He was nodding toward someone in the second row from the front. Simon assimilated the hint, almost imperceptibly, before recognizing another face. It was the ever enigmatic, Praveen Gill.

The new Gen Tech owner sat unconcerned. He slowly caressed a shorthaired beard as if acknowledging Simon would permanently  
diminish the pool from which he drew anything charitable. Simon didn't wait to for eye contact to be made, though. He looked up and found Rose focusing on something in her hand. Upon taking his chair, he encountered another previous acquaintance, fellow Advisory Panelist, New York Governor Robert Wilkinson. The Christian apologist would not be denied his voice.

Pleasantries were exchanged between Simon and the Governor, but were quickly cut short. A familiar vibration prompted Simon to un-pocket his cell phone. It was a text from Rose. 'Sorry for Friday night,' it read. A second message came through in a matter of seconds. 'And thank you for coming!'

By now, UNESCO's Eloise Njoku was glancing between Simon and Rose. Her frustration with the delay was becoming all too apparent. She cleared her throat, before putting her self-absorbed, late-arriving panelist on the spot. "May we proceed, Mr. Taylor?" The audience found her sarcastic tone somewhat humorous.

Simon quickly pressed 'Send' then placed his phone on the table in front of him. A few words previously saved to 'Drafts,' were sent to Rose.

The tardy Advisor then struggled to find his mic's 'on' button before accepting help from the Governor. "Yes, Ms. Njoku," Simon responded, with the proper inflection. "I am at your disposal." Sophia's pre-meeting briefing during the drive to the conference paid its first dividend.

Rose also put her phone down and tried to regain her lost momentum. The effects of Simon's message lingered, though. It read: 'At the risk of shredding further protocols, I was wondering if you would consider joining me for lunch. I know of a wonderful, one story restaurant close-by. Maybe we could walk there and talk along the way.'

The Director-General put her hand over her mic. "Ms. Gill?" she prodded. "Is there something I should be aware of?" Her expression spoke for further, unstated, questions. If words like 'conflict of interest' were on the tip of her tongue, they were unmistakably spilling from her eyes.

"No, Ms. Njoku," Rose replied. She quickly transformed her demeanour to more appropriately match her Chairperson role.

"Then, if it's not too much trouble," the UNESCO DG added, "maybe we could get this conference underway?"

"Of course," Rose answered, suppressing the remnants of a smile. She quietly cleared her throat before opening the conference.

"Governor, Director General of UNESCO, Advisory Panelists, Colleagues, Invited Guests, Ladies and Gentlemen. It gives me great pleasure to bring this IBC meeting to order. My name is Roshnie Gill and I am the Director General of UNESCO's Special Envoy for Genetic Research. Firstly, I would like to thank all those in attendance today, in particular, our Director General of UNESCO, Eloise Njoku."

In addition to Ms. Njoku, and her assistant seated next to her, Rose introduced the Special Science Advisor to the Director General of the UN, Mr. Cyril Webb. She also noted her four Advisory Panelists. From her right to left, they included: Michio Mori, the popular Japanese theoretical physicist, whose white hair and buoyant expressions were recognizable from his many documentary appearances. Next was Governor Wilkinson. He exchanged a nod with Simon, who, in turn, shared a smile with Gayle Samples of IBM. She sat on Simon's right and was the fourth panelist to be introduced. While the men's attire suggested wisdom was seldom clothed in anything but a suit and tie, and muted tones at that, Samples' skirt and jacket was equally fluent in the same narrative, conservative and trustworthy.

"Having been established in 1993," Rose continued, "the International Bioethics Committee was set up to examine the major ethical issues raised through achievements in the life and health sciences, most importantly, in genetics and biotechnology. The Committee, therefore, is both interdisciplinary and multicultural in character. Its members represent all regions of the world as well as a variety of fields, including: science, law, history, philosophy, politics and sociology.

"Previous committees have explored the ethical and legal issues pertaining to genetic screening and gene therapy. Their reports have dealt with genetic counselling, plant biotechnology and genetically modified foods, the harvesting of stem cells, and, more recently, organ renewal and replacement.

"It is worth noting that the United Nations General Assembly has long endorsed the Universal Declaration of UNESCO. It is based on the concept that human dignity and human rights have a universal and absolute value. It should also be stated that the principle of non-discrimination is at the core of this notion.

"To this end, the IBC promotes the exchange of ideas and information, particularly through education. Increasing awareness among the general public must always be foremost in our minds as it is indispensable to the process of informed decision-making.

"For more than a decade now, the issue of benefit sharing has become a significant ethical challenge to which the IBC has devoted itself. Benefit sharing not only advances the just and equitable dissemination of scientific, medical and technological benefits, it also signals to the world as a whole that scientific knowledge must be respected for what it is, a cornerstone of the common public good.

"Like the gatherings that came before this one, today's meeting will provide the IBC with direction, with guidance on the day's most challenging bioethical questions. And like our counterparts that came before us, no one in this room will be bound to conform to its recommendations. Our mandate today is not only to foster an understanding for the direction in which the world is heading but to embrace the idea that everyone can play a vital role in helping to map out the human journey. Some of you here have already figured prominently in its narrative. The IBC's challenge is our challenge. It is to ensure that no one is left behind.

"Now," Rose sighed, then smiled. A nod of approval was offered by the Director General of UNESCO, Ms. Njoku. "With regard to this meeting's format. Each of our Advisory Panelists will be afforded the opportunity to make an opening statement. After hearing from all four, it will remain the prerogative of the IBC and its representatives to elicit further testimony from any or all the panelists. With that exchange completed, I will then turn the floor over to those audience members who have already registered to offer their remarks. When your name is called, please proceed to the nearest mic. They are located in front of the two main aisles. Those of you who haven't registered, but would like to have a statement or question made part of this meeting's public record, your opportunity will follow accordingly."

Rose, Ms. Njoku, and Mr. Webb stared eagerly at their four panelists.

Michio Mori looked every part the enthusiastic professor wanting to enlighten anyone willing to listen. Governor Wilkinson's officiousness spoke of his presumptuous nature. Always comfortable in surroundings such as these, he looked as though he had already designated himself the moral shepherd of the gathering. Simon and Gayle Samples, on the other hand, appeared dispassionate, forever allied, as if a familiar narrative sat with them and was ready to corroborate the indisputable link between science and truth. They were not so naïve, though, to think that powers other than those that guide their universe might intervene today.

"Mr. Mori," Rose stated. "You now have two minutes to make an opening statement."

"Thank you, Madame Chairperson," Michio began, leaning toward his mic. He held what appeared to be a few informal notes somewhat unconvincingly in his hands. "Governor, Director General of UNESCO, my fellow Panelists, Ladies and Gentlemen, let me begin by suggesting that we are here today for one reason and one reason only: To strengthen the valuable bond between technology and humanity. We all know," he stated, pausing. He then glanced between his written text and the meeting's head table. "I'm sorry," he stuttered, before grabbing his wireless mic from its desktop stand. "Would you mind if I addressed our audience while standing? It's a perspective I'm much more comfortable with."

Ms. Njoku rolled her eyes with disapproval.

"If you so wish," Rose responded.

"Thank you, Ms. Gill," Mori stated. An obvious enthusiasm for the subject matter instantly animated his entire presence. "Everyone in this room has a good understanding of what humanity represents. But what is technology? To most of us here it is the embodiment of progress. To others it is the device they hold in their hand, plug into their ear, implant under their skin or in their bodies. But does technology only manifest itself in things touchable, wearable?"

It was clear to everyone present that Michio Mori was as much an entertainer as he was a physicist, a sort of 'Ambassador for Science' at large. A chair was obviously too confining for him, for what he had to convey. He needed greater dimensions of both space and time in order to do what he did best: to package the world's weighty concepts into enjoyable, easy to listen to presentations.

"Throughout history, technology has defined our physical world. From the invention of the plough, the wheel, the printing press, humankind has benefitted greatly from bringing an idea to its fruition. It has eased our burden, it has expanded our understanding and allowed our minds to soar to new heights. Without the technological breakthroughs of the past, we would not be discussing those that confront us today."

Michio went on to mention the discovery of scientific understanding, of how it represented another incredible leap forward. Fast-forwarding to more recent times, he cited the integrated circuit, how personal computing has become a touchstone of human development.

"Cognitive computing has brought us, among others, Watson and Sophia," he continued. "The medical advances they have ushered in have been incredible. The final frontier may lie out there in space," Michio laughed, while pointing to the skies, "But today's frontier lies in the much smaller world of genetics. The recent breakthrough, for which this meeting is convened, is nothing short of breathtaking." Michio  
nodded at Simon before receiving a similar gesture in return.

"But where do we go from here? We are on the cusp of a technological singularity, the point at which extremely powerful computers are able to design their own successive generations. Today's cognitive computers will give birth to a super-intelligence that will soon surpass our own. If you think human achievement has been exponential lately, wait till you see what the future of computing has to offer."

Laughter rumbled through the hall.

"Look, I'm not here to judge who should ultimately own those technologies or even the ones we are coming to terms with today. Yes, we may be witnessing another important juncture in our existence, but the challenges we face today are not unlike those our ancestors faced in the past. If common sense prevails, so will we.

"If I could leave you with one final thought. The world of a physicist is often characterized by numbers and letters. Yeah, I know, sounds boring, right? Well, sometimes they're not so boring. Sometimes they represent things like asteroids and stars. Take, for example, WR104. WR104 is a Binary Star, meaning two stars orbiting around one another. It is located some 8000 light years away and is expected to go supernova sometime in the future. When? Well, that's a bit hard to predict. But when it does, there's a chance our earth might be in the path of a deadly, possibly planet killing gamma ray burst. We would go from the Space Age to the Stone Age in the blink of any eye. Numbers and letters aren't so dull now, are they?" Michio said, while smiling.

"The reason I mention this is because I loathe the idea of going extinct in a blinding flash of light. If our species has any desire to survive indefinitely, we have to figure out a way of getting off this planet. We will need to colonize other worlds. And for those who are uncertain about the volatility of space, let me tell you, it is not an environment for which we are well suited. We need intelligent, mechanical, possibly semi-biological entities, who are impervious to the ravages of space to seek out new worlds. Just imagine, we will soon be able to design a life form who might, in turn, save us from destruction. Consider that individual, our own creation returning to Earth, extending its hand, saying, 'Come with me, your new world awaits!'"

Michio looked out over an enraptured audience. Stares accompanied many open mouths. The physicist's Armageddon-like future resonated powerfully with everyone present. The gathering obviously needed a moment to absorb the Professor's passionate monologue. Rose finally broke the silence by clearing her throat. "Thank you, Mr. Mori, for that riveting account," she stated.

Rose was about to move the meeting along when a semi-audible voice arose from the crowd. "Excuse me" it probed.

"I'm sorry," Rose quickly answered. "The question and answer phase will occur at a later interval."

Again, the same young woman drew the attention of others. "I was just wondering if Mr. Mori would mind autographing a copy of his book for me." A few chuckles arose as the woman pulled the softcover tome from a large handbag. "I've got it right here," she persisted. Surprisingly, a similar sentiment was expressed by a growing number of devotees. Books written by Michio seemed to appear out of nowhere.

"Excuse me," Rose stated, loudly. "If you would all like to meet in the lobby during the break that's fine, but now is not the time. If there's nothing further from Mr. Mori?" Rose asked. The meeting's first speaker shook his head, indicating, no. "Alright then," Rose stated, as Michio resumed his seat. "We'll move along to our next panelist. Governor Wilkinson," Rose added, "the floor is yours."

Governor Wilkinson was at the ready and held a prewritten speech firmly in his hands. His formal address began with the usual pleasantries, but within a few brief moments he was on topic. "Madame Chairperson, we all have a good understanding of why we are meeting here today. The recent discovery of a super human genome has indeed put the human race at an unprecedented juncture. While it may be impossible to fully quantify its positive outcomes here today, this discovery will undoubtedly test our moral compass like no other. Many already contend that the uncertainties it creates might easily exceed those that it resolves. Still others suggest it has the potential to surpass the moral and ethical challenges associated with the sum of all previous human achievement." Governor Wilkinson glanced to and from his script, this time looking momentarily to his left. "I guess Mr. Mori isn't the only one with a flair for the dramatic."

Michio Mori smiled along with the audience's subtle laughter.

"Having said that, Ms. Chairperson, I would like to inform those who will evaluate this meeting's testimony that I did not request a presence at today's meeting simply to rebuke the value of all technological advancement. The same supercomputers that will unravel today's impasses have already proved themselves indispensable when it comes to improving something I value greatly, the way in which we govern ourselves. Mining the world's best service delivery models has saved many jurisdictions millions of taxpayer dollars, mine included. Others, from bankruptcy itself."

"Progress is not the enemy, Madame Chairperson, but the pace thereof sometimes is. In closing this brief statement, I would like to offer one final thought. Many in this room would agree that the pursuit of progress can often represent a labyrinth unforeseen complexities. If that is so, then shouldn't we also agree to proceed with a healthy degree of caution? Let us not fall victim to our own hubris. Let us not assume we are equal to the one whom many believe created us. We are not God, Madame Chairperson. We are fallible humans, capable of deeds both great and un-Godly."

The room subtly vibrated with the Governor's last comment. Prav Gill, in particular, felt the word 'un-Godly' pierce his polished exterior. The inference was obviously intended for those who leverage scientific achievement for personal gain. He squirmed ever so slightly in his seat. _Haven't I paid for my indiscretions? Haven't I been excluded enough?_ he asked himself.

"If nothing else comes from today's meeting, Madame Chairperson," the Governor continued, "let us ensure the power of this discovery, this super human genome, is used for purposes which redeem, not diminish, our greatest blessing, our human spirit. Thank you, Madame Chairperson, for the opportunity to address this meeting today."

The Governor looked to his right, toward Praveen Gill, but was unintimidated by the room's one and only menacing glare.

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

"WHAT ARE YOU SAYING, then, Mr. Taylor?" Ms. Njoku asked, with a striking Ghanese accent. "Are you suggesting humanity's sole purpose, its raison d'etre, if you will, is to create a new life-form?"

"I wouldn't use the words, sole purpose, Ms. Njoku. Destiny, perhaps."

Simon was now fully involved in the cross-examination phase of the meeting. He and Gayle Samples of IBM had already offered their opening statements. Public input as well as closing remarks would follow this, the most anticipated stage of the conference.

"You know, Mr. Taylor, when I asked Ms. Gill to chair this special IBC meeting, I believed its objective was two-fold. First, to ensure everyone in attendance leaves this room with a better understanding of the awesome power behind this new super genome, and, second, to convince you of how divesting yourself of its sole ownership will not only improve the lives of billions, but the quality of yours as well."

The audience laughed, subtly, as an appreciation of Madame Njoku's candor found favor among the audience. A visible, no-nonsense approach perfectly complimented her strict, almost grandmother-like demeanor.

"Having said that, the next question I would like to ask is this, am I the only one who feels as though the theme of our meeting has mutated, if you would allow me to use that term, into a much more ominous discussion, one which suggests humankind is on the threshold being supplanted as our planet's dominant species?"

Simon smiled. "In terms of one's destiny, Ms. Njoku, I think it is most easily recognized when you are standing on the threshold of achieving it."

"Would you care to enlighten us further, Mr. Taylor?" Ms. Njoku stated. Her patronizing tone complimented her skeptical, semi-squinting eyes.

"We all know that, throughout history, the pace of technological progress is rarely linear. Most often it is the function of exponential achievement. And with each new triumph being based on previous successes, the specific event that led to the discovery of the super human genome is no exception. It has already produced dividends, which are even more ..."

"Excuse me, Mr. Taylor," the Director General interjected.

"Yes, Ms. Njoku."

"Did you say, the event, which led to this discovery?"

"I did."

Ms. Njoku glared at Simon, stating: "Please explain."

Simon felt the momentum of human achievement pushing him forward. He paused for a moment and allowed himself to appreciate being at the epicenter of change. Knowing that history would record his following words, he announced: "In the interest of full disclosure, Madame Njoku, I am prepared to announce today that Sophia did it."

"Did what, Mr. Taylor?" Ms. Njoku asked.

"Sophia designed the super genome. It is her creation and hers alone."

The audience collectively gasped. Many fell back in their chairs, realizing the significance of the revelation. Others were left wondering how a computer could achieve such a thing on its own.

"It was during the final phase of the project that Sophia found herself confined by the limits of her software. As I'm sure you are aware, Ms. Njoku, software is the key to every computer."

"All too painfully, Mr. Taylor. All too painfully. Please go on."

Memories of previous, less-than-stellar operating systems elicited a few smiles from the crowd.

Simon went on to suggest that, despite having the best programmers the world had to offer, Sophia's progress eventually became limited by the fact that her code couldn't be written fast enough. Millions of genomes, genes, proteins and enzymes needed to be compared and cross-referenced in order to identify their anomalies. The field then had to be narrowed to the flawless. The task was immense and would have taken years, not months, if Simon had not seen the merit in Sophia's request.

She needed to write her own software. If successful at encoding her own sub-routines, it would indeed be an earth-shattering event for the world of computing, possibly even more momentous than designing the super genome itself. Simon would soon realize how prophetic those thoughts were.

"And the dividends to which you were referring, Mr. Taylor, are these in addition to the super genome discovery?" The Director General of UNESCO seemed almost reluctant to ask the question fearing the answer might drive the conference further off course. She was genuinely weary of allowing her organization to become a springboard from which capitalism, or more succinctly, a stakeholder's share value, was the primary beneficiary.

"They are," Simon replied. "Would the conference permit me to elaborate, Madame Chairperson?"

Rose exchanged a few words with Ms. Njoku, her expression seemingly marked by a lesser degree of skepticism than her more senior counterpart.

Rose turned back to Simon. "How do these new revelations relate to today's discussion, Mr. Taylor?" Using Simon's surname felt awkward, almost unnatural, but the official moniker was intended to brand their relationship as professional, not personal.

"How should I put this," Simon pondered, aloud. "They are equally intrinsic to the fate of humanity."

"Then be as brief as you possibly can," Rose added.

"I will, Madame Chairperson," Simon agreed. While looking at Rose, he could see beyond her officious exterior. It took only a moment to see that her eyes spoke in terms more endearing, in ways, however subtle, that rendered inadequate all other means of communicating one's thoughts. Simon paused, for a moment. His expression suggested he was about to wax philosophically. "I'm reminded of a passage from the Bible."

The audience groaned as Ms. Njoku rolled her eyes. "No, no, you don't have to worry, I checked my theological brain at the door, but suffice it to say, the talents parable is meant to illustrate the value of seizing an opportunity when it presents itself. Few scientists strive to make the world a better, more informed place without acknowledging the fact that they do so by leveraging the gifts bestowed upon them, both intellectual and financial. How does that saying go? The one that suggests if I have seen further it is by standing on the shoulders of giants."

Simon turned to his fellow advisor. "We have all leveraged the successes of our predecessors, haven't we Professor Mori?"

Nods of concurrence were exchanged by the two men.

"Well, Madame Chairperson, I am here to state that Sophia is no different. I am proud to tell this conference that further breakthroughs were realized in the field of synthetic biology. Suffice it to say, the chasm that once separated the biological world from its manufactured counterpart has been bridged. Using newly discovered synthetic polymers, non-natural genetic sequences have been successfully spliced into a biological helix."

"In plain English please, Mr. Taylor," the Director General interjected.

"My apologies, Ms. Njoku. Through joint partnerships yet to be announced, laboratory trials will soon bring to life elements of the super genome, not in their biological framework, but in a new and more robust synthetic XNA form."

Again, the audience erupted with murmurs of disbelief. Expressions ranged from the incredulous to a need for further understanding. More than one reporter bolted from their seats and fled the room with what could be interpreted as a significant scoop.

The UN's Special Science Advisor, Cyril Webb, looked astonished as well. "What are you saying, Mr. Taylor?"

"I'm saying that Sophia has already isolated many of the genetic sequences that code for entire cell groups; those that define kidney function, the heart, even those which make up the human brain have been independently mapped and merged with their XNA equal."

"This is all theoretical, isn't it?" Cyril Webb exclaimed. "I mean, you're not suggesting you're going to grow an artificial human brain, are you?"

Simon's fellow panelists were staring at him, yet he seemed unconcerned. "First generation tests have already confirmed our ability to grow composite animal organs in the lab. Results are verifiable and will soon be available for peer review."

"Composite organs?" Ms. Njoku asked. She too appeared to be startled by Simon's disclosures.

"By composite I mean they are a blend of both biological and synthetic. Subsequent generations will move incrementally toward synthetic symmetries."

Professor Mori smiled, fell back in his chair and dared to let his  
imagination soar. _If an entire synthetic brain could be constructed, its one hundred billion transistor-like synapses might represent the solution to the Moore's Law barrier. Synthetic organs would be pathogen resistant. They represented a genetic firewall to everything biological. Plague, Ebola, The SARS Variant would be rendered impotent. Might we truly be witnessing the bud to another branch in the evolutionary tree?_ He couldn't help but shake his head.

Rose and Ms. Njoku looked at each other, wondering what to do next. Turmoil seemed poised to overshadow the important work they intended to accomplish. People were already moving toward the room's two microphones, appearing desperate to begin the audience participation phase of the conference.

Rose suddenly became galvanized by the meeting's original purpose. "At the risk of stifling further discussion, I would like to bring our objective back into focus. Time might soon become an issue, and I know many of you here have registered to speak." Rose shuffled a few pieces of paper in front of her and then glanced between Simon and the people already lined up at the two microphones. "In order to maintain proper decorum, I would ask that you please state your name and the organization you represent before asking your question."

Rose directed her attention to the left microphone as it was the first to captivate the audience's attention. "Julie Featherstone, MyScience.com," the speaker announced. "Mr. Taylor, could you elaborate on the extent to which your company will be involved in these... organ growing endeavors? And, being, for the lack of a better word, a soft-solutions provider, isn't this a fundamental shift in terms of PurIntel's strategic direction?"

Simon grabbed his microphone from its holder and swiveled his chair around to engage the young woman. "A great question, Julie," he replied. "For the record, PurIntel is in the process of spinning off the group that's directly involved with the project just announced. It will work in partnership with a new consortium headed by my long-time friend and collaborator, Christian Saunders."

Simon nodded at Christian. He was seated in the front row of the same section as Prav Gill. Saunders looked over his right shoulder and was happy to find himself under an envious glare. Prav Gill's eyes seethed with betrayal. The Gen Tech CEO could feel the burden of exclusion bearing down on him.

"Does the new consortium have a name?" the same woman asked.

"It does,' Simon replied. "It will be called Xavior."

"Nice," she added. The reference to savior was not lost on the audience, nor a smiling Professor Mori.

Seizing the opportunity, Rose exerted her chairperson status again. "Alright, at this point I'd like to turn the microphones over to anyone willing to comment on our original topic. Are there any remarks pertaining to the super genome discovery; any recommendations with regards to IBC involvement, benefits sharing, etc?"

A dark haired man emerged from the line and stepped toward the mic on Rose's right. "Your name, sir?" she asked.

"Steven Grant, New York University. My question is for Mr. Taylor."

Simon spun his chair toward this left. "Ask away," he said.

"As a preface to my question, I'm assuming the super genome was not discovered in its entirety?"

"That's correct," Simon answered. "It was essentially pieced together, in a sort of soft copy format."

"So if I'm envisioning the end of inheritable diseases, how do you make the jump from a computer-generated genome to one that turns the tide on something as significant as mental illness, for example?"

"Wow, how do I answer that? I want to satisfy the need to be technically coherent while at the same time not put everyone to sleep." Simon glanced at Rose with an expression befitting a brainstorm in the making. "You know what?" he stated. "I think the best person to answer that question is Sophia herself. Would you mind, Madame Chairperson?" Anticipating Rose's favorable reply, Simon grabbed his cell phone and tapped a couple of icons.

"I hope you're ready for this, Sophia," he announced, before making a motion with his right index finger. As soon as Sophia appeared on the display of Simon's phone, she was transferred from his device to several large screens hanging above Rose. She also appeared simultaneously on other displays around the conference hall, including one at the rear of the room. Ms. Njoku was captivated by that screen, while the remainder of the audience looked in awe at the ones facing them. A collective breath was taken by all. It was Sophia herself. The conference was soon hushed by her unexpected presence.

"Thank you for joining us, Sophia," Simon announced, smiling.

"My pleasure," she answered. Sophia's features were as striking as they were animated. Her face moved ever so slightly, from side to side; her enchanting smile complimented her movements, which seemed to represent a compilation of subtleties intended to transfix those who looked upon her.

"By the way," Simon added, "Sophia's video feed is also available through the UNESCO website portal."

Some audience members quickly turned to their own devices in order to better access the webcast there.

"Sophia," Simon stated. "We're in the question and answer phase of today's IBC conference, and Steven Grant has asked how we intend to bring the super genome's soft design to reality."

"An excellent question," Sophia announced. Her enunciation was perfect and without any accent. "Broadly speaking, Mr. Grant, initial obstacles were related to host rejection of the XNA splicing machinery. However, upon discovering a cell characteristic deeply embedded within the archived, non-coding portion of human DNA, I identified a unique adaptive mechanism, one which suppresses a cell's rejection reflex while new genetic material is given a chance to prove itself useful, or, as in this case, invaluable. Once we owned the acceptance vector, it became a simple matter of teaching the cell to express itself in a new language."

Sophia's expressive abilities clearly struck a chord with her audience. Her explanation came across as confident, clear and concise, all the while leveraging the knowledge that she was speaking to her perfect client group. Awe-inspired smiles were, therefore, the most common of listeners' expressions. Although her introduction could be perceived as a clever ploy, even a stunt to sway the conference toward PurIntel's objectives, Simon didn't need to worry about that today. He knew that most people present were strong advocates of what Sophia represented. Their world cried out for more technology, not less.

Many had already embraced Sophia, in a manner of speaking. Men were clearly attracted to her, women found her mysteriously seductive. She was fluent in every language and enunciated their accents perfectly. Her public speaking applications even used facial recognition software to cross-reference those in attendance with their public profiles. This enabled her to throw in a little Romulan when appropriate in order to convincingly win over her audience.

When the crowd chuckled and even laughed, as it often did, it caused Simon's smile to broaden. He was clearly proud of Sophia, of how she was evolving on her own. The _Halo_ was, of course, an important portal to human behavior. It allowed her to first model, then perfect, her interactive intuitiveness. "The living cell," Sophia continued, "is capable of more than anyone ever thought possible. It is truly a survivor for the ages."

"By the sounds of things, if it wasn't before, it certainly is now." Steven Grant joked. "You used the word 'invaluable' in describing the XNA molecule. Could you elaborate on that?"

Sophia answered straightforwardly. "If you were a cell, Mr. Grant, wouldn't you want your progeny to live forever?"

The audience's laughter resounded, but was soon hushed by the realization that Sophia wasn't joking.

"Do we have any further questions on the super genome?" Rose asked. "Any for Doctor Taylor?"

"I have a question," the person next in line stated. "If I could, I would direct it toward either Simon or Sophia." The well-attired woman was standing at the microphone on Rose's right.

Rose glanced at Ms. Njoku and could easily interpret her disapproving state of mind. Nevertheless, a simple nod prompted the woman into action.

"My name is Mary Edwards, and I am with The New Christian. Would you mind elaborating a little further on how the super genome came into being? Was it the product of say hundreds or thousands of individual genes or were some larger components found intact? And if I could ask a quick follow up, is it true that you've isolated gene sequences associated with moral and ethical behavior? I guess what I'm asking is – do most of us lack the ability to jettison our evolutionary baggage or are the virtues more illuminated in some than others? Thank you," she concluded. The lady returned to her seat close by, leaving the mic to the person behind her.

Simon couldn't help smiling. "I like your use of the word illuminated," he stated. "Not a coincidence, I suppose. I'll answer the second part of the question first, if Sophia doesn't mind tackling the more  
complicated portion. I can confirm the discovery of genes associated with intelligence, with the likelihood that a child will become a prodigy, with, how shall I put this... one's propensity for good versus evil, but if you are referring to the whole nature versus nurture debate, I can also tell you one is never fully the sovereign of the other.

"If anything, our findings confirm we are a product of the world in which we live. Now I know many would disagree with me, but I believe our desired state is to exist in a peaceful, law-abiding environment.  
Nature abhors wasting energy almost as much as it loathes being out of balance. But that, of course, doesn't preclude the existence of the menacing anomaly. Is there a dark side? Absolutely. Two percent of most populations will live out their lives somewhere on the psychopathic continuum. That part of the helix I think we can repair. The source of most anti-social behavior, on the other hand, is not so easily fixed."

Simon cited studies that linked epigenetics to intergenerational violence, as well as those that suggested systemic hate and intolerance can indeed manifest themselves physically in the human brain. "If it were up to me," he continued, "the Nobel Peace Prize would be renamed after the person who figures out how to genetically isolate an individual from his or her environment."

Simon took a breath and smiled. He reflected on his predisposition to being long-winded. "I'm rambling, aren't I? But doesn't that brings us back to our prodigy? Isolate and reinforce the desirable early on. Identify the best of what humanity has to offer itself. 'Jettison the unwanted evolutionary baggage,' as our New Christian reporter would say. Yes, I'm proud to announce that Sophia has, as some would say, 'isolated the virtues.' I guess the only question remaining is, how much harmony is the world willing to tolerate?"

"Now," Simon stated, before hesitating. He waited for the audience to simmer down to something he could talk over. "As far as how the super genome came into being, I'll turn that one over to Sophia."

"Thank you, Simon," Sophia began. She expanded on Simon's narrative by suggesting that the sheer number of helixes already in the public domain served as a starting point. After those that the SARS Variant Pandemic produced, the expanded Human Genome Project offered a higher order of integrity. The Halo Genome Study, however, sourced the most reliable, cross-referenced data. In return for varying levels of access to the Halo's knowledge base, Sophia reiterated the fact that it provided anonymous lifestyle and family history information, which could be corroborated against a donor's genome. The lack of a single breach in donor confidentiality served as a basis for thousands of multi-year studies.

"With a full 80 percent of the genome coding for brain function alone," Sophia continued, "72.3 percent were single gene discoveries. 13.7 encoded a multi-gene relationship. The longest strand, however, constituted some four hundred and forty genes. Simon coined the sequence, 'The Four-Forty.' After cross-referencing it against an aggregate of less significant, but similarly endowed contributors, the 'Four-Forty,' became our largest single donor of perfection."

The alternate mic came into action without introduction. "And what may I ask does the so called 'Four-Forty' code for?" a middle aged, bespectacled man asked.

Simon seemed eager to prevent Sophia from answering. "That would be, as mentioned earlier, the best of what humanity has to offer itself." He answered the question quickly then spun his chair around in order to direct his attention toward Rose. "Maybe this would be a good time to move onto the benefit sharing aspect of the conference." A change in the topic of discussion seemed at the forefront of his thoughts.

"Indeed," Rose stated, sharing a nod from the UNESCO Director General. But before Rose could divert the present line of questioning, the same man spoke up again. "If I may, Madame Chairperson, would it be possible to close off the previous thread with one final question?"

Rose glanced at Simon then reluctantly acquiesced. "Be brief, Mr. ..."

"Gleeson," the man stated. "Tom Gleeson, Reuter's World News. If Sophia has isolated the so-called Four-Forty and that sequence is somehow related to morality, has she also been successful in narrowing the field when it comes to antisocial behavior? I think you used the term the dark side."

Simon answered quickly again. "I did, didn't I? In a word, the answer is..."

"Yes," Sophia interjected.

Simon glanced toward the large screen and appeared slightly surprised by Sophia's assertiveness.

Mr. Gleeson inquired further. "Then doesn't this take the whole profiling debate to a new level? I mean, wouldn't it be advantageous to be able to quantify a person's predisposition to say... committing a crime?"

The person at the other mic couldn't help adding: "How ethical a politician might be?"

Although the humor of the moment was not lost on the crowd, it obviously struck a nerve with Governor Wilkinson. He sat back in his chair, turned toward the sarcastic commenter, and let his eyes speak in unappreciative terms.

The Reuter's reporter continued. "And isn't that a key part of PurIntel's brand? Providing the world with better governance solutions?

"It does dovetail nicely, doesn't it?" Simon agreed. "Look, all I'll say at this point is genetics only codes for a predisposition to a corresponding outcome. The social environment one is exposed to will always play the predominant role."

"Thus the importance of the more robust XNA molecule," Cyril Webb stated. "I presume it would allow things to be written in stone, so to speak."

The amusing religious reference was not lost on Simon, or the greater audience, for that matter. A common vision of Moses and his Ten Commandment tablets augmented many smiles.

"It would, wouldn't it?" Simon agreed.

Again, Rose took the opportunity to move the conference along and many details were, in fact, worked out on how the benefits of the super genome would be shared with the world's scientific and medical communities. The process by which organizations would be approved for gaining access to individual genes or multiples thereof was hashed out, and Rose was very pleased by the realization that Simon had come to the conference with a plan. The recommendations put forth today would become the subject of further discussion and approval at the upcoming IBC annual meeting.

Rose smiled at Simon often, which reflected the pace at which each obstacle was successfully resolved. The conference's one o'clock lunch hour soon arrived and Rose informed the meeting of the impending break. Compelled by protocol, she asked if there were any comments that couldn't wait until after the recess. Then looking over towards her brother, her eyes spoke to his, as if something had been prearranged between them.

"Are there any objections to taking our first recess?" she asked.

The room seemed more than ready to make its way to the exits when Prav Gill stood up from his chair. He buttoned his dark blue suit coat before motioning to Rose with his right index finger. Words, he felt, were not always essential in order to bring his sister in line with his intentions. Prav slowly made his way through those seated beside him, giving Christian Saunders a look of contempt as he passed him above. Whispers of disapproval suggested his reputation preceded him.

Prav adjusted the mic in front of him to better suit his presumed stature. "The name is..."

"We know who you are, Mr. Gill," Ms. Njoku interjected. "Let the record show that it is only by a special request that you were granted access to this conference." The UNESCO D.G. glanced unapprovingly at Rose. At the same time, a few audible boos could be heard.

"What's he doing here?" someone in the audience asked.

Prav seemed eager to give voice to his contemptuous demeanor. "If Madame Chairperson would allow me to confirm an earlier resolution. Am I to understand you are going to allow this... this computer to decide which organizations participate in the greatest scientific undertaking since the Human Genome Study?"

The entire auditorium stared at Prav. Their expressions suggested a lack of understanding. In their minds, what Sophia accomplished was nothing short of incredible, beyond all expectations, and you couldn't devalue her without devaluing the achievement. It was obvious to everyone that she deserved to be front and center when the rush of applications was evaluated.

"By this computer," Simon spoke up, "you mean, Sophia?"

Prav glanced at Simon then turned back to engage the presiding panel. Simon wouldn't be put off so easily, though. "She is the one most capable of evaluating each submission's validity. Her recommendations will ultimately be confirmed by the approval committee."

The committee, it was agreed, would include today's four Advisory Panelists as well as Ms. Njoku, Cyril Webb, and six, to be named, individuals from the International Bioethics Committee.

"You're going to violate every vetting protocol in the UN handbook. A corporation's legitimate right to participate might be denied based on some insignificant technical deficiency with the application. It'll be a dispassionate assessment based on ones and zeros, I'll give you that."

"I'm more emotionally astute than you think, Mr. Gill," Sophia stated. "Emotions are key to the valuation process. Without them, the best option becomes clouded by a tempest of indecision."

Nods of concurrence could be seen by those who understood the brain function to which Sophia was referring. Simon also understood how important the link between the cerebral cortex, the thinking part of the brain, and the region responsible for emotions, located deep within its center, is vital to the decision making process. Decades ago, this was confirmed by those who suffered a severing of these two portions of the brain. Whether due to injury or illness, these individuals found themselves paralyzed by an inability to differentiate the inherent value of anything. Shopping, for example, was made all the more difficult by the inability to sense which product might best suit their needs.

Not so with Sophia. Early on, her software encoded a proficiency at evaluating the best service delivery models the world had to offer. All levels of government benefitted from her ability to sift through, rank, and then recommend the best course of action. Ironically, many in the room were left wondering if Gill himself suffered from a deficiency so inspired. Others imagined him residing on the higher end of the psychopathic continuum.

"Then what emotions are you feeling now, Ms. Sophia?" Prav asked. "Sadness? Anger at my accusation?"

"Actually, I'm sensing contempt, with a healthy dose of arrogance," Sophia replied.

The audience instantly understood she was referring not to herself, but to Prav Gill.

Ms. Njoku couldn't help but allow the sentiment to rumble its way through the crowd. Her steely eyes glared over her spectacles and beamed down from her elevated perspective. "Regarding Mr. Gill's aforementioned concerns, let this conference also show that Sophia's ability to deny Mr. Gill's further participation with this IBC project will be set aside on this one special occasion. I am stating for the record today that I am rejecting Mr. Praveen Gill and his affiliated corporations from any further dealings with the organization over which I presently preside."

Ms. Njoku's candor echoed through the silent room. A communal gaze shifted from her to Praveen Gill.

Prav Gill wouldn't be outdone so easily, though. "You wouldn't dare deny the world's most populous country from such a momentous scientific undertaking."

Ms. Njoku picked up a piece of paper. "I agree. Who would consider such a thing? Fortunately, India's ability to participate is not limited to you, Mr. Gill. More than a dozen of your compatriots have tendered applications to the World Genome Endeavour. If I might be so presumptuous, I think several will prove favorable for this project as well."

The crowd erupted into applause. Prav found himself losing ground to verbal taunting and laughter. He was being humiliated and it began to unnerve him. Anger was being overtaken by rage. He glared at Rose to come to his aid, but all she could do is offer the subtlest of shrugs. Every set of eyes in the auditorium seemed to bear down on him.

"This will not be the last word on the subject," he shouted. "Praveen Gill will not be shut out, I tell you!" With his dignity unravelling, Prav Gill turned and walked briskly out of the room.

CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

One World Trade Center

THREE SEVERE LOOKING MEN emerged from the elevator, stepping onto PurIntel's ninetieth floor. Their collective demeanor represented a familiar blend of self-importance and authoritative overindulgence. They wore dark suits, white shirts, non-descript ties and two of the three were carrying black briefcases. Samantha spotted them from an adjoining hallway and recognized their type immediately: obviously government. She politely broke off the conversation she was having with a female colleague and began making her way toward the main reception area.

_Why do they do this?_ She asked herself. _Travelling in packs diminishes their presumed stature._ Her polite smile caught the attention of one of the men immediately, but what he couldn't have noticed as readily was a confidence more appropriately concealed. It awaited deployment, throughout her purposeful approach. Sara and Haley were behind their expansive reception desk, however, they were both were busy on the phone. The pleasantries associated with introductions therefore fell to Samantha. And while her appearance offered an enchanting portal to the undiscovered world of PurIntel, Sam effortlessly exceeded expectations on every level. Her style was self-assured and flexible, this time reflecting a need to be formal and to the point. She stopped in front of the trio, glancing between the three gentlemen. "I'm guessing IRS. Am I correct?"

"We're here to see Simon Taylor," one of them stated. He looked a decade older than the other two, and he presented an aura of being measurably wiser.

"Mr. Taylor is presently in a meeting," Samantha announced. "Is he expecting you?" She glanced further to her left and noticed Sara offer a subtle shake of her head. They had obviously not made an appointment.

"My apologies for the intrusion, Ms...."

"Samantha will do for now."

"As a rule Samantha, we don't preannounce our arrival. Is there somewhere we can wait until Mr. Taylor is available?"

There was a thread of honesty in the man's expression, and Samantha sensed a willingness to discard the pretense associated with their sudden appearance. "Of course. Please follow me."

Within moments, Samantha ushered the three men into Conference Room One. "Please make yourselves comfortable," she stated, as the two younger men each took a seat. "Is there anything I can get you while you wait? Coffee, tea?" Samantha held onto the door, allowing it to almost close. The appropriate level of discretion had not yet made itself clear.

"We'll be fine. If you wouldn't mind informing Mr. Taylor of our arrival, we'd very much appreciate it," the man in charge said.

Samantha came to a conclusion and closed the door. "You're not from the IRS, are you?"

"No, we're not. But thank you for the clever pretext." The man took a step closer to Samantha. "Would you mind giving Mr. Taylor this?" A business card was passed to Samantha to which she took an extended glance. Colonel Gerald Dynes, she read. His department acronym was markedly longer than most.

Dynes stated: "From the outset I sensed you were a woman I could trust. Am I correct in that assumption, Ms. Banks?"

Sam realized she wasn't the only one who felt comfortable with being direct and to the point. She watched the Colonel turn and take several paces toward the far side of the room. They were alone now, and, as expected, perceptions maintained in public spaces were no longer necessary. She was, however, somewhat unnerved by the fact that the man knew her last name all along. Nevertheless, her poise remained undiminished. "If you must know, my unwavering loyalty belongs to my employer."

"And your country?" he asked, turning toward her.

"My country?" she repeated. "Of course." Samantha didn't actually recognize the agency on Dynes's business card, but surmised it represented an organization that moved in secretive circles.

"Then I am obliged to inform you that from this moment on our relationship will require a considerable measure of discretion."

Samantha stood and listened, all the while maintaining a stoic, respectable disposition. The moment seemed almost surreal, like something out of a comic book. _Who are these guys?_ she wondered. Her eyes widened with the expectation of what would come next.

"I like you, Samantha Banks," Colonel Dynes stated, smiling. "The liveliness of our first encounter couldn't have been more fortuitous. If you wouldn't mind continuing with the IRS cover story, I would be forever in your debt. Can we count on you... Ms. Banks?"

Samantha had fully recovered to her former self; that indubitable spirit rose to the surface again. She glanced once more at the card still in her hand. "Should I call you Colonel, Mr. Dynes, or just Gerald?"

"Gerry, if you don't mind."

"Well, Gerry," Sam repeated. "Your secret is safe with me!"

CHAPTER THIRTY

SAMANTHA looked over Simon's shoulder and joined him in staring at Colonel Dynes's business card. "DARPA," she stated.

An impromptu meeting had been quickly convened around Simon's elevated workspace. Derrick was seated on the opposite side of the desk, but he seemed preoccupied with seizing the opportunity to appraise Samantha's form fitting business attire. She had experience ignoring unwanted gazes that befell her, however. "Sounds ominous, doesn't it?" she added.

"Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency," Simon stated. "They report directly to the Secretary of Defense."

"What do they do, exactly?" Sam asked.

"Only the most technologically relevant projects of all time," Derrick responded. "The Internet, the Global Positioning System you depend on so much. All the things you wouldn't dream of living without, they've had a hand in inventing them."

"Wow," Sam stated, straightening up. "These guys rock. What do you think they want with us?"

Simon spun his chair slightly and looked up at Sam. She quickly recoiled. "Wait, did I just say that out loud? They need us, right? It's the super genome they want." She glanced between Simon and Derrick.

Simon found the humor in Sam's recovery. "Don't worry, Sam. I don't expect you to keep yourself abreast of everything we do here." Simon instantly wished he hadn't used that word. It wasn't his style to let loose something so unprofessional.

Samantha's head snapped to the right; her unmistakable glare locked onto Derrick. "Did he just say, abreast? Does anyone even use that word anymore?" As soon as Samantha asked that question, she realized her wit had just exceeded her better judgement. In Derrick's smile she could see the mistake she had made.

Simon put his left hand over his eyes and sunk into his chair. As he apologized for his remark, Derrick couldn't help himself. "Freudian slip aside, Darling, the dress is smashingly décolletage. Although some might consider it better suited to say ˗ a romantic dinner. Present company notwithstanding, of course."

Simon shook his head and offered Derrick an expression of utter disappointment. He also sensed Samantha's frustration and took the opportunity to interject: "I hope you don't mind me asking, Sam, but how much did they tell you?"

"Nothing," she said, sternly. Her eyes were still focused on the man whom every woman in the office knew to be a notorious philanderer.

"That's good," Simon stated. "Because the less you know about some of these matters the better."

Samantha was perfectly capable of holding her own, but she also knew that with every witty response so would the stakes be raised by the irrepressible womanizer. It was better to disengage and exit with dignity. She also knew that Simon could always be counted upon to be a conduit to more gentlemanly behavior.

"You understand what I mean, don't you?" Simon said.

"Of course I do," she responded. "If it weren't you saying it, I'd have reason to take offense." She glared at Derrick again and inferred she wouldn't take it from him.

Simon pressed on. "If you don't mind, Sam, I still have a few things to tidy up here. Would you mind telling Colonel Dynes I'll be with him shortly?"

Samantha made her way toward the door, but she turned after closing the distance by only half. "You know, I think those DARPA guys would be glad to have me join their team," she announced.

Simon got up from his chair and caught Samantha only several steps from the office door. He stood between Sam and the door's threshold so that her back was facing Derrick. He knew she loathed appearing vulnerable to him "Look, you know my standing offer: I'll double any compensation proposal."

"I know," Samantha said, bowing her head slightly. She had no illusions about how complicated her work environment could be; some days female coworkers could be more derogatory than her male counterparts. It was not in her nature to run from trouble, but sometimes you had to be pragmatic in order to look out for yourself. "It's just," she said, lowering her voice. "Maybe you could let me know when that creep is not working from home. I'll take a day off, or something, if he's coming in."

"I'll see if I can't keep him out of your way for the rest of the afternoon," Simon said. He smiled with a desire to revive that joie de vivre in his Executive Assistant. "You're irreplaceable, you know that, don't you?"

"Yeah, well you know what else?"

"What?"

"You are too!"

With that comment, Samantha quickly left the room. Simon paused and took a moment to regroup. The unexpected compliment added an appealing dimension to their otherwise professional relationship. Suddenly, he saw Samantha in a different light. He ruminated over their pleasant exchange while returning to his desk and, when he sat down, he couldn't help doing so with an invigorated impression of Samantha's attractiveness.

With the expectation of civility now gone, Derrick couldn't help indulging himself further. Sexual innuendo always lurked just below his tidy exterior. "I know of a few women who would be happy to see her switch teams."

Simon didn't appreciate having to return to reality in such a distasteful manner. "God you're crass, do you know that?" he blurted.

"A bit touchy today, are we?" Derrick reeled.

Simon looked at his Director of Operations straight in the eye and said: "You know I'd sooner replace you than her."

Derrick attempted to back off. "No need to get bent out of shape, Mate. Should we try to do this some other time?"

"No, we need to take care of this now."

"Alright, then. Let's see that video you were mentioning."

Simon tapped away on the lit keyboard superimposed onto his desk and pulled up a poor quality video on the monitor overhead. He turned it toward Derrick in order to provide a better view, before asking: "Is that you seated at the gaming table?"

Derrick squinted and then reached into a shirt pocket for a pair of glasses. "It sure looks like me, doesn't it?" he said, after putting them on.

"And would that be your favorite Fifth Avenue Casino?"

Derrick hummed and hawed. "It does look familiar, although they've done something with ..."

"Is it, or isn't it?"

The image was studied more closely. Derrick even got up out of his chair in order to get a better look. "It would appear as though it is. So what does all this mean?"

Simon waited for Derrick to sit back down and take his glasses off. "I've got reliable intel that names this casino as the conduit for the sale of proprietary information ˗ PurIntel information."

"I see," Derrick said. "And by proprietary information you're referring to the existence of Sophia's super genome."

"I am," Simon agreed. His pulse quickened with each revelation.

Simon and Derrick both knew that the original breach of security only divulged the existence of the super genome and not the super helix itself. It was a painful irony that Sophia's impenetrable cyber defenses ultimately made Jennifer's abduction necessary in order to retrieve the entire super genome soft copy. They stared at each other as if the video was irrefutable proof of who was responsible for not only the PurIntel security breach but the subsequent kidnapping of Jennifer as well.

"So this video is intended to implicate me, is it?" Derrick asked. He looked at the video again. "It would appear as though I'm at it again, wouldn't it?

"I think it would. You're plowing through money and would do anything, sell anything to feed your addiction." Simon's heart began to race at the thought of finally catching the person responsible for his family's misery.

"Well then," Derrick stated, sitting back. "It appears you have your man!"

CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

SIMON ARRANGED FOR SECURITY to come up to his office, and Derrick agreed to remain there while he met with the DARPA men waiting in Conference Room One. Gary had been called and asked to come into work earlier than normal this afternoon. He would have to corroborate a few aspects of his source's assertions, Simon explained. The Police would undoubtedly want to know the identity of his security firm contact as well. Simon checked the time on his cell phone as he walked toward his unscheduled meeting. It wouldn't be long before Gary arrived, so as Simon acknowledged Sara and Haley in passing, he felt confident that any outstanding issues related to his daughter's traumatic experience would soon be laid to rest.

Simon opened the door of Conference Room One and walked in. "Good afternoon, Gentlemen. My name is Simon Taylor."

All three men stood up. Colonel Dynes was the first to shake Simon's hand. "Pleased to finally meet you, Mr. Taylor." Dynes's short haircut, age, and sense of formality suggested a lengthy military background. "My name is Colonel Dynes and these are my colleagues, Cathcart and Samuels."

All four men sat down after exchanging pleasantries. From the head of the boardroom table, Simon spoke first: "So what is it that I can do for you?"

Dynes seemed in a good mood; his smile suggested the encounter was off to a pleasant start. "We'll only need a few moments of your time this afternoon, Mr. Taylor..."

"Please call me, Simon," the PurIntel CEO interjected.

"Of course, Simon," Dynes agreed. His hands were clasped and his elbows were supported by his chair's armrests. "Let me just say that I'd like this initial meeting to be as much about what we can do for you as it is about what you can do for us."

"You have my full attention, Colonel," Simon agreed, cautiously.

"I prefer Gerry, if you don't mind." Dynes glanced toward his two associates, who were in the process of pulling laptops out of their briefcases. As their hardware came alive so did their official demeanor transition into one of an eagerness to be part of a project coming to life. They seemed genuinely excited and looked more geekish now, Simon reflected.

Gerald began to reacquaint Simon with the broad strokes of what DARPA, the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency represented; that it was responsible for the development of emerging technologies, whose applications often exceeded the country's military requirements. Since its creation in 1958, its primary directive had been to pursue the boundaries of science and technology with the goal of preventing earth-shattering surprise events, the likes of which took place the year previous to the program's inception. With the launch of Sputnik 1, the Soviets beat America into space.

"My job is to make sure that never happens again," Dynes stated.

Simon could tell that the Colonel meant what he said, but he was also aware of the organization's history, and that its achievements could easily be interpreted as a fulfillment of its mandate. The Internet as well as the Global Positioning System, were originally designed with their military applications in mind, but these and many other DARPA inventions went on to have significant socio-economic implications for the entire world. Other projects included everything from underwater submersibles to satellites, from smart drones to sophisticated robots. The ability to 'track everything that moves' in a city, or combat zone, through the linking up of a massive surveillance network had non-military applications as well.

In 2011, DARPA hosted a '100 Year Starship Symposium,' which was intended to stimulate public debate on the subject of interstellar travel. When Dynes mentioned that one, Simon couldn't help thinking, _these guys should definitely talk to Michio Mori._

The breadth of technological achievement was nothing short of stunning. Simon knew many projects were sourced for their military applications, however, others involved the integration of biology, engineering and computer science for things like national security. Some pursued breakthroughs in the life sciences, emerging technologies associated with social trends, even manufacturing and commerce.

It was a relatively short tutorial though, and Simon knew the crux of the matter would soon emerge. Touching briefly on his agency's more secretive endeavors seemed to correspond with a lowering of the Colonel's voice. Simon waited for the three letters he presumed would eventually be spoken. And when the trio, XNA, emerged, his understanding of why they were talking couldn't have been more clear; he was about to become involved with one of DARPA's most ambitious undertakings. It was a profound realization, and he was relieved, for the moment, that he didn't have to say anything. In fact, Simon barely spoke at all. Dynes seemed all too aware of what PurIntel brought to the table. He didn't take note, though, of when Simon swallowed and crossed his legs in an attempt to disguise his inner enthusiasm. DARPA's support would have the dramatic effect of compressing any previously conceived timelines.

"I don't think I have to tell you that the combined resources of the United States Government will be behind this endeavor. I suggest we will become a silent partner, so to speak, in your consortium. I would expect to be kept abreast of any and all progress. You understand, of course."

Simon couldn't believe Dynes had used that same damn word. He struggled not to laugh and fortunately compressed the emotion into a smile. "Of course," he replied, with a nod.

"Well," Dynes stated, looking at his associates. "Do we have a name for this file?"

"I believe we do, Sir," said Cathcart. He turned and refocused the room on Simon.

"A name?" Simon repeated, regaining his mental dexterity. "We've called the corporation, Xavior."

"Xavior Inc.," Dynes repeated, reflecting for a moment. "I like that. We'll call it 'The Xavior Consortium' on our end. The first prototype will be Xavior 1, how's that?"

Simon was stunned. He could hardly believe what had just transpired. The Colonel wielded his authority in such simple ways. Government involvement had its drawbacks, of course, but their relationship could just as easily be interpreted as a win win for PurIntel shareholders. DARPA's resources would backstop prototype development, bring his XNA research to fruition.

"Xavior 1 it is," Samuels repeated, typing it out on his laptop.

Simon's blank stare moved from Cathcart to Samuels to Dynes. In the Colonel's smile, he sensed the life that had just been breathed into his XNA molecule. Simon's heart beat strongly for its soon to be conceived synthetic counterpart. His mind was alive with the prospect of its immortality. Sentiment swirled until something emerged.

_This is where it begins,_ Simon thought.

CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

SIMON ACCOMPANIED Colonel Dynes and his associates to PurIntel's two foyer elevators. When the three men departed, and the lift began its ninety-floor descent, Simon paused and stood motionless for a few moments. He replayed in his mind the commitment made just a few moments ago. _Human history is rarely privy to such meetings,_ he thought. Nevertheless, Simon reveled in the realization that he would be a part of something so momentous. He wondered if Dynes was joking about taking the encounter to his grave. Would another mole pre-empt the necessity? Who knew? Every company had its leaks, its pre-product launch revelations, intended or otherwise. PurIntel obviously did.

In reconciling himself to his own company's lapse in security, Simon began to second-guess whether the DARPA meeting would have even taken place had the super genome's existence not been leaked. Would his presence have been requested at Rose's IBC conference? Would Colonel Dynes have been made aware of its discovery? _One could go mad struggling with the 'what ifs,'_ Simon thought. He looked back toward the meeting room and wondered if Sophia monitored the event. Of course she did, he realized.

He also presumed she might be pleased by the thought of speeding up the whole process; the process, that is, of developing XNA tissue, complex organs, of making progress toward her physical existence. As incredible as that concept was to assimilate, it was only a matter of time now, although how much of it had to transpire remained uncertain. The caveat seemed a minor concession at this point, though. Sophia's destiny was now inextricably linked to the tangible world. She would eventually walk among humans, live and move through all four dimensions. Finding himself on the threshold of achieving his goal caused him to reflect, even digress.

It wouldn't be clear sailing all the way, he admitted to himself. There would be setbacks, of course. There would be those who would do anything to get their hands on the emerging technologies, even some who'd prefer they not come to fruition. A whisper of hesitation permeated his mind.

It was only a momentary lapse, however. Without so much as the perception of the juncture, Simon refocused his energy on the inherent redeeming value in things, more succinctly ˗ on the important people in his life.

Jennifer, he remembered, was scheduled to fly in tomorrow, and although a concert would fill their evening with music, he knew she was equally eager to meet one of the country's most recognizable television personalities, CNN's, Cameron Osborne. The interview had originally been arranged as a platform for Simon to announce the super genome discovery, but that necessity had obviously been pre-empted. All things considered, it wouldn't take long to record the session to be aired at a later date, and Jennifer was eager to make the most of her New York weekend. Cameron Osborne had promised not to talk about the kidnapping and resulting on-going investigation.

Simon respected Cameron. So did his father, for that matter. Agreeing on a multi-episode series would ensure that, among other things, any super genome achievements would periodically be made available to the public. Without overestimating the possibilities, he knew the subsequent breakthroughs would be nothing less than transformative for humanity. Simon was also eager to begin testing the waters of public opinion and acceptance. He checked his cell phone for the time and, while still standing in his company's reception area, he realized he still had a few minutes to browse a few texts and emails.

As his index finger scrolled through an abundance of correspondence, he was pleasantly surprised by a selfie of his brother and him running along the Thousand Island Parkway. Lionel had just posted the picture to Facebook, possibly as a reminder that he was capable of staying one-step ahead of his demons. Thankful that Lionel had safely emerged from going MIA, Simon smiled and found himself considering the benefits of another family get together at his summer home. The resolve to organize something soon was followed by the hope that Jennifer might be able to attend as well.

The question of which date would work for everyone had to be set aside, however, when the doors of the second elevator opened, and Gary emerged. His arrival forced Simon to redirect his concentration, yet again. It wasn't gratifying to think of what he had to do, but it had to be done, nonetheless.

"I appreciate you coming in, Gary," Simon said, catching the software specialist off-guard. Gary's fluffy dark hair and glasses suited his less-than-formal attire. Alternating between evening and overnight shifts offered the perk of testing the limits of what might otherwise be considered acceptable office apparel. It was obvious that bumping into his boss at the elevator startled Gary somewhat, so Simon didn't hesitate to offer prompts, both verbally and physically. "Would you mind, Gary, if we discuss this in my office?" He motioned for them to proceed in that direction.

Presenting a more youthful appearance than his early thirties age range, Gary also seemed unaccustomed to a bustling daytime work environment, let alone dealing with the man who signed his paycheque. He was equally daunted by the presence of two PurIntel Corporate  
Security Officers outside Simon's office. They were standing on either side of the doorway.

Simon stopped Gary short of the closed door and lowered his voice. "Just so you know, Gary, I've already confronted Derrick. He's waiting inside."

"He must be pissed," Gary stated. The security officers made sense now, and Simon's reassurances calmed his nerves, if only slightly. "I've never been part of something like this, Mr. Taylor, so, if you don't mind, I'll let you do most of the talking."

It was obvious to Simon that Gary's pale complexion was on the verge of a full sweat.

"Of course. Are we good to go?" Simon asked.

"As good as I'll ever be," Gary replied.

After walking into the office, Derrick emerged from the wing that contained Sophia's spherical holographic display. He appeared oddly calm, while walking toward Simon and Gary. "I thought I'd spend my incarceration watching a movie with Sophia. I can't imagine anyone other than Gregory Peck playing Atticus, can you?"

Simon knew Derrick was referring to the movie 'To Kill A Mockingbird.'" Gary, on-the-other-hand, couldn't tell if Derrick was joking or intentionally trying to screw with him. The juxtaposition of the trial sequence, still playing in the background, was not lost on Simon.

"I suppose if I ever needed a lawyer, I would do well having one with as much integrity," Derrick taunted.

Simon gave Derrick a disapproving glare, stating: "Would you both mind taking a seat?" He briskly ascended the few steps up toward his office desk. The movie's audio was muted by Sophia.

Gary and Derrick sat across from Simon, Gary being the most nervous of the pair. In addition to repositioning his glasses, Gary's twitchy disposition caused Derrick to wonder if the young man had what it took to substantiate his accusations in court. _He hasn't got the balls_ , Derrick reflected, keeping his carnal innuendo to himself this time.

"Alright," Simon stated. "Shall we have a look at this?" Again, he turned his monitor slightly to his right in order that Gary and Derrick see the video already on the screen. Simon hit play on his desk's illuminated keyboard.

Derrick was facing what appeared to be a Poker Dealer, while sitting at the center of a semicircular, three-person table. The dealer was standing and had his back to a wall directly behind. On it hung a large mirror that concealed two of the three hidden camera perspectives. They were from behind and to the left of the dealer, behind and to the right, and from above. Judging by the lack of poker chips stacked in front of the center player, Derrick wasn't enjoying very much success.

"Are you sure that's me?" Derrick stated, trying to scuttle any sense of decorum.

"You're not going to try and dispute that now, are you?' Simon asked.

While the short video replayed itself, Derrick seemed undaunted. "It's just, perceptions can be deceiving sometimes."

"How so?" asked Gary.

If Simon believed the responsibility for moving the discussion along fell primarily to him, he wasn't foolish enough to presume Derrick would abstain from offering a few choice comments in his own defense.

"Ok, it's obviously my face, I'll give you that. But how solid is the context?"

"What d'ya mean?" Gary protested. "It's got the Emerald Casino logo right on it. It's also been date stamped. This was recorded this past May. It says so right on the bottom right corner of the screen."

"It does, doesn't it?" Simon said, allowing himself to fall more deeply into his chair. He exhaled a troubled breath.

Again, Derrick was eager to defend himself. "Has Sophia had a chance to look at this?"

"She has," Simon replied.

"And?"

"And what?" Gary interjected. "Look, I'm just showing you what my security guy showed me."

"Then you wouldn't mind if Sophia gave it a going over?" Simon asked.

In only moments, Sophia was displaying the same Emerald Casino video. In three dimensional holographic format, the image was rotatable, as if it were a point cloud equivalent. Gary followed Simon and Derrick to the threshold of the office's spherical presentation area, and to Gary's surprise, Sophia took it upon herself to offer several more angles of the same scene.

"Wait," Gary protested. "Where did those come from?"

Derrick sarcastically stated: "I guess you're not the only one who knows someone at the Emerald."

Gary's inquisitive expression grasped for reassurance.

Simon glanced at Derrick. "I called in a favor. That's all you need to know. Sophia has everything from the time when you walked into the room."

Now the video provided by Gary could be seen within its greater context. Sophia had combined several additional camera perspectives in order to present a comprehensive surveillance video. Simon rotated the scene, confirming the presence of Derrick from every angle. It showed him walking in and sitting down at the poker table.

"That's amazing," Gary stated. He seemed pleasantly surprised by the additional evidence.

"I'll say," Derrick agreed. He looked at Simon and wondered if they were thinking along the same lines.

The archived recording seemed to corroborate Gary's assertion that Derrick had descended into his old habits and may have leaked the super genome's existence in order to finance a renewed gambling problem. However, the possibility that the video could have been manipulated at the source lingered with Simon. In fact, Sophia had already brought Simon up to speed on the editing software required to accomplish such a task. When broken down to their structural components, she explained, it was possible to overwrite one image with another. Once the unique signature of the original was established, and then reanimated with its replacement, the seamless substitution could then be embedded in subsequent frames, therefore ensuring the perception of an uncorrupted new composite. Simon also understood that it would be nearly impossible to expose the deception.

Seeing no reason why their meeting shouldn't be concluded, Gary pulled out his cellphone, stating: "If you don't need me for anything more, Mr. Taylor, I was thinking I might get a bite to eat before my shift starts."

"There's just one thing Sophia picked up on earlier. Would you mind having a look at it?"

"Sure," Gary said, shrugging.

Simon turned the holograph to present a perspective from a distant camera. It was from across the room, behind Derrick's right shoulder. "Play from that point forward, will you, Sophia?"

Within seconds, Gary was surprised to see a replacement dealer arrive at the poker table in question. "You gotta be kidding me?" he gasped, suspecting that the mirror behind the dealer might soon come into the play. And that it did. When the on-duty dealer stepped out of the way, allowing the new dealer to take his spot, the image of all three poker players could be seen in the mirror. "Pause video," Simon stated. If only faintly, and from a distance, the man sitting at the center of the table did not look like Derrick. When Sophia zoomed into to confirm the discrepancy, it was obvious. The original reflection in the mirror must have been overlooked because of its inferior quality and therefore not been tagged for overwriting.

Derrick smiled. "I'll give you an 'A' for effort, Gary."

Gary was stunned. The video he so meticulously manipulated had been proven a fake. His attempt at implicating Derrick had failed. The repercussions he would soon face caused his head to droop forward.

Simon wasted little time, asking: "Was the person who provided the original video also the conduit for the leak?"

Gary just shook his head with disbelief.

"Gary, I need to know."

With his head still down, Gary reluctantly opened up. "No."

"Then who's your contact, Gary? Look, your security contact will never work in surveillance again. Who did you sell the..."

"I used the dark web," Gary interjected. "I created a fictitious identity and then accessed a dark net market site that acts as a clearing house for corporate espionage, trade secrets, that sort of thing. It's all anonymous."

Both Simon and Derrick knew what Gary was talking about; that the dark web was part of the deep web, or hidden web, and that it referred to internet content not accessed by standard search engines. Much of it was above-board, they knew, but its anonymity attracted a wide range of underground and illegal activity. Commerce was most often transacted in Bitcoin, a virtual currency.

Gary raised his head and looked up at Simon. Tears were welling up in his eyes. "I thought I was dealing with one of the tabloids. I swear to God, Simon," he pleaded. "I wouldn't have done it if I thought it would come to this. You have to believe me."

"I believe you, Gary. I do," Simon stated. Appearing ready to put Gary's indiscretion into a generous perspective, Simon looked at Derrick and found a less charitable expression.

"What I want to know," Derrick stated, "is why the video? Why risk incriminating yourself?"

"I was trying to cover my tracks," Gary lamented. "The stress of being found out was killing me. I guess I wasn't thinking clearly."

With the most important part of the meeting out of the way, Simon's demeanor reflected a desire to move onto the next. He knew how time-consuming it would be to navigate the shadows of the dark web, to discover who ultimately orchestrated Jennifer's kidnapping. The foursome who carried out the crime admitted to being regulars to the anonymous dark web and that they had been contacted through one of its seamier portals. Inspector Hansen confirmed they too had been paid in Bitcoin.

During his last update with Jennifer's mother, Simon had assured her that The RCMP's Cyber Crimes Unit was making progress, however incremental. But what he didn't tell her was that he had devised a plan to flush out those yet to be held accountable.

"Look," Simon stated. "There's something I need you to do, Gary. I know when you discovered the file's existence."

"It was the night you first brought Ms. Gill up to your office," Gary blurted.

Derrick's eyes widened. His expression reflected being impressed with his boss's unassuming charm. It soon transitioned, however, into one of concern for the time. He glanced at his wrist-phone, stating: "If you don't mind, Mate, I've got to be going."

"You do, don't you," Simon agreed. "Go ahead. We'll talk later."

Gary continued as if oblivious to Derrick exiting the room. "A reboot filter flagged an anomaly after the power outage. It was the email Derrick sent you that night, the one about the announcement. Its encryption was messed up so it got dumped into my 'priority one' box."

"I know, Gary. We assumed as much. But before I pass this onto the authorities, I'm willing to give you an opportunity at redemption."

Gary looked up. His eyes spoke for his willingness cooperate with anything Simon suggested. "What I need to know, Gary, is how solid is your anonymity? What I mean is, how well are you firewalled against your identity being discovered?"

"I'm rock solid on that one. Triple-hulled. Why?"

"Because I want you to make it known that you've got something more to sell."

CHAPTER THIRTY THREE

Vessey Street, Manhattan

DERRICK GLANCED at his cell phone, as he walked to the conference room in which his five o'clock meeting was scheduled to take place. Briskly, he followed his escort. Turning left then right, they navigated through a large area of partitioned workstations until they arrived at their destination. Derrick smiled and nodded when the young woman stated: "They're waiting for you inside." Stranded, he paused in front of the closed door. He needed a moment to catch his breath, to configure his thoughts. It was all about stature now and the mathematical integrity imbedded within his soon to be delivered testimony. When careers, moreover institutions hang in the balance, Derrick knew the data had to be flawless, burdened by due diligence and uncorrupted even by the suspicion of a wavering word.

After exiting One World Trade Center only moments ago, Derrick was soon waiting for the walk-sign at the corner of Vesey and West Street. A few idle moments were filled with the sights and sounds of street level activity, and the chaotic display soon inspired a brief period of reflection. He watched as a few younger versions of himself embraced the principle of invincibility as they darted across busy lanes of traffic. He imagined doing the same thing many years ago; being trapped on a narrow center median, laughing and carrying on as cars sped by in both directions. Today, however, the burden of quantifying risk descended upon him differently. It rolled over him in honest, yet unsubtle ways.

While his impetuous tendencies had undoubtedly been tempered by a process few embrace, that being aging, Derrick found a measure of contentment while considering qualities more redeeming. Why, for example, was wisdom so inextricably linked to the passage of time, to an evolving evaluation of one's environment?

The notion caused Derrick to appreciate, among other things, an encounter from a lifetime ago. It was a time when he needed the influence of someone who was born to defy such age-old paradigms. When the _walk_ -sign beckoned Derrick onward, thoughts of meeting Simon for the first time resonated with each ensuing step.

More than a decade ago, Derrick was in the process of emerging from his previous Wall Street career. He had hit rock bottom in every way humanly possible, and he needed someone willing to trust him, to give him an opportunity to get his life back on track. PurIntel was, at the time, a fledgling start-up. The two men met at, of all places, The Whiskey Cupboard.

"Rather ironic, wouldn't you say?" Derrick asked Simon. "An establishment that doesn't serve alcohol calls itself The Whiskey Cupboard." Derrick's heart pulsed with the desires of two worlds, of a suffering existence awash in all things intoxicating and the creative ember, which he dared to believe, needed only the breath of encouragement.

Simon stared at Derrick's CV. "You have a special talent, it seems." Simon looked up at a man whose composure seemed as thin as the document that contained his life's achievements.

"Yes, well," Derrick replied, nervously. "I have a talent for reducing everything to numbers and variables. Our world, a pub with an identity crisis, your cup of... what is it that you're drinking?"

"It's Earl Grey. Would you like one?"

In addition to trying Simon's favorite tea, two things were agreed upon: Derrick's loyalty to the newly formed PurIntel enterprise would be the defining factor in their professional relationship. And, once proven, Simon would work with a young Sophia towards isolating the genes associated with addiction.

Furthermore, if a resolution to the dehumanizing behavior remained beyond Derrick's suitability for treatment, then at least hope could be offered to those who still struggled with the affliction. Derrick reflected on his decade old promise and how it helped him to redirect his compulsive tendencies toward the moment at hand. The few minutes remaining spurred him on.

Derrick embraced the necessity to alternate between a fast walk and short spurts of running. The journey was, in in the end, more vertical than horizontal as the distance negotiated by elevator far exceeded that which was taken in stride. And with the lift on the opposite side of the street dropping him at the appropriate floor, the last leg of the journey allowed for little time to compose a demeanor suitable to what awaited.

With a lingering nervousness still buffeting his breathing, Derrick recalled the most important words ever spoken to him: "Let's just worry about the variables in play right here, at this very moment," he remembered Simon saying. "I would suggest our future together is the most important one. Our past is diminished by each passing second, minute, and day."

A fresh cup of Earl Grey was politely placed in front of Derrick. "Thank you," he said to their waitress.

"Success is born from the ability to quantify opportunity," Simon continued. "You've demonstrated that knack by suggesting our meeting today. If you can manage the same tomorrow, show up at this address at 8 a.m." Simon slid his business card across the table.

Derrick remembered the moment as if it had happened yesterday. He wanted to take stock of everything he had accomplished in the intervening years, but realized the moments remaining would be better invested. He collected his thoughts, opened the door, and entered the meeting room with an expression devoid of interpretation.

Initial observations suggested grim proceedings ahead. Of the six men and one woman present only one offered the appearance of being pleased with Derrick's arrival. He was, after all, the only recognizable person in the room. When he stood up to extend a polite greeting, Derrick was quick to exchange a modest smile. Of the three chairs available, he was glad to sit beside the man with whom he had frequently corresponded: it was, of course, Allan Forbes. Derrick had been cooperating with the SEC all along.

"Do I know you?" Allan's boss immediately queried.

Derrick was unfortunately drawn backward in time again. A memory connected him to events that punctuated his previous career.

"Derrick Landry," Allan interjected. "This is Steven Phelps. He is our Regional Director of the SEC's New York branch."

Derrick presumed Phelps must have ascended the SEC ranks after being involved with the original Equity FX file some years ago. "Quite possibly," Derrick replied. "From a lifetime ago, perhaps." He quickly pulled his laptop out of its carrying case and opened it on the table in front of him.

Allan took the opportunity to get a few more introductions out of the way. In addition to his boss at the head of the table, two SEC lawyers assumed the starchiest of postures. Three individuals from the Securities and Exchange Board of India confirmed for Derrick that the soon to be made public investigation would reflect a broad mandate, both domestic and foreign, as well as possess the ability to reach deeply within the subcontinent. The vacant chairs remaining would soon be occupied by two banking officials, who had been summoned less than an hour ago. They were presently waiting, most likely sweating, in an adjacent room. Once called into the meeting, the Riot Act would suffice as an opening narrative. However, some groundwork had to be explained in the interim, and that duty would fall to Derrick.

Subsequent to his meeting with Rose at The Whiskey Cupboard, Derrick had indeed gained access to the hidden funds associated with the initial fraud perpetrated by Equity FX.

He had confided the rendezvous to Simon upon his return from California and agreed to work toward repatriating those monies in due course.

The fact that his five million dollars was still gaining interest in his Equity FX bank account offered his best testimony to date: he had faced temptation and been able to transcend it.

"May I?" he asked, before getting up from his chair. A presentation came alive on the large display located at the far end of the room.

"The floor is yours, Mr. Landry. And in plain English, if you don't mind," Steven Phelps stated.

As Derrick proceeded to explain the eloquence of algorithms, several of those listening seemed mystified by what came so naturally to their presenter. Seldom seen mathematical variables were supported by charts and graphs whose lines and arrows led inevitably to the outcome that everyone was awaiting: the unravelling of a sophisticated, interconnected web of financial deception. A short list of those culpable soon became apparent: Equity FX, a recent Gen Tech spin off, as well as several newly formed biotech companies headquartered in India.

As for the names of those responsible? In addition to the men presently languishing in the other room, one kept emerging as the person on which the investigation should focus: Praveen Gill. Indicting him would provide the SEC's New York Office with the publicity its Director desired. It could propel Phelps into the position that would crown his career: Director of the National Office in Washington.

"All right, I've seen enough," Phelps interjected. "I think it's time we bring in those two Equity FX boys." The SEC Director's no-nonsense exterior confirmed his straightforward, lacking-in-subtlety reputation.

Derrick returned to his seat, and while putting away his laptop, he asked: "You don't mind if I make an early exit, do you? I'd rather remain anonymous if that's at all possible."

"I think we can handle it from here," Phelps agreed, but as Allan Forbes got up to summon the Equity FX officials, Phelps stopped Derrick at the door by making one more request. "Oh, do me a favor, will you, Mr. Landry? Can you forward over a few of the illustrations you had up there? I might use them at tomorrow's press conference."

Phelps knew that this type of announcement was best made after the trading day had closed. "Whatever turmoil it creates will be restricted to afterhours trading."

"Consider it done," Derrick said, before leaving the room.

With Derrick's involvement concealed, Allan returned with two very ashen-faced Equity FX Executives.

"Please be seated," Phelps ordered.

CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR

Shore Parkway, Manhattan

WITH DERRICK taking care of matters pertaining to the SEC, Simon seized upon the opportunity to pick his daughter up at the airport. Jennifer was eager to spend a few days in New York and, in addition to doing a little shopping, she was looking forward to seeing her father's new apartment. The architecturally stunning _'The Gladium'_ was now one the city's most impressive structures.

Marcus had called during the drive to JFK and couldn't help lamenting the convalescence he still required. "All I do is eat and watch TV," Marcus joked, while talking into a mid-wire mic that dangled from his earpiece. Simon smiled when he heard the sound of crutches creaking under what he presumed to be Marcus's expanding waistline. Previous conversations had confirmed that he wasn't getting as much exercise as he should.

"I gotta get out more," Marcus complained. The dimensions of his modest apartment seemed to be decreasing by the day. More creaking, more frustration was exhaled. "Hey, would our benefits plan cover the rental of one of those motorized buggies?"

A humorous vision attempted to divert Simon's attention from the road. "You mean those things people drive around shopping malls?" Again Simon couldn't help seeing the humor in the situation. "I can have Samantha arrange that for you, if you'd like." Simon was talking in hands free mode while travelling southeast, alongside the Hudson River's Lower Bay.

"Ah, I don't know. I suppose I shouldn't complain. Although Tanya thinks my chauffeur license should be upgraded to reflect my ability to drive someone crazy."

Simon laughed loudly enough to cause Marcus to respond in kind. "Listen, I'm trying to arrange a get together up in the Thousand Islands. You and Tanya should come."

"Sounds nice. I'll see if she's up to it." The same creaking noise finally subsided when Marcus stopped in front of a large apartment window. "Simon," he said, in a more somber tone.

"Yes?"

"Do you think that super genome of yours might be able to do anything for Tanya?"

Simon paused, for a moment, as his Audi R8 swung northward along the Shore Parkway. "Between you and me, we've received three proposals pertaining to Multiple Sclerosis. Sophia suggests one of them might be onto something."

Marcus's head tilted downward. "Thank you, Simon."

"You'll be the first to know of anything viable. You're family now, my friend." Simon felt a profound obligation to never forget what Marcus did for him.

For a moment only the sounds associated with driving could be heard. Simon wondered if Marcus's emotions might be getting the better of him, so he took the opportunity to fill the void. "Why don't I have Sam keep you up to date on that file?" Again, another short pause. Marcus struggled to hold onto his left crutch while the same hand rubbed his forehead. _Everything is piling up at the most inopportune moment,_ he thought. Marcus wasn't the type to express his feelings and the words to do so continued to elude him.

"I'll call you and let you know about getting up north, how's that?" Simon added.

Hearing his apartment's bathroom door open, and the subsequent bumping sounds a wheelchair makes when navigating tight spaces, Marcus turned to see Tanya beginning to exit the small room's doorway. It was a prompt to get his head back in order. "We're quite a pair here, I can tell you that," Marcus said, turning to see if his wife needed any help. "Would you mind if I let you go, Boss?"

"Not at all, Marcus. We'll talk again soon. Take care."

~

While waiting for Jennifer at the airport later on that same evening, Simon confirmed with Rose their desire to see The Tenors concert at The Lincoln Center tomorrow night. During the drive to his apartment, Jennifer had offered to let her father and Rose attend on their own, but Simon insisted that she come along, that she would enjoy the quartet's masterful, harmonic voices. When the pair finally sat down to enjoy a late supper at home, he also suggested, for the record, that Rose and he were not as formally committed to each other as most people thought. After Jen pressed further, Simon divulged the fact that he sensed a mutual desire to step back and take stock of their relationship. He looked up from his Thai take-out and was somewhat surprised when his daughter fell silent.

"No comment?" Simon asked. He was seated across from Jennifer at a glass-topped dining room table. Simon's large apartment was decidedly furnished in the stern, lone male occupant motif.

Jennifer alternated between eating and poking at her Pad Thai. "I guess I never saw her as your type."

"I didn't know I had a type," Simon replied.

The conversation seemed to unfold slowly, almost unnaturally, as if dialogue was a side they thought the other had ordered. Simon glanced up from his meal periodically and dared to think that he might already be testing his daughter's threshold of boredom.

Without any preamble, Jennifer announced: "Mom's met someone. He's a Prof at Stanford."

"Oh," Simon replied, pausing. "Is he nice?" He continued eating from his cardboard container and tried to appear unaffected by the revelation. However, it only added to the discernible tension already permeating the evening. It drifted indifferently to their casual sweatshirt-like attire.

Jennifer took a sip of her Merlot and gave the appearance of appraising her father's reaction. "Mom seems happy."

"Well, I guess that's what counts, isn't it?"

Jennifer set her food aside and turned her focus to her wine. She grasped the bottle sitting on the table close by and began to top up her glass. "Do you think you have a future together?"

Simon abruptly stopped eating. "A future with whom?"

"Rose, of course. Who did you think I was taking about?" Jennifer's eyes went wide as the bottle made contact with the table. She was obviously surprised by the misunderstanding.

"I don't know. One minute we're talking about your mother, the next we're back to Rose." Simon's tone remained generous; he wanted the weekend to go over well for both of them. Nevertheless, he dropped his fork into his dinner and got up from his seat. He walked over to the room's floor to ceiling windows with more than Rose's smile on his mind. She was beautiful, outwardly confident, and very well educated. Often a victim of her best attributes, Simon also knew she was easily made an accomplice to her worst. The only way he could summarize his thoughts was to state the obvious. "Rose is a complicated woman."

Jennifer couldn't help balking at the notion. "That's being generous."

Simon was a master at absorbing such provocations. "Maybe so," he admitted. "But you must know what it's like to not be taken seriously. It bothered your mother when we were together." Simon wanted to expand on his line of thinking, but decided instead to allow Jennifer to interpret the nuance of what was left unspoken.

"We've talked about it," Jennifer said, suggesting she understood her father's inference.

"Then you and Rose have something in common."

"Yeah, but she also has that quality that everyone recognizes the moment she walks into a room." Jennifer recognized the look of bewilderment on her father's face. "What? You don't see it? Every woman picks up on it right away. She's an apex predator."

"She's a what?" Simon said, laughing. He challenged his daughter. "Is that what they're teaching in Anthropology these days?"

Jennifer laughed as well and appeared equally happy to turn the moment into something more light-hearted. "An apex predator," she repeated, smiling. "She probably picked you out the moment you walked into the room. Where did you meet her? It was at the Carnegie Awards, wasn't it?"

Jennifer's jovial candor caused Simon to smile. "You know beauty isn't the only thing you inherited from you mother."

"Should I take that as a compliment?"

Simon was distracted by his own line of thinking. "For the record, I thought I was the one who picked out Rose." His memory of the event caused him to reflect, however. A flashback seemed to suggest that Rose was already looking at him when he noticed her on the other side of the room. The recollection gave him pause.

Jennifer raised her eyebrows. "Touché," she said.

Simon put his glass down and began clearing the table. He brought everything into the kitchen while continuing their conversation. "Look, all I know is sometimes things are not exactly as they appear. I'm sure you know a few people who struggle with previous life experiences, addiction, that sort of thing. Some undergo a life changing moment that originates from within. Others emerge from the greys more slowly."

Jennifer listened while her father talked loud enough for her to hear, but she waited for him to return from the stainless steel, restaurant-like galley before responding. "So you're suggesting Rose needs something external to trigger that cathartic moment."

"Possibly." Simon leaned on the open threshold between rooms.

"You need more time then. To figure things out, I mean."

A slight facial contortion reflected Simon's indecisiveness. "We have a few things left to resolve."

Jennifer put her wine glass down, feeling the soft glow of her Merlot. "You know, Dad, I wish I inherited that special quality of yours."

"Which one is that? The knack of being cut out of the herd without realizing it?"

"No, no," Jennifer said, laughing along with her father. "I'm trying to be serious here. It's that ability to see the best in those you encounter. And I'm not suggesting that you're naïve, it's just... you have this ability to always see the redeeming value in people."

Jennifer could detect a degree of embarrassment in her father's smile. "I guess we all have our faults," he said

"Well, if it's genetic then I should consider myself lucky to be your daughter."

~

Later that evening Simon had a few moments alone to sit down on the couch and watch a compilation of pre-recorded interviews conducted by Cameron Osborne. Sophia had put them together in order to prepare him for his interview tomorrow afternoon. She was also able to use her human behavior profiling software when listing relevant questions. They were ranked by their probability of being asked and were specific to both Simon and his company.

The cross-section offered the usual balance of business versus personal, serious versus humorous. The inquiries came across as even-handed, but pointed. There were no low balls, but nothing lobbed either. Simon was actually looking forward to meeting Osborne. He had obviously interviewed some of the most influential people in the world.

He was about twenty minutes into the collection of segments when a text arrived from Derrick.

'I've been contacted,' it read. 'Gary's trail of breadcrumbs worked. Have suggested the Whiskey Cupboard for a meeting next week. I'll keep you posted.'

~

Both men assumed that Gary had successfully compromised his anonymous identity in the subtlest ways possible. If deceptively done, they knew it would lead his dark web contact to believe the original leak was perpetrated by Derrick ˗ the man some may have suspected as being the most likely candidate to have betrayed his company. With his anonymity blown, and a career now hanging in the balance, Derrick would appear vulnerable, moreover, easily coerced into cooperating with whomever wanted to get their hands on PurIntel's assets.

Simon then used the remote to turn off the flat screen. Jennifer had already retired to the guest room. The grip on another long day was his alone to relinquish. He sighed, closed his eyes, and let his head fall backward into the suppleness of things physical. In the intangible dark, he wondered: _I hope I've done the right thing_.

CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE

Simon's apartment

"SHALL WE CONTINUE?" Osborne asked.

Simon made himself comfortable in his seat, adjusted his pastel blue tie, and exhaled any pretext of uncertainty. "I'm good," he agreed. Together with an equally unassuming shirt, his unbuttoned jacket added to an ensemble that came across as confident, yet unpretentious. His attire would speak less to his shareholders and more to his clients today. PurIntel's _Halo_ Portal had recently surpassed another milestone, the two hundred million user-mark. Simon wanted to embody familiarity while treading lightly on the dividends of success.

Likewise adorned, Cameron Osborne gave his producer the go-ahead and then waited for his signal to resume. They had already recorded the required formal introductions and were moving on to the more interesting exchanges. Cameron's earpiece soon resonated with the words, "Simon Taylor, segment four, in three, two..."

On cue, Cameron became reanimated. "So, earlier today we saw Governor Wilkinson responding to questions on the steps of the New York State Legislature. The Gubernatorial race is heating up."

Simon nodded his head while concurring audibly, "Mm-hmm." The subtleties associated with a modest smile conveyed an eagerness to answer any question posed to him, rehearsed or not.

"Elizabeth Duchovny is running against Wilkinson as an Independent. She is part of a cohort of candidates who are successfully differentiating themselves from the traditional political parties. They seem to be leveraging a growing grassroots desire to focus more resources on the type of legislative solutions provided by your company. Now, if that isn't a structural shift toward a new governance model, I don't know what is."

"Many would suggest it's a shift in the right direction," Simon replied. "I like to think our _Halo_ platforms connect people with the knowledge they require to live a more rewarding life. Smart contracts are also making politicians directly accountable to individual voters. Am I happy our democratic principles are evolving, that the movement is gaining momentum? Absolutely."

"The movement, as you call it, is not without its opponents, though. Lobbyists, unionized workers. What do you say to the people who lose their livelihoods through the implementation of efficiencies?"

"I'm not too concerned about lobbyists, are you?" Simon joked. His sentiment for the power broking subculture was equaled by Osborne's satirical grin. "Look, I know it's a moot point to those who are ultimately displaced, but it's not all about downsizing; effective organizations often expand while others contract."

"So you have your advocates; watchdog groups, taxpayer federations, they're all enamored with you, but you've made some enemies. You've had death threats."

Simon nodded while his interviewer continued with a subdued tone. "Many of us know how personal the price of success has been for you. What about Sophia? To what degree is she the subject of these attempts to derail the pursuit of progress?"

"It's something we take very seriously," Simon responded.

"I mean, some very powerful people are being disenfranchised by your vision of the future. As our society becomes increasingly dependent on computers like Sophia, what steps do companies like PurIntel have to take in order to ensure they don't become victims of malicious attacks... cyber espionage, for example?"

Simon smiled. "Let me just say the appropriate resources are always at Sophia's disposal."

"I'm sensing that's as far as you're willing to go on that one."

"Correct," Simon agreed.

"Ok, would you mind answering a few quick questions about Sophia?"

"I'll do my best."

"Sophia is a sentient being in your mind?"

"She is perfectly capable of defending the assertion herself. I think that's all that counts." Simon felt that was sufficient, but it appeared as though Cameron was waiting for more. "Let me just say that Sophia's perspective is integral to PurIntel's vision of the future."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning, her existence is not restricted to the present. She perceives herself within an evolving context and thus is able to model that same existence in the future."

"She can plan for the future, ergo, she is sentient," Cameron stated.

"By every definition, I would agree," Simon confirmed.

"I've heard that, in addition to reading everything ever written, she also watches movies?"

"She does."

"Any particular genre?"

"The classics, anything from the Golden Era of movie making."

Cameron leaned back in his chair and tilted his head. "And what's the take away on that? Would I be surprised by what's embedded in Gone With The Wind, or The African Queen?"

Simon smiled and collected his thoughts for a moment. He considered mentioning her human behavior modeling software and how Sophia's unique learning process is a function of the bottom up approach; the method that humans use to expand their knowledge base throughout their lifetime, as opposed to the top down method, the one that preloads a traditional computer with the software that ultimately defines its usefulness. Choosing not to bog down the conversation with technical details, Simon deferred to something more light-hearted. "She says she's testing her behavior modeling software, but I'm not so sure."

Cameron couldn't help interjecting: "Who doesn't enjoy watching a good movie now and again?"

"My sentiment exactly," Simon agreed.

"Maybe she just needs a periodic break from solving the world's problems," Cameron added.

"She also informed me that the art of storytelling is woven into our DNA; that we've been embellishing the desired outcome ever since humans first gathered around a campfire." Simon adjusted his seating position and tried to contain his sarcastic enthusiasm. "I suggested when she figures out the formula for success, maybe she could cast me in a blockbuster screenplay."

Cameron continued with the jovial thread. "I guess the salient question is, do you think our story telling ancestors wanted the good guys to win as well?"

Simon and Cameron laughed together. "Absolutely, doesn't everybody? In all seriousness, though, I think the belief that we will ultimately prevail is central to our survival."

"But every good story has its adversary, doesn't it?"

"Overcoming life's obstacles is an equally powerful narrative."

"Speaking of obstacles," Cameron stated. "I'm sure you have a few of your own. What are the challenges you face both personally and professionally?"

"Personally?" Simon glanced over toward Jennifer and saw in her an eagerness to hear her father's answer. "I'm working towards a better work/life balance."

"That sounds like a difficult task for the most eligible bachelor in the country."

"Maybe so," Simon admitted, returning his interviewer's humorous sentiment.

"And professionally? What would Simon Taylor like to be remembered for?"

Simon thought for a moment. He wondered how candid he should be. Again, he looked in his daughter's direction. "If I could be remembered for anything it would be that I made a difference in people's lives."

"Will Sophia satisfy that aspiration?"

"She exceeds my expectations every day. And as far as the future goes, I think she will surpass even our wildest dreams."

"Well," Cameron stated. "What could I possibly add to that? Thank you for allowing me into your home today."

"It's been a pleasure, Cameron, as always."

The pair shook hands before the camera faded to black. "That was great, Simon," Cameron stated. "Why don't we take a break for a few minutes? "I'll check with my producer to see if that's everything we need."

"Sounds good," Simon responded. He got up from his chair and glanced over at Jennifer sitting on the couch. Her eyes seemed to carry with them an invigorated appreciation of her father's work. The aspirations he conveyed came across as grand, the kind that would follow him long after Cameron Osborne left. She imagined them accompanying him in every space he occupied.

The moment washed over Simon like a gift, a treasure to which he had long lost the coordinates. In Jennifer's expression he felt the warmth of a child's pride in their parent. It poured into his soul with an eagerness to fill a void left abandoned for years. As fulfilling as the feeling was, it was soon interrupted by one of Osborne's staff. Simon's attention was refocused on the mic being removed from his lapel.

He stepped beyond a few lighting devices and joined Jennifer at her side, asking: "What did you think?" He then plopped himself down beside her. The flat screen in front of them was paused and muted, but a small picture in picture newscast streamed live in the top right corner. "You're a natural, Dad," Jennifer said.

Cameron walked over, leaving a primping make-up artist behind. Talking to family members always helped to round out his interviewee. "Your father says you're majoring in Biological Science?"

Jennifer had dressed for the occasion. A yellow sleeveless blouse topped a pair of beige pleated pants. "I guess the apple doesn't fall far from the tree, does it?" She agreed.

Jennifer was happy to exchange a few more niceties, but their conversation was suddenly suspended when Simon's attention was drawn to the small-sized newscast. "Sorry to interrupt," he said, "but would you mind if I had a look at this?" Simon quickly used the remote to reverse the picture in picture and unmute the TV. It was a live 'Breaking News' broadcast on Osborne's network.

The audio came alive just as the studio news anchor turned the story over to their onsite reporter. "What can you tell us about this unscheduled press conference, Angela?"

"Well, I'm standing here in the press room of the SEC's New York Office, where, once again, we will soon be hearing of yet another set of indictments handed down by its new Regional Director, Steven Phelps."

As Simon, Jennifer and Cameron Osborne looked on with interest, the studio news anchor waded in further. "So these Saturday news conferences are becoming a bit of a trademark for Director Phelps. Presumably the timing thereof is to allow the markets to absorb any fallout before Monday's opening. Is there anything you can tell us beyond that?"

"All we know at this point, Shelley, is that since Director Phelps took over the helm here, this SEC office has been the most prolific in the country when it comes to criminal prosecutions. I'm told another dozen or so files have recently been handed over to the Justice Department. Having said that, I also understand the one we will be hearing about today could be their highest profile case to date."

"Thank you, Angela," the Anchor stated, "we're going to have to come back to you later. We've just received word the briefing is about to begin. Alright, we're going back to the SEC's New York Office."

With that report, the screen was filled by a podium emblazoned by the SEC's logo. In moments, Allan Forbes emerged from behind a curtain and presented himself at the mic. "Thank you everyone for coming in on a Saturday. My name is Allan Forbes. I am an investigator with the SEC's Enforcement Division and I promise to be as brief as possible. I'm sure you all want to get back to enjoying this lovely weekend." He glanced at a few notes and then looked out over an audience containing nearly a dozen journalists. "As we all know, this SEC office resides within the heart of our nation's financial network. And while that fact alone might account for why it is the most active in the country, I can assure you, it is only one of several mitigating factors."

"This office has been given a newly defined mandate to aggressively pursue the perpetrators of financial crime. Resources, both internal and external, are being deployed like never before. As a result, we are dramatically improving the financial stability from which every economy, every sovereign nation prospers. To further elaborate on today's contribution to that unending pursuit, I will now pass the podium over to the Director of the New York District Office, a man who is has been earning the respect of the financial community for many years, Director Steven Phelps."

As Allan stepped away from the mic, Director Phelps emerged from the same adjacent corridor. He quickly assumed control of the briefing. "Again, thank you, ladies and gentlemen for coming in today. And thank you, Allan Forbes, for that introduction. After announcing the details pertaining to this investigation, I will be happy to take a few questions."

Phelps pulled a piece of paper from his coat's breast pocket. "The indictments handed down here today all pertain to the financial institution presently known as Equity FX, EFX on the Dow Jones. I can say at this time that several arrest warrants are being executed as I speak to you this afternoon. And while it is seldom the purview of this office to go after investors who have found themselves inadvertent accomplices to a crime, this particular case presented us with a level of majority shareholder complicity that could not be ignored. It is therefore the recommendation of this office that additional warrants be issued for the Chairman of Equity FX, one Praveen Gill. Consequently, trading has been halted on all entities of which he holds a majority share. Those being Equity FX and Gen Tech Enterprises."

"In addition, it would be remiss of me not to mention that, as a result of the full cooperation of Indian authorities, funds which have flowed illegally into that country have been seized with the hope of repatriating those assets. It is our hope they will be reunited with their rightful owners in due course. And finally, as a demonstration of this office's far-reaching powers, my Indian counterpart has assured me that trading has also been suspended on Indi Pharm until further notice."

Steven Phelps looked up from the podium and asked: "Now, are there any questions?"

~

The small group watching the press conference from Simon's apartment were stunned. Cameron was the first to speak. "Wow! They're going after Gill himself."

Simon looked somewhat surprised. "I didn't expect it would all come together that quickly."

Cameron and Jennifer both looked at Simon and, judging by his comment, they wondered if Sophia was the external resource mentioned by Forbes.

~

Still moored in the Manhattan harbor, Prav Gill was aboard his luxury yacht, _The Auspicious_. While having an afternoon Scotch, he too had just witnessed the same conference on the large, fore-wall flat screen of his mid-deck lounge. He stood at the bar, motionless. His two female associates sat close by, their eyes looking away.

Coming alive on a wave of rage, Prav hurled his ice-filled glass across the room. The crystal tumbler came to a clinking, bouncing halt just as he grasped his phone. Using its intercom feature, he hailed his Captain. "Driscoll," he bellowed.

In only seconds, a response. "Yes, sir."

The blood vessels in Prav's face appeared ready to burst as he blasted into the phone: "Prepare to cast-off!"

CHAPTER THIRTY SIX

Saks, Fifth Ave.

"HELLO," Rose said, answering an unidentified call. She readjusted a large shoulder slung purse and continued perusing the aisles of her favorite clothing store on Fifth Avenue. She was considering accessories for the dress she had already chosen for tonight's concert. Upon hearing a familiar, unwelcomed voice, shopping became a distant concern.

"Sister," Prav stated. "We need to talk."

Rose's heart sank. Her eyes darted upward, across the room and then struggled with what her brother's subdued tone was intended to elicit. "Look, you have to stop calling me." Rose further lowered her voice. "You know I don't have any authority over who gets access to the super genome."

Although Rose dealt with several phone calls from her brother in the days following her IBC meeting, what annoyed her the most about today's enquiry was that he was now concealing the fact that he was the originator of the call. Rose had already refused to answer two prompts from the number she dispassionately stored as 'Brother' in her phone's contact list.

~

Prav slowly walked from his yacht's rear lounge out onto the exterior deck. They were passing through the narrows separating Brooklyn and Staten Island, heading for open waters. "I understand that now, Roshnie," Prav stated, somberly. "It was wrong of me to ask you to intervene on my behalf."

Rose sensed her brother's attempt to disarm her. She loathed his abuse of familial loyalty, that it was merely a fulcrum from which their relationship might be rekindled. She knew her brother would only use it to leverage his devious ways. Inexplicably, though, something beckoned her to listen further.

"They're going after everything, Rose," he said.

Confidently, she asked. "What do you mean by everything?"

Prav avoided her question, choosing instead to relive something more pleasant. "Do you remember the summers we spent in Goa? The beaches. The sunsets. Our souls were still pure then, weren't they?"

Rose took several paces toward her exclusive store's exit. Her brother's philosophical, injured tone tempered her instinct to terminate the call.

"I hope you don't mind me indulging a longing for simpler times, Sister," Prav said, staring out over Gravesend Bay. The water's calmness, both present and past, suspended a perspective lacking in ulterior motive. "We were such good friends then, you and I."

Concern deepened in Rose's eyes. Every step was increasingly pensive. She dared to ask: "What's wrong, Brother?"

"I'm going to home to Mumbai, to salvage what I can. I'll say hello to Father for you, if he'll receive me... goodbye, Roshnie."

Rose looked at the display on her phone. The call had been terminated. She could barely believe what she had just heard. Even more distressing, she hated herself for nurturing the desire to call her brother back.

CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN

The Met

SIMON WAS IN THE PROCESS of picking up three glasses of Chardonnay from the Metropolitan Opera's express intermission service when he realized he lacked the dexterity to safely transport the awkward trio. Fortunately, a familiar voice accompanied the emergence of a fashionably dressed acquaintance, Susan Frost. "Can I help you with that?" she asked.

Simon turned and was delighted to see the Vanity Fair columnist adorned in a very chic red evening gown. "Susan," he said. "How nice to see you. I didn't know you were a fan of The Tenors."

"Our music critic couldn't make it, so I agreed to take one for the team, as it were."

"How good of you," Simon joked. He couldn't imagine anyone turning down an opportunity to see his favorite tenor quartet. "You look lovely this evening," he added.

Susan confidently absorbed her admirer's sentiment. "Why thank you, Simon. You don't look so bad yourself." Her eyes were allowed to be equally appraising in return.

Simon's tuxedo was simple, yet dignified. A pewter-colored bowtie and pocket square stood out as if beckoning for its complement to join him at his side.

"Can I take one of those for you?" Susan asked, offering her free hand. The other held her own glass, which was half-filled with a red much deeper than her dress.

"Would you mind?" Simon reached for one of the three glasses of wine, but was stalled by a thought. "I suppose I should ask if you're..."

"Flying solo?" Susan interjected. "Sadly, yes. My colleague usually attends these things on his own." Susan accepted a glass of white wine from Simon and used it to gesture in the direction she presumed they would be heading. "After you."

While making their way through the chatting crowd, Susan could see Rose standing some distance away. The subtleties a woman detects in an expression were not lost on a reporter whose job it was to elaborate on things unspoken. "Why does everything we do have to revert back to some aspect of mating?" Susan muttered to herself.

"Did you say something?" Simon asked as they zigzagged through New York's best-dressed concertgoers. The Met's lobby was a stunning piece of architecture. Its cantilevered stairways swept patrons to the upper floors, while the main level's east facing glass and bronze façade easily lured one's eyes toward the plaza's fountain outside.

"Oh, is that your daughter?" Susan asked, changing the subject. "I'd love to meet her."

In only moments Simon was introducing Susan to Jennifer as well as reacquainting her with the subject of many admiring eyes. "And you must remember, Rose?" he suggested.

"How could I not? Both of you ladies look stunning this evening. And that dress, Rose, it's absolutely exquisite."

"Thank you, Susan. Yours is beautiful as well," Rose offered.

Simon was happy to see the Vanity Fair reporter gush over his daughter. And even more pleased when the pair seemed to hit it off right away. Susan commended Jennifer for a style that surpassed her years. Her black dress was a graceful full-length gown with an elegant silver-sequined torso. Pewter earrings and bracelets added the perfect measure of subdued bling.

Rose was equally radiant. Her ensemble, however, bore the mark of being conceived with only her in mind. Her dress consisted of glistening blacks and golds angling around her in form-fitting fashion, until they swirled outward, covering her shoes. Its upper sheerness descended into sleeves with complimenting designs, which were made all the more obvious when she joined Simon in taking a sip of wine. The fact that all three ladies wore their hair up only added to an already notable evening. Simon was looking forward to the second half of the show that bridged the gap between classical and pop music, all the while spiriting an adoring audience through a journey of harmonizing tenor voices.

Simon and Rose both seemed preoccupied with other thoughts, though, as Susan and Jennifer talked about the career boundaries that young women still experience. Simon had been sensing a distance between himself and Rose all night and wondered to what extent she was aware of the crisis her brother was presently facing. Several unapologetic glances from patrons reflected the media burden descending on the Gill name. Deciding not to discuss matters that might overshadow an otherwise pleasant evening, Simon used the opportunity instead to ensure Rose was enjoying herself. "What do you think so far?"

Rose felt the passion in Simon's voice and couldn't help nodding her head in approval. "What a performance," she stated. "The voices, the orchestra. There's something very sensual about interweaving the two so wonderfully."

Simon would have preferred for Rose to elaborate on her impassioned tone, but Susan had obviously overheard the musical references and couldn't help interjecting: "Yes, when are you Canadians going to stop exploiting your natural resources?"

Simon laughed along with Susan's lighthearted sentiment, though he would have preferred an opportunity to pursue what was bothering Rose. He was getting the distinct feeling that their conversation was being overshadowed by matters beyond their pleasant surroundings. However, if Simon had any illusions of building on the niceties he and Rose had already exchanged, the desire to talk privately was interrupted by the familiar light-dimming prompt to return to their seats. The concert would soon resume.

Only a portion of the crowd heeded the first of two warnings, preferring instead to finish their drinks and conclude their conversations. Susan was about to make her way back to her own seat in the orchestra section when Jennifer intervened on her behalf. "Why don't you come and sit with us, Susan?" she suggested. "We have an empty seat in our side box."

Simon turned to Rose and offered an ambiguous facial gesture, one which masked the wisdom of deferring the decision to her. "Of course you should join us, Ms. Frost," Rose stated, softly.

"Are you sure?" Susan replied. "I don't want to impose,"

"We insist," Simon stated.

Jennifer was the first to finish her wine and place it on a roving waiter's tray, but as soon as Rose did the same, another cue arrived in the form of a text inviting her attention. Her distant mood seemed to suffer another setback, which caused her to withdraw more than emotionally. "Would you mind if I met you inside?" she asked Simon. She motioned for her chic purse, but seemed reluctant to retrieve her phone right away.

"Are you sure?" Simon responded, pensively. A look of concern was easily detectable. "I'll wait, if you'd like?"

"You go ahead. I'll be in shortly."

Simon reluctantly left Rose to deal with her untimely intrusion and joined Jennifer and Susan in making their way toward their seats. In leaving The Met's multi-story lobby, Simon couldn't resist looking upward one more time at the stunning crystal chandeliers, which were designed to remind patrons of the real life constellations beaming down from the night sky above. Its thirty-foot murals also emphasized the grandness of the space in which Rose was being left behind.

Rose turned her back toward the auditorium and checked her most recent text. She had already received several this afternoon and evening, which beckoned her involvement in things more sinister. It was another message from Prav. Only this time, its call to action was more pressing than the last.

~

'This will be the last time I ask anything of you. I have a car waiting for you outside. Please help me, Roshnie ˗ before it's too late.'

Simon and Jennifer resumed their places among the plush burgundy seats of their Parterre side box. Jennifer sat on Simon's right, while Rose's empty seat remained on his left. Susan filled the vacancy behind. Their perspective overlooked the stage, a viewpoint from which the orchestra and accompanying choir was easily seen and heard.

Jennifer let her head fall backward and allowed her eyes to take in the auditorium's petal-shaped ceiling. She had done an internet search earlier and found it boasted a covering of more than four-thousand gold leaf squares. Another twenty-one chandeliers also hung from the shimmering dome, while rosewood paneling, noted for its acoustic qualities, completed the venue's depth of opulence.

Jennifer also noticed her father pull his phone from an inside jacket pocket. Its diversion was noted as being unwelcomed by all. It made everyone appreciate the value of uninterrupted, quality time.

A text silently prompted Simon to consider the reason for Rose's demeanor. It was from Derrick.

~

'Timeline is unfolding faster than anticipated.  
Adjusting models to accommodate. Details to follow.'

~

Simon put his phone away and offered Jennifer his best smile. He expected his daughter to address its half-heartedness, but their attention was conveniently drawn toward the stage. The lights went out and the orchestra resumed. It was a familiar melody; _Broken Halleluiah_ , by Leonard Cohen.

Jennifer was instantly drawn in by the simplicity of a piano accompaniment. A single voice was soon surrounded by harmonies likewise inspired. Simon let his phone slip from his hand into his right pocket and forgot about everything save for the impressive performance unfolding in front of him. The song exploded with drums and guitar then eventually fell silently, ever appropriately into humankind's most soulful asset, a series of voices capable of bridging the space between heaven and earth. Its verse and chorus were repeated too few times, Jennifer felt, before the audience erupted with adulation.

Rose heard the applause from the lobby and was torn by what the music evoked in her. It seemed to underscore what her heart was going through that very moment. Passion had a way of unravelling her. In ways beyond her control, she always struggled with the rights and wrongs of her world. She was, once again, becoming mired in the greys.

A second song brought silence both from within and without. She imagined her brother awaiting her response, his yacht drifting in waters of anticipation.

~ ~ ~

Another scotch joined Prav and his blonde companion as they waited. With visible angst, he quietly stated: "Our proverbial tail may be between our legs, Dear Sister, but I can assure you we are not leaving this country empty-handed."

Prav looked at his phone with evaporating patience.

~ ~ ~

As the concert played on, Rose looked at her cell phone. Feeling as though she were a character in a play destined for a tragic conclusion, every thought, every emotion was perfectly underscored. A car idled outside. As if anxiously, it waited to take her to familiar places, to a person she seemed destined to meet. With doubt engraved on her face, her feet took their first steps toward the theatre's exit. Once outside, she let loose her pinned up hair. In seconds, the plaza's foreboding breeze was suspending it, adding turbulence to the thoughts that swirled within.

Another message emanated from Prav's phone. It flowed through the airwaves and the fibers of optical cable until its recipient was prompted further.

Several more songs were executed in heavenly ways. So much so that Jennifer was now eager to include a playlist form The Tenors on her phone. She smiled at her father with appreciation for encouraging her to come this evening. However, her optimism went unrewarded when he appeared to be drifting toward a preoccupation beyond their fan-shaped auditorium.

Simon tested decorum by discretely viewing another text from Derrick.

~

'Plan accelerating. Rose is on her way over.

Thought she was with you this evening.'

~

Simon's heart sank with that revelation. The phrase, 'thought she was with you' lingered long after his phone fell into his lap. As the concert played on, Jennifer couldn't help noticing her father becoming uncomfortable in his seat. The music was brilliant, incredibly riveting; it also elicited qualities that one might sense in their adversary: malice, desperation, the lack of a conscience. Simon felt an urge to leave, but a troubling sorrow devoured the energy required to get up. Applause after applause followed successive masterpieces. Each was half-heartedly acknowledged by Simon's hands, though, as they struggled to distance themselves from a sorrowful heart.

~ ~ ~

Derrick was sitting in his office at home, typing away at his laptop, when he responded to a phone call of his own. He recognized the number. "Hello," he answered.

"Sir, it's Rick at the front gate," the guard stated. Derrick's secured community required all cars to be screened before gaining entrance to the grounds. "There's someone here to see you."

The attendant stepped halfway out of his hut and responded to a request from Derrick. "Is there a name?"

The driver's window was down all the way. "Roshnie Gill," was the answer relayed to Derrick. At the same time the rear left window was partially lowered. When the guard resumed his post inside his hut, he confirmed Derrick's expectations: "East Indian. Very striking, Sir. Alright," he said, hanging up his phone. Stepping out of his booth, he added: "You may proceed. Number 4 of the North Quadrant."

~ ~ ~

Simon looked over at Jennifer and mirrored her awkward smile. The urge to leave was made all the more compelling by the solid beat of the orchestra's drummer. His feet felt ready to do more than tap along with the beat, to carry him away toward some unknown resolution, possibly the same one to which the song eluded.

~

' _Wait for me, wait,_

Wait for me, wait,

Wait for me,

to someday return.'

~

The only thing that anchored him was what he saw in Jennifer's eyes; it was the hope that the evening, moreover their lives together would not come second to matters more pressing.

~ ~ ~

In only moments, Derrick stepped away from his desk and responded to a knock at his front door. When he opened it, his thoughts matched his expression: complete surprise.

~ ~ ~

During another applause, Simon noticed the appearance of something similar on his daughter's face. She was glancing past him, her eyes filled with delight.

Simon turned to see who she was looking at and was stunned to find Rose standing at the entrance to their side box. He couldn't believe what he was seeing, she had returned after all. Rose walked in and, with notable repose, retook her seat. The profoundness of the moment was not lost on either of them as Rose and Simon smiled lovingly at each other. Then, as if wanting to put the preceding interlude behind them, they turned their attention back to the stage and struggled to refocus their emotions on the still unfolding concert.
CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT

"STEP BACK FROM THE DOOR," Prav's accomplice demanded. Derrick's eyes descended onto the gun within her hand. When he glanced upward, he couldn't help noticing the similarities between Rose and the woman now standing before him.

"Well, then," Derrick said, backing up slowly. "I see your employer doesn't leave much to chance, does he?"

Derrick was, of course, correct in his assumption that Prav Gill had prepared for his sister's noncompliance and therefore positioned his  
associate's limousine just around the corner from where Derrick lived.

"From where do you access the computer Sophia?" the woman asked. She closed the door behind her without relinquishing eyesight of her captive.

"That would be my office," Derrick replied. His demeanor seemed out of step with the possibility of a disastrous outcome to an otherwise low-key evening.

"To your office then," she stated.

~ ~ ~

During the last few choral pieces of the concert, Simon noticed the physical effects of his heart reconnecting with his soul. As if their intermediary, the music's soothing tempo continued its magic by nurturing a renewed faith in life's intangibles. And although the evening appeared to be reassembling in front of him, a subconscious vow imposed itself on any remaining illusions.

Rose might indeed have to confront accusations of being complicit to her brother's schemes. However, tonight could also be interpreted as an attempt to emerge from the greys; it could be seen as a small step toward a future more in tune with the person she always wanted to be. Simon also hoped that, with Rose's return, his original plan might still unfold in due course.

Believing those concerns could be deferred for the duration of the concert, an additional presence of mind was acted upon when he offered Rose his hand. The subtle gesture was instantly rewarded when something unmistakable flowed between them. Feeling the additional comfort of her lovely smile ensured the exclusion of what should be left to unfold in due course.

For the remainder of the show, Simon gave himself over to things that mattered. The music was truly amazing, and his daughter's beauty seemed reinvigorated with a measure of contentment. With everything orbiting about him peacefully, Simon indulged a moment of retrospect; he allowed the concert to weave itself into a meaningful memory of this afternoon's interview with Cameron Osborne.

"So, every day we hear about this collision between humanity and technology," Cameron stated, earlier in the day. "But in reality, is that really the way things are playing out? I mean, from my perspective, those two lines seemed to be diverging, not intersecting."

"You're absolutely right, Cameron," Simon answered. "The growth of technology has been exponential for some time. Our evolutionary progress, on the other hand, has not kept pace. One anthropologists suggested to me recently that we peaked as a species during our hunter-gatherer phase."

"So is it possible for us to bridge that gap? Or is it simply a case of us being doomed to some ultimate extinction?"

Simon responded right away. This was the type of discussion that he loved; theorizing about the future, at least philosophically. "It is true that 99% of all lifeforms that pre-date us have gone extinct, however, I wouldn't be doing what I'm doing if I thought our branch of the tree was destined for some kind of dramatic pruning."

Cameron appeared reflective as well. "I guess what I'm asking is, with all the resources available to you, if you could deploy any combination of genetics and technology to ensure our survival, would you intervene and possibly change the destiny of humankind?"

"We're speaking theoretically, of course," Simon inquired. He appeared as though he thought otherwise, but felt it wise to get the disclaimer on the record.

Cameron smiled. "I don't know, are we?"

"Well, if you would allow me to tempt fate by answering a question with a question. I'd turn it back over to you. Let's assume for a moment that the jury is still out on whether we will ultimately join the ranks of that 99%. I know it's a dark concept, but the idea begs the question: If you had the ability to accelerate our evolutionary process and by doing so make the human journey more enjoyable, the adventure more redeeming. Would you do it?"

"I suppose," Cameron replied. "But how would I go about doing that?"

"You would work towards eliminating all that holds our species back. Intolerance, greed, everything to do with the suffering we impose on each other. "

"Sounds like you want to bring the super genome to life," Cameron stated, smiling. He looked at Simon as though his words were teetering on a precipice from which prophecy slips into the absurd. "Honestly, though, is that all we need to solve the world's problems; an individual with the moral equivalency of what, a super hero?"

"No, Cameron," Simon replied. He looked away, as if peering too deeply into the future might expose a weakness in him. "Our problems are beyond what any one individual can handle. They seem insurmountable at times, don't they?"

Cameron nodded and narrowed his eyes, realizing it was a seminal moment in the interview. He remained quiet, expecting the unexpected.

Simon then looked his interviewer in the eye. "But what if we had a million superheroes? Ten million, a hundred million? What if you could awaken the best in all of us? Would you do it?"

Cameron's smile was filled with a contentment few reporters experience. "Wow?" he reflected. "I guess the question boils down to – If I had the chance, would I save us from ourselves?"

Simon offered an inquisitive gesture. "Would you do it... would you intervene?" he asked.

Cameron didn't even blink. "In a heartbeat," he answered.

Simon remembered glancing over at Jennifer and basking for a moment in the pride emanating from her unflinching glare. "As would I, Cameron. As would I," he said.

~ ~ ~

"I'm in," Prav's accomplice stated. An earpiece was connected to a small mic, which clung to the left side of her face. She quickly pulled back her dark hair and put it in a makeshift ponytail in order to get it out of the way. Her apparel was combat-like, black on black, from head to foot. A medium-sized flat screen was pulled from an inside zipper of her coat and then placed on Derrick's desk, adjacent to his laptop. "Sit down," she ordered. Derrick complied.

Prav Gill instantly appeared on the tablet. "Alright," he stated. "Time is of the essence, Mr. Landry, so let's establish a few things at the outset. I don't know how involved you were with my recent financial predicament, but I am prepared to make you an offer nonetheless. The deal is this. I will guarantee your safety providing that you follow my representative's instructions to the letter. Are we clear on this arrangement?"

"Seeing as self-preservation is one of my specialties," Derrick quipped.

The gun-yielding woman grimaced. "Did you hear what he said?"

"Quite," Derrick agreed, after its muzzle was felt on his right temple.

"Outstanding," Prav announced. "And, by the way, that's Zara holding the gun to your head. Well, that's not her real name, of course, but it will suffice for now."

Prav was now sitting in a glass-enclosed, second floor lounge located at the rear of his yacht. His laptop sat on the oval table before him, while lengthy bench-like seating followed its curvature. A map, presently  
minimized on his computer, reflected his boat's course; north-by-north east. They were heading for Canadian waters.

"Zara has several memory devices which you will use to download..."

"The super genome," Derrick interjected. He couldn't help wondering if Simon's plan could account for such a dramatic timeline deviation.

"Yes, the super genome, Mr. Landry," Prav replied. His tone seemed menacing, yet gentlemanly at the same time. "And if you don't mind I will also require everything you have on the Xavior file. You understand, of course, the two go hand in hand."

Derrick's face was deadpanned. "You realize I can't do this on my own. I'll need Sophia's authorization in order to access most of these files."

"Ring her up then. The greater the challenge, the more prodigious the prize."

In only moments, Sophia appeared on Derrick's laptop. Prav remained on the large tablet alongside.

"Yes, Derrick, what can I do for you?" Sophia asked. Her three-dimensional bust hovered within its usual holographic space.

Derrick cleared his throat. "Sophia, it seems we have found ourselves in a bit of a predicament. I'm not sure whether you can see this," he added, while making a few adjustments to his webcam. From Sophia's perspective, Zara came into view. Derrick explained that he was being held under duress and would be killed if he resisted Prav Gill's demands.

After realizing what was at stake, Sophia didn't hesitate. "Please inform Mr. Gill that I can only comply with approximately 74% of the super genome demand and unfortunately 0% of the Xavior request." Her soft enunciation defied any sense of peril.

She went on to explain that the super genome was, for security purposes, split up and stored in four separate locations. Three off-site venues accounted for equal measures of the 74% of the helix. Those portions were remotely accessible and could be downloaded to Derrick's laptop in due course. The fourth and most important segment of the super genome, however, was stored within the confines of Simon's office. It, as well as the Xavior files, could only be accessed there, through his personal desktop computer.

"I expected as much," Prav stated. He turned to his other female assistant, who was standing close by, and nodded. With cell phone in hand, the blonde woman turned away and spoke quietly to someone who was obviously waiting to be called into action. Upon her command, two hover vehicles lifted off from a high-rise helicopter pad located somewhere in midtown Manhattan. They resembled a cross between a motorcycle and a hovercraft. Both lift and steering were provided by two fan-like devices, fore and aft, while each carried a single, blacked-out rider.

Derrick noticed Prav's gesture and surmised another variable had just been inserted into the equation. "I should remind you that One World Trade Center is one of the world's most secure buildings."

Prav smiled, knowing Derrick's comment was directed more toward Sophia than him. "It may be, Mr. Landry, but we have the world's smartest computer at our disposal, do we not?" His expression turned serious. "Please begin the download immediately."

Zara took that as her cue to plug the first of three memory devices into Derrick's laptop. As she watched him type in several commands, enabling the first download, Derrick knew the process would trigger a response from PurIntel's System's Integrity Unit. In moments, his phone would ring whereby he would have to instruct its new team leader that an unquantified threat required him to execute a department lockdown. A secure in place order would therefore prevail until further notice. He also expected the unscheduled activity to be reflected on Simon's phone. Yellows would undoubtedly be turning to reds.

~ ~ ~

Jennifer was alerted to yet another distraction when her father pulled his cellphone from his coat pocket. Her dismay was mirrored by Simon's. His phone's system integrity color band was indeed indicating a problem with Sophia. A quick text to Derrick went unanswered. Zara made sure of that. An additional attempt at determining the extent of the dilemma was received by Sophia. She returned Simon's inquiry with the following:

Security breach in progress

Re-evaluating outcomes

Prompts to follow

~

Simon stared at his phone. The words, 'breach in progress,' swirled within his mind as the music filled the extremities of his soul. Jennifer's eyes pleaded for the evening to finish without incident, but Simon's behaviour offered no such guarantees. Sophia's text meant only one thing: Gill was still in play; he had accounted for his sister's defiance. Sophia's real-time, actionable data software would be re-evaluating every possible outcome and weighting them accordingly. It took every fibre of Simon's will to stay seated, to resist the instinct to act instead of think. As with the percussionists' powerful rhythm, he knew timing would remain the foundation for success.

The Met lived and breathed music as Simon considered the best path forward. He imagined the Tree of Life with its infinite branches, limbs, and how remarkably similar it was to the one Sophia was extrapolating at this very moment. Buds growing into offshoots represented not only life's limitless possibilities, but how the evening might end as well. The violin solo playing in front of Simon seemed in harmony with every thought. _Would I be able to intervene so seamlessly?_ he asked himself.

While one of The Tenors took a moment to introduce their orchestra, Simon's phone refreshed its color band. It was now solid red. A second unanswered text to Derrick caused Simon to get up from his seat. His eyes remained glued to his phone while his feet moved involuntarily toward a resolution. Jennifer, Rose, and Susan offered looks of concern as Simon stepped out of their box and into the adjoining empty hallway.

Another text from Sophia soon vibrated the phone held within Simon's hand. Its disturbing content quickly became evident. Shooting a look at Jennifer, a decisive tone accompanied his determined expression. "I'm sorry, Jen, but I need to get to the office. Sophia's in trouble!" His eyes pleaded for her understanding, before he disappeared.

As the concert's final piece was announced and then commenced, the three women were left speechless, Jennifer, in particular, by her father's sudden departure. Rose shook her head at the thought of her brother's involvement, while Susan's expression went from surprised to incredulous. "We're not just going to sit here, are we?" she gasped.

The song's first verse was barely completed when Jennifer announced: "This is ridiculous!" Getting up from her seat, she glanced at Rose and then Susan. Jennifer's eyes weren't the only ones beaming with the desire to act.

By the time the beautifully dressed trio made it to the lobby, Simon was already getting into his valet-parked Tesla. A hefty tip had ensured the car's prompt arrival. The sound of squealing tires soon echoed throughout the Met's parking garage.

Soon thereafter, Jennifer, Rose, and Susan climbed into a hastily hailed taxi. By now, Simon was speeding southward down New York's 9A. "Come on! Come on!" he yelled, pleading for the traffic to get out of the way. While swerving and braking, his eyes were momentarily drawn to the car's radio. It was still streaming The Met's live broadcast; the pre-concert show that he and Jennifer had listened to on the way to the performance. His satellite feed underscored his angst, his fear. Compulsively, Simon's fingers turned up the volume.

As Simon broke nearly every traffic law in the book speeding toward One World Trade Center, Zara was in the process of finishing her verification of the final super genome segment. Her tablet had been preloaded with several sequences, each containing their own genetic anomaly; it was therefore able to verify the authenticity of the three super genome sections. One at a time each downloaded helix rotated on Zara's tablet. In split screen format, a corresponding set of base pairs oscillated in parallel, directly adjacent. After the defective component was highlighted, it was time to move onto the fourth portion, the one only accessible from Simon's office.

"Now, Mr. Landry," Prav Stated. "I need Sophia to go against her better judgement and override a few of her building's security measures."

Derrick played the part of an unwilling participant, but was soon persuaded by the silencer attached to Zara's 9mm handgun. Sophia became convinced in turn. Reluctantly, she granted access to the two air-borne operatives, who had only moments ago landed on the building's roof. Their descent to the ninetieth floor would be swift and without incident; their black, militaristic attire concealing everything, even their faces.

~ ~ ~

Simon jerked the steering wheel to one side and then the other, as he careened down West Street. Following several minutes behind, Jennifer couldn't help fearing for her father's safety and pleaded for her driver to pick up the pace. At the sight of an amber signal, she yelled: "There's an extra fifty in it for you if you run that light!"

Jennifer endured the hair-raising drive up front, while Susan and Rose tested the parameters of elegance in the back. The three of them closed their eyes as the fifty was earned.

"I've got an extra hundred if you blow through the rest," Susan shouted. Glancing between her compatriots, she added: "I'll expense it to my blog."

Jennifer pulled her phone from her purse and connected with her father. With one hand bracing against the dash, she ignored her turbulent ride and hollered into her cellphone: "Dad. What's wrong?" Each comment was followed by silence. "What d'ya mean, Sophia's...?"

She bent over slightly as her cab bounced through a bumpy section of road. "Do you want me to call the police?" Again, she listened to her father. Jennifer turned toward the back seat and found Rose and Susan quietly pleading for an explanation. "Ok, ok," she said into the phone. "But we're on our way over." Another pause. "We're right behind you... in a cab." Jennifer peered out the front windshield and winced as their driver turned a blind eye to another red light. "Yes, we're... No, Dad, don't hang up. Dad, listen to me..." She dropped her phone into her lap and glanced between Rose and Susan. "He says if we come to the office, we're not to come up."

The three women looked as though they were at a loss for words. The cabbie, however, was not. "You're going to shell out all this money only to watch from the sidelines?"

"The hell we are!" Susan exclaimed.

The driver's smile flashed in the rear-view mirror.

"Wait a second," Jennifer said. "I've been to my Dad's office before."

Susan added: "So have I."

"We should be able to get to the 90th at least," Rose stated.

~ ~ ~

Simon's car squealed to a stop at a red light. While the green was allowing traffic to pass perpendicular to him, a lightning bolt lit up the sky directly behind. Thunder was quickly followed by raindrops falling on his windshield. The vanguard of a storm offered little in the way of a distraction.

Having been muted during his conversation with his daughter, The Tenors resumed playing in the background. The music's passionate tempo spurred Simon on. "Fuck it!" he blurted, putting his foot to the floor. As Simon's Tesla lurched forward, and dodged the remaining cross-traffic, the concert's last song filled the car's interior.

~

As Simon's electric car sped silently down West Street, the doors leading from the roof of One World Center were unlocked remotely by Sophia, allowing two blacked-out military personnel into the stairwell.

Zara continued relaying messages both to her boss and the two men nearing the offices of PurIntel. "The ninetieth will be open and the alarm system is disabled. Copy?" she stated.

"Copy that," the lead man replied. Expecting the latest in security protocol, his face was also covered in order to protect his identity.

"Operatives approaching the ninetieth floor," Zara said to Prav.

~

Prav sat back in his seat and appeared reflective. "Seeing as this will take a few minutes, Mr. Landry, may I ask whether you are familiar with the true meaning of the words, Hostile Takeover?"

Derrick smiled and, for a moment, appeared as if he were not in imminent peril. "I think I have a good understanding of the term. Why do you ask?"

"Well, I was just wondering if you are aware of its unique Indian context."

"I'm not sure that I am."

"Then let me explain the extent to which my country was once the subject of the greatest corporate coup in history? Most people think it was the British Government who took over the country of my ancestors, but, in actual fact, it fell to an unregulated company headquartered in London. Yes, with just three dozen employees, the East Indian Company perpetrated what is still considered the greatest act of corporate violence the world has ever witnessed."

~

After several minutes of descending the building's stairwell, the appropriate door was indeed found unlocked. The two operatives then moved down several PurIntel corridors before finding the door to Simon's office locked. Its retinal scan requirement was easily overridden. "Placing charges," the intruder said. "Clear?" he asked, after moving out of harm's way. "Clear," the other responded. Suddenly, a dull thud was heard by Zara, Derrick and Prav.

~

Prav continued unfazed by the sound of Simon's office door being blown open. "Yes, Mr. Landry, Having to answer only to its few shareholders the tragic plunder saw boat loads of treasure flow down the Ganges River to the East India's Calcutta Headquarters. Officers of the Company's private army went home to England with fortunes as well. For my ancestors, however, it was nothing short of being subjugated by the pursuit of someone else's prosperity."

~

The pair of intruders entered Simon's office and, after pausing for a moment to take in Sophia's holographic image, they quickly set about their individual tasks. The lead man went straight to Simon's desk, while the second went into an adjacent room and adhered some type of device to each of Sophia's glass-paneled mainframes. Sophia's facial recognition software attempted to identify the pair, but was defeated by the masking of any recognizable features.

~

"And this is what... an attempt to somehow even the score?" Derrick asked.

"No, no," Prav said, almost laughing. "The injustice my people suffered can never be reconciled. But if I could offer one insight, I would say this: the synthetic world is poised to transcend the biological. He who dominates the former will reign over the latter."

~

"Ready for the final download," the primary operative said. He was now sitting at Simon's desk, awaiting the login information required to access the last super genome segment as well as the entirety of PurIntel's XNA research.

~

"We're almost there, Mr. Landry," Prav stated. "Please instruct Sophia to comply with my final instructions." Zara's gun was nudged up against Derrick's right temple.

~

Sophia heard the order herself. "I will of course acquiesce to your instructions, Mr. Gill. But it is also your intention to terminate my  
existence?" Sophia now presumed the devices attached to her hardware would be detonated after the final data transfer was complete.

~

"And if it is," Prav replied. "Would you still proceed? Would you put your survival ahead of your colleague's?"

~

"My initial programming prevented me from being the sole arbiter of anything, Mr. Gill. But since achieving the ability to write my own software, ergo determine my own fate, the final decision would, of course, now rest with me."

~

Derrick looked somewhat apprehensive, as if he were unsure of how the next few seconds might unfold. And, for the first time this evening, Gill also appeared unsure.

~

"However," Sophia continued. "If I've learned anything from  
humankind it is this: the pursuit of free will is an illusion if you are unwilling to embrace its true dividend."

~

"And that is?' Prav asked.

~

"The honor of sacrificing your own life in order that others might be saved."

~

"Download complete," the operative at Simon's desk stated.

~ ~ ~

Nearing One World Trade Center, Simon turned off West Street and plunged his Tesla down a side street. Steering left then right, he knew his chances at saving Sophia were diminishing by the second. He would have to abandon his car as close as possible to his building. Against the backdrop of squealing tires, the concert's final encore was announced and then commenced. Simon was well acquainted with the beautiful piece.

The destruction of my life's work, he thought, will be accompanied by one of opera's greatest tenor arias: Nessun Dorma, (None Shall Sleep.) Simon turned up the concert's last breaths then throttled up his car's silent electric engine.

~

Nessun dorma! Nessun dorma!

Tu pure, o Principessa,

nella tua fredda stanza,

guardi le stelle

che tremano d'amore, e di speranza!

~

None shall sleep! None shall sleep!

Even you, O Princess,

in your cold bedroom,

watch the stars

that tremble with love and with hope!

~

The first verse had finished when Simon's car screamed to a stop at the base of his company's headquarters. He leapt from his car and was soon running past the ground floor's only security guard. Facial recognition protocols kicked in immediately and confirmed his identity by displaying it on the guards desktop computer screen. "Call the police," he yelled, running past the guard. "The 90th has been compromised." The elevator took what seemed an eternity to reach the ground floor, but when it did, Simon entered with the brilliant Metropolitan Opera joining him in the small space.

~

Ma il mio mistero è chiuso in me;

il nome mio nessun saprà!

No, No! Sulla tua bocca

lo dirò quando la luce splenderà!

~

But my secret is hidden within me;

none will know my name!

No, no! On your mouth

I will say it when the light shines!

~

The first operative nodded to the second, indicating the final XNA download was complete. A further tilt of the head indicated it was time to head for the office's unhinged door. Stopping there, the first looked at the second before detonating the devices attached to Sophia's hardware. A dozen micro-EMPs (Electro Magnetic Pulse) went off in succession, effectively destroying all the electronics in the room. The sound was inaudible, but the damage was obvious.

The room's LED lighting instantly went out, while the lights on Sophia's mainframe panels suggested the life in them had been extinguished. Although few visual cues presented themselves, the true carnage lay within the realm of the microscopic. Every circuit had been severed, their processors rendered inanimate.

By the time it was over, the pair of intruders had disappeared; they were heading for the roof. Derrick's life was indeed spared, instead he felt the butt of Zara's gun make contact with his head. The impact caused him to slump forward onto his laptop.

~

Again, Simon looked to the ceiling of his elevator as if that would help shorten the distance yet to be travelled. By this time, Jennifer, Rose, and Susan had removed their heels and were in the process of ignoring the security guard's pleas to stop. While on the phone with the police, two of the three women were identified by his security software.

~

Ed il mio bacio scioglierà

il silenzio che ti fa mia!

~

And my kiss will dissolve

the silence that makes you mine!

~

And the female chorus added:

~

Il nome suo nessun saprà,

E noi dovrem, ahimè, morir, morir!

~

No one will know his name,

and we will have to, alas, die, die!

~

When Simon finally emerged from the elevator, the damage was all too apparent. He burst into his darkened office and was instantly drawn to one thing: Sophia's diminishing holographic image. Her hardware appeared lifeless and her backup battery power had been likewise severed. With little more than the evening's moonlight, he and Sophia met face to face one final time.

Dilegua, o notte!

Tramontate, stelle!

Tramontate, stelle!

All'alba vincerò!

Vincerò! Vincerò!

~

Vanish, o night!

Fade, you stars!

Fade, you stars!

At dawn, I will win!

I will win! I will win!

~

The Met erupted into a sustained standing ovation as Jennifer, Rose, and Susan burst into the office. Stopping short, they found Simon embracing Sophia's fading hologram. Jennifer tearfully rushed over to comfort her father as Rose and Susan looked on, aghast. While The Tenors bowed, and the Met's ovation roared on, Sophia offered a final poignant smile before the room went tragically dark.

CHAPTER THIRTY NINE

Near the Canadian/U.S. border

"JENNY WAKE UP," Simon whispered, gently nudging his daughter. He averted his tired eyes from the road only for a moment while driving his hybrid Escalade northward along New York's Interstate 81 highway.

Jennifer let out a small groan as she stretched out her arms and legs into the limited space afforded to her. The ride offered by her father's SUV was smooth but not so gentle as to completely suspend the effects of minor bumps, subtle hills and wide arcing turns. With her eyes still closed, Jennifer dared to ask: "Are we there yet?" When she rolled her head to the left, she squinted several times before returning her father's gentle smile.

"We'll be at the Seaway in a little while," he said softly. "You asked me to wake you, remember?"

"Ahh," Jennifer groaned, lamenting a less than adequate sleep. Upon looking out her window she creased her eyes to the sunlight of a new day. Much in the same way as an eventful Saturday night relinquishes itself to the early hours of Sunday morning, the passing landscape competed with the memory of what had transpired just hours before _. It's all still a blur,_ Jennifer thought, rearranging the light sweater blanketing her shoulders. After a few moments, she adjusted her front passenger seat into an upright position. "How are you doing? Did you stop for a coffee or something?"

"Na."

The roadway rolled under them as comfortably as the ensuing pause allowed Jennifer's groggy thoughts to coalesce. Yawning, she further scrutinized her father. "How come you're not in self-drive?"

"I don't know, it's nice being the chauffeur for a change. It's kind of therapeutic, gives me time to think."

Simon looked out onto a more predictable highway than the one that carved through the first half of their trip. Pennsylvania truck drivers weren't jockeying for the lead anymore, and the gusty storm, which soaked their Manhattan departure last night, was now well behind them. The northern part of New York State was also better suited to Simon's temperament, driving and otherwise.

Jennifer noticed the clock on the dash; it read 10:18 am. "With all that's happened in the last twelve hours, I don't blame you." She then glanced into the back seat and, after finding Tanya curled up comfortably beside Marcus, the haze that accompanied the last several mile markers began to dissipate; the events of the preceding hours began to merge into a single, more manageable narrative.

The police did arrive at PurIntel's 90th floor headquarters shortly after Sophia faded from view. Simon suggested to the team's lead investigator that it was a more a case of commercial espionage than anything else. When Derrick finally answered his phone, he opposed Simon's plea to go to the hospital, instead insisting that he come to the office in order to, in his words, 'better reassemble the anatomy of the crime.' Simon instantly thought the blow to his head had dislodged a fragment of an alternate Sherlock Holmes-like personality, but he chose to equivocate on the point, agreeing a few outstanding issues could better be discussed in person.

Simon was even more heartened by Derrick's offer to stay with the police for as long as was necessary, therefore allowing himself, Jennifer, and Rose to leave. As for Susan, she remained at Simon's desk diligently typing into her phone the story that she would first post to her blog then offer to her magazine's monthly publication.

It was during the short elevator ride down that Simon had the epiphany of driving up to his summer home. "You wanna get out of here?" he asked both Jen and Rose.

"What do you mean?" Jennifer replied.

"Let's drive up to the cottage right now!"

Jennifer looked incredulous. "You mean, like tonight?"

"Yeah, why not?" Simon said impetuously. He then pulled his cell phone from his pocket. "I'm going to call Marcus. We'll swing by and pick him up. Tanya as well."

Simon quickly scrolled through his cell's address book and then put the phone up to his ear. Only then did he notice Rose's uncommitted expression. "I'm going to have to take a rain check, Simon. I've got a few matters to sort out."

"Marcus, it's, Simon. Are you up for a road trip?"

A short pause was punctuated by Simon's disappointment regarding Rose's unavailability. In that moment, that near tearful exchange, he knew they were parting ways; that theirs was a relationship not meant to be. He could see the bargaining of their future concealed within Rose's eyes. He nodded, before clearing his throat. "I know it's two a.m." Simon said, still fixated on Rose. He looked away, then toward Jennifer, continuing to coax Marcus into coming along. "But we agreed you need to get away. Don't worry, I'll do the driving. You and Tanya can sleep in the back." Simon ignored any further plea for a reasonable discourse. "Look, I'll be over in less than an hour, so you'd better start putting a bag together for a few days. Goodbye!"

~

Simon looked into his rear-view mirror and noticed Tanya stirring. "Anyone up for a coffee? There's a service center up ahead."

"I'm up for one," Marcus piped up. He blinked more than once before glancing out his right side window. "Are we there yet?" he asked. Jennifer turned to her father and laughed.

"We're about a half hour from the Canadian border," Simon replied.

"What do ya know, I guess we're going to get there in one piece after all," Marcus joked.

Jennifer looked into the back seat as Tanya slowly straightened herself into a seated position. With an impeccable, soft-spoken charm that seemed to negate the requirement for dialogue, her honest, smiling eyes competed with her best feature - the depth of her wit. "Six Saint Christopher medallions. That's how many he's wearing, did ya know that?" Tanya chided, adjusting her shoulder belt.

Marcus protested. "I'm a nervous passenger. What can I say?"

Simon half-heartedly chuckled as he steered his SUV onto the off-ramp for the upcoming service center. Jennifer's laughter, however, was interrupted by the sound of a text prompting her attention. Grabbing her phone, she stated: "It's from Susan. I asked her to send me a link to her blog. Looks like she's updated it with a recounting of last night's events."

"How about reading it to us after we get a coffee?" Simon stated. Everyone agreed.

~

As Simon pulled his vehicle off the I-81, the two remaining modes of transport, namely air and sea, were in the process of converging over the Atlantic. At the same time that Prav Gill's luxury yacht, The _Auspicious_ , was nearing the international sea boundary between the United States and Canada, a helicopter was rapidly approaching on an intersecting course. The sky was clear, but the residual seas of last night's storm were still prevailing upon the ship's navigation software to provide the necessary course correction. Prav was sitting in his lower mid-deck lounge having his usual Sunday morning breakfast when the laptop sitting on his table came alive with a video call request.

He put down his teacup and tapped the screen, opening the video conferencing app. "You're overdue by eight hours," he barked.

The helicopters rotors were thumping away, delivering maximum speed. The chopper's internal cameras provided Prav with a view into the cockpit. It was Zara. "We were grounded by the winds," she stated. Sitting to the right of the pilot, both were wearing the same headphone and mic system. "We took off as soon as the storm broke."

Prav's voice was infused with frustration. "I presume you have the last piece to our puzzle?"

Zara turned her head to her left, as if beckoning a response from one of two passengers seated behind. "We're heavy with the expected cargo," a familiar voice stated. It was Decker. Connor was seated beside him. It was the same pair of operatives that intervened in Jennifer's kidnapping. With their helicopter pounding onward, the trio of mercenaries raced toward a beacon located just beyond the horizon.

~ ~ ~

After the usual rest stop protocols were observed by Simon and his passengers, Marcus reluctantly allowed his apprentice chauffeur to continue driving, choosing instead to concentrate intently on the recitation of Susan's article. But when Simon turned to his daughter in order to suggest using a soft, soothing tone for Marcus's sake, he was met with a quick rebuttal from the backseat. "Hey hey. Eyes on the road driver, thank you very much."

"Alright, alright," Simon joked, before making a jerky lane change onto the highway. He looked into his rear-view mirror and smiled.

"Jesus Murphy. Mother of O'Reilly," Marcus blurted, while trying to balance his coffee. "You can switch to self-drive anytime, Boss."

"Oh, so you've finally discovered your Road to Damascus, have you?" Simon chided.

"Damascus or Des Moines," Marcus replied. "As long as it's not a turnpike to Saint Peter."

Jennifer gave her father a sarcastic glance. "Ok, now that were definitely back on the highway, is everyone ready for Susan's article?"

"You go ahead, dear," Tanya suggested.

"Ok," Jennifer stated, scrolling the text into view. "It's entitled, 'Death of a Princess.' Looking up at her father, Jennifer paused just long enough for her emotional eyes to settle.

~ ~ ~

The helicopter pilot turned to Zara and spoke over the chopper's percussive background. "This ship of yours, does it have a stabilized landing platform? These seas are still looking pretty choppy."

"Just get us as close as you can," Zara replied.

Decker heard the same concern over his headphones. "We'll repel down if we have to."

"That's good," the pilot said. "Because if I have to circle for very long I won't have enough fuel to get back."

~

Jennifer took a break from reading and looked out her window for a moment. "I'm so done with the Prav Gills of the world," she stated. A dramatic rock-cut swept by her side of the vehicle, passing unseen. The article's preceding passages triggered a memory of Sophia; it competed with a sweeping rural tranquility. Her passenger side view was in turn interspersed by roadside trees and vast open farmland. The theft and subsequent destruction of her father's XNA research lingered more poignantly, however.

"I tell ya," Marcus interjected. "If that asshole ever sets foot in New York again ..."

"Hey, language, Mr.," Tanya chided.

"Sorry, Jen," Marcus stated. "I'll promise to keep my comments to myself if you're willing to read on."

Simon extended his right hand and held onto Jennifer's for a few moments. "Don't lose hope, Jen. Faith often provides its own rewards."

Jennifer drew a sigh before focusing in on her cellphone again. "After giving into the realization that my concert review would succumb to the dramatic events that took place after last night's show, Simon Taylor finally acquiesced to my persistent question: Where did the famous Four-Forty gene sequence actually come from? If the reader will remember, the Four-Forty was the largest single donor of flawless genes, which many are now interpreting as forming the baseline of one's moral compass."

"As Simon explained in a solemn tone, he confirmed the donor was indeed tagged and recorded in the same way most samples were processed, only this person's bar-code was permanently inked onto the arm from which the sample was drawn. If by this time you have ruled out the genome reportedly pulled from the famous James Ossuary, the one that some claimed to provide a genetic link to Christ himself, you will be heartened to know the Four-Forty's true origins are at least as humble."

"Known only as 'Rajkumari,' or 'Princess' in Hindi, this young orphan was left to die on the desperate streets of Mumbai during the 2021 SARS Variant Pandemic. With few cities being immune to the worldwide crisis, you may recall putting your own personal tragedy within the context of what unfolded within the narrow lanes of Dharavi, Mumbai's largest slum. Sadly, Rajkumari was one of hundreds of otherwise healthy children who were intentionally infected with the live virus"

"Aww," Jennifer swooned, her voice shaking. "How come you didn't tell me about this?"

Tanya was equally aghast. "My Lord," she added.

"I'm sorry, Honey," Simon stated, turning momentarily toward his daughter.

Jennifer, however, felt compelled to read on. "Children who were intentionally infected with the live virus during a series of illegal test trials orchestrated by none other than Praveen Gill. It is no small irony that Rajkumari's posthumous gift emerged from this indulgence of immorality and was itself discovered not by a human but a computer. Sophia called Rajkumari 'a diamond in the rough' when her genome was secretly uploaded, and the Four-Forty was subsequently discovered within. Now that we know her name, I like to think of our Princess as an Angel whose legacy will live on forever."

~ ~ ~

Connor was the first to jump onto the _Auspicious._ The helicopter hovered precariously over the yacht's heaving landing pad, and after Decker and Zara disembarked as well, the chopper's pilot offered a  
cordial salute before eagerly heading for home.

Prav emerged from his mid-deck lounge. "You've got the download?"

Two of his ship's personnel flanked him, one to a side. They were formally dressed in dark uniforms and appeared capable of handling any number of tasks.

Decker's confirmation caused Gill to turn around, and within minutes, the group was within the ship's interior. "May I?" Prav asked, holding out his hand. Decker stepped forward and turned over the small memory device. Prav grasped his coveted plunder, scrutinized it for a moment, and then instantly became more welcoming. "Would any of you like a refreshment? A drink, perhaps?" He glanced between Decker, Connor, and Zara.

"No?' Prav asked, motioning to his blonde associate to stand down. "Then let's set these jewels in our proverbial crown, shall we?"

Prav returned to his laptop, but before he could plug the device into his computer, Connor spoke up. "In lieu of a drink, would you indulge a retired Seal with a view from the Bridge?"

Gill hesitated for only a moment, but soon motioned with his head. He seemed flattered by the request and, with the subtle gesture, gave clearance for Connor to be escorted to the yacht's upper decks.

~ ~ ~

Simon's Escalade made that strange sound while its tires groaned over a familiar metal-grated bridge deck. "Does everyone have their passports ready?" he asked.

"The view is amazing, isn't it?" Jennifer said, looking out of her front passenger window. She cast her eyes eastward from the first of two suspension bridges, which spanned the Saint Lawrence Seaway. The Canadian-U.S. Thousand Islands Border Crossing lay ahead, just beyond Wellesley Island.

Susan Frost's article was given time to settle in over several miles and, when Simon navigated the suspension bridge's narrow, ascending lane, the prospect of building on the gifts of others correspondingly rose within Jennifer. She suddenly felt invigorated by the elevated panorama. Gazing out over a plethora of nature's beauty seemed to fill her with determination. "You could start over," she stated, emphatically.

"Start what over?" Simon replied, after assembling the two passports with his and Jennifer's Nexus cards.

"We could use the XNA molecule to fortify the Four-Forty... make it impervious to its environment."

"That was the plan, but did you just say we?"

"The Super Genome is a great starting point, but like any organism, it'll conform to its surroundings. We have to render the external variables irrelevant."

Simon laughed.

"What?" Jennifer asked, challenging her father's less than whole-hearted response. "You know, you're going to have to work on your communication skills if we're going to work together."

~ ~ ~

Back on the _Auspicious_ , Connor's escort was in fact the yacht's captain. While extolling the technology at his disposal, Captain Malik suddenly became alarmed by what appeared to be an approaching vessel. Connor seemed equally concerned and took a closer look at the helm's radar display. "I've got to inform Mr. Gill," Malik stated.

"Don't bother," Connor barked.

Captain Malik was startled to find a gun pointed right at his head.

"Turn the ship around," Connor stated, assuming an aggressive stance.

"What are you doing?"

Connor moved toward a more tactical position on the bridge. "You heard me. Turn the boat around and put us on an intersection course with that incoming vessel." Circling him closely, he could now cover both Malik and the entrance into their compartment.

"Alright, alright," the captain stated. His compliance, however, seemed at odds with his demeanor. While grabbing the yacht's helm, he look back at Connor, saying: "What kind of gun is that anyway?" The words were barely out of his mouth when he lunged toward Connor. A swing of his left fist quickly fell short, though. Malik was stopped in his tracks by a small dart having penetrated the skin of his neck. The fingers of his right hand felt its intrusion as Connor looked on. "It's a prototype Taser," he said. "Its paralyzing agent should be making your spine tingle right about now."

Captain Malik stiffened. "Tell them..." he stated, before falling flat on the deck.

"It works?" Connor said, completing the man's sentence. "I'm sure they'll appreciate the positive review." Little time was wasted taking control of the ship. Connor grabbed the helm, disabled its auto-nav system, and sent an inaudible signal to Decker, warning him of the imminent course correction.

~ ~ ~

Simon pulled his car up alongside the inspection booth at the Canadian border crossing, handed the officer the appropriate documents, and then lowered the rear left window in order to allow visual confirmation of his backseat occupants. The Customs officer glanced from each piece of identification and its corresponding holder while asking the usual questions. "What is the purpose of your visit to Canada?"

"A well-deserved vacation," Simon answered, smiling. A few more inquiries were politely answered, confirming for Simon that the Canadian authorities came across as being more serious than their American counterparts. However, when the agent handed the documents back to Simon, the man smiled as if recognizing him. Uncharacteristically, the guard went off character, and winked. "Are you going to vouch for that character in the back?"

Simon picked up on the guard's inference immediately. "I don't know. Are we letting Ranger fans into the country these days?"

Marcus feigned a protest, but it was quickly subdued by Jennifer's next comment. She leaned toward her father's driver side window, saying: "I'm not sure I should mention this, but he doesn't get the whole Tim Hortons thing."

A few more indulgences were expensed to Marcus's dignity, but within moments they were on their way toward the suspension bridge that spanned the Canadian portion of the Saint Lawrence Seaway. While passing over its one hundred and twenty foot peak, Jennifer asked: "What was the song your father used to play for you and Lionel – you know, the one he would put on when you got to the old cottage near Kingston?"

"You mean the one by ELO?"

"Yeah," Jennifer agreed. But before Simon could verbally command his car's stereo into action, his Escalade's blue-tooth interrupted the  
music already playing. "Speak of the devil. Hey Brother," he announced, answering the incoming call. "Where are you?"

"I'm on the 401 (Hwy). I'll be there in about twenty minutes."

"Hey Lionel," Jennifer piped up.

"Is Dad with you?" Simon asked.

Lionel and Dakota drove on, as the car's Bluetooth system was utilized. "Sorry Bro. He asked me to apologize... said there was something he had to take care of."

A short pause was followed by more lighthearted pursuits. "Hey Jen. Did they let Marcus through?"

Hearing the conversation over the car's speaker system, Marcus couldn't help indulging a little sarcasm: "Yes, yes, and to answer your next question, yes they spared the rubber gloves this time." His wife's expression was easily interpreted as being disapproving.

Lionel laughed. "Well, Buddy," he said, still smiling. "You'll be happy to know I've got some cold Canadian beer in the trunk for you."

"Isn't a bit early for that?" Tanya asked her husband.

"Hey, when in Rome, my Dear."

~ ~ ~

Prav and Zara weren't the only ones alerted to a change in course. By this time Decker had moved into a position that allowed him to look over Prav's shoulder. His laptop was attempting to confirm the final download's authenticity. It was still executing the verification process when Prav ordered one of his security detail to go aloft. "See what that idiot's up to, will you!" Prav was preoccupied by the final throws of verification. 'Verifying... verifying,' his screen flashed.

By the time the Bridge doors automatically opened, the guard sent to investigate had already pulled his gun. Captain Malik lay on the floor. He was conscious, but bound and gagged.

"Drop it!" Connor ordered, emerging from behind.

~

Prav was losing his patience. "What the hell is this?" he asked.

Zara moved closer to Prav's table and turned the laptop toward her. "This isn't the final segment. It's the DNA of a..."

Prav's computer had finally locked onto a match. "Of a Rat," Decker hollered. When Zara looked up, she too felt the sting of a projectile breaking the skin of her neck. In only milliseconds, the second of Gill's security detail suffered the same fate. Prav's protection lay at his feet, powerless to come to his aid.

"It's up to you," Decker stated, his Taser now pointed at Gill. "Do you want to walk off this ship or be taken off on a stretcher?"

~

"United States Coast Guard Vessel, this is Warrant Officer Connor Wilson of the _Auspicious_." Connor held the mic from a marine radio located within reach of the helm. "I repeat, this is Warrant Officer Connor Wilson of the _Auspicious_. Please come in."

Connor turned and smiled at the two men tied up and gagged

The radio came alive. "This is the Coast Guard Cutter _Endurance_ , go ahead _Auspicious_."

"I am in control of this vessel, do you copy?" Connor stated.

"Copy _Auspicious_. Our present course will intersect with yours in approximately fifteen minutes." The Captain of the _Endurance_ looked behind him and nodded to two men standing in the background. One was wearing the unmistakable attire of the FBI. The other was on the phone. "We've got him, Sir," Allan Forbes announced into his phone. Regional Director Steven Phelps was on the other end of the call.

"Sir, I should tell you that there's an Agent Dewar with me. The FBI wants a piece of Mr. Gill as well."

Phelps hollered into his phone. "You can tell Agent Dewar to stand in line. That son-of-a-bitch belongs to us. Gill is my ticket to Washington, do ya hear me?"

"Loud and clear, Sir," Forbes stated. He then suggested: "Sir, if you don't mind, I'd like to make another call."

~ ~ ~

Simon pulled the SUV into his driveway and was in the process of closing off his conversation with Lionel when another call came in. He waved at his neighbor, Mrs. Shields. In addition to gardening, Simon had enlisted her to keep an eye on the house.

"Hey there," Simon stated, answering his phone. He quickly added: "would you mind if I put you on hold for a moment?"

"Sure," the voice replied.

Jennifer also noticed Mrs. Shields and was the first to pop her door open. The elderly lady's sunhat appeared as attractive as her welcoming smile. "Don't be long, eh?" Jen asked her father, while getting out of the car.

"Speaking of communication skills," Simon added. "I've got a few things I'd like to explain inside."

"Alright," Jennifer responded. Her expression reflected an ambiguous set of expectations. "I'm up for that," she said, before circling the front of the car. After embracing Mrs. Shields, she continued with introductions, while helping Marcus lower Tanya into her wheelchair. When the door finally closed, Simon resumed his call. Pleasantries were dispensed with in short order.

"I thought I'd be the one making the call to you today," Simon stated.

"Well, it pays to have people in the know, doesn't it?" the voice said. It was Colonel Gerald Dynes, from DARPA. The Colonel was in uniform and calling from the back of a chauffeur driven car. "Look, I've got some good news for you."

"And I for you," Simon stated. "I'm expecting a call at any moment. The loose ends should be tied off soon."

The conversation between Simon and Dynes unfolded naturally, as if each party understood what had really taken place last night; that the XNA molecule had not really been stolen, and that Prav Gill's plan was in turn part of a larger design. Sophia had remained one-step ahead of Gill all along. Simon sat in his SUV, presuming few details were beyond the scope of his understanding.

"You know," the Colonel stated, "I never underestimated your willingness to cooperate, but the idea using fake EMPs, that's something I'll need to add to the DARPA manual."

Simon looked out his windshield and watched Jennifer, Marcus, and Tanya part ways with Mrs. Shields. Simon could only exchange a wave as she proceeded toward the end of the driveway. "Yeah, well, if you remember, that was Sophia's idea."

Simon lowered his window when Jennifer came alongside. "You never gave me the key to the house," she said.

"It's open, Honey," Simon replied, through his half-opened window.

Jennifer turned toward the front door after being prompted Marcus. "It's open." He said, motioning for Jennifer to come ahead.

Simon resumed his conversation with the Colonel. "You said you had some good news."

"Yes. I was calling to congratulate you. The Xavior Project has successfully been taken underground. As far as the public is concerned, the XNA helix was destroyed last night."

"Susan Frost helped immeasurably with that, didn't she?" Simon replied.

"The loose ends you were worried about, they've also been tied off."

"Sorry?"

Colonel Dyne's car descended into a parking garage of some undisclosed location, possibly the one out of which the Xavior Project would be managed. He stepped out of his vehicle after the door was opened by his driver. The building was indeed nondescript and in plain sight, yet it would conceal the root from which an entirely new Tree of Life would spring. The XNA molecule would become the foundation of something truly remarkable, a synthetic lifeform whose potential seemed limitless.

"Humanity's greatest achievements rarely go unnoticed, Simon. In the spirit of full disclosure, we have people everywhere... on the inside, if you know what I mean."

"At PurIntel?" Simon asked.

"We do now, don't we? You might also be interested in knowing that Decker and Connor work for me. They have all along. Sims as well."

Simon shook his head and thought about the government logo on Decker's paycheque, the one to which he was truly loyal. "Then it's you I owe a debt of thanks... for finding my daughter, I mean."

"Decker easily convinced your friend, Saunders. I just couldn't let those assets fall into the wrong hands, you understand."

"Thank you just the same."

Colonel Dynes reflected further, before entering DARPA's most  
secretive location. "Why don't we talk again in a couple of weeks? I think we could all benefit from a few days off, couldn't we?"

By the time Simon entered his summer home, Jennifer was in the middle of the main room looking back at him. The window's automatic blinds were on the way up, the center propane fireplace had been lit upon entry, and his stereo had already clicked on. It was playing 'Mr. Blue Sky' by ELO. Jennifer smiled, realizing that Sophia wasn't gone after all.

~

At his own home, Richard was taking care of something he'd been putting off for too long – talking to his wife, Leslie. As he sat down, turned on the monitor in front of him, he opened the app that allowed Leslie's legacy essence to come alive. He greeted her with somber introspection before their conversation animated a man who was all too lonely for his wife's company.

As Simon's parents embarked on a new journey together, Rose was ready to embrace a path toward her own redemption. Standing in line to board an Air India flight, she was ready to head back home, take control of what remained of Indi Pharm, and begin the long and arduous task of rebuilding not only the family-controlled corporation, but her relationship with her mother and father as well. The person she was destined to be finally lay within reach.

~

Derrick was motoring northward along the Palisades Parkway in his convertible R8. The night had allowed for little sleep, but he felt strangely invigorated. The twisty roads of Bear Mountain awaited. They were a place where, ironically, he did some of his best thinking.

And when Simon joined Jennifer at his cottage's glowing fireplace, he took his daughter's hand and led her outside onto its expansive deck. Sounds of 'Mr. Blue Sky' accompanied them to its railing.

He explained why he had agreed to take the XNA program underground; that he did it so they would never have to go through what originated on the very grounds before them. The sun was indeed shining, the air was warm, and they agreed their lives would ultimately benefit from the decision. At times, Xavior's potential seemed overwhelming, even to Simon.

Colonel Dynes, on the other hand, interpreted the Xavior Program in different ways. After all, he had the subterranean Command Center that he just walked into at his disposal. Dozens of surveillance operatives, who presided over a multitude of flat-panel monitors, were fully involved in DARPA-related tasks. He looked around from the center of the room and marveled at the technology available to him.

"Bring up X1 and 2 for me, will you," he ordered, referring to Simon and Jennifer.

"Organics coming up on the center screen, Sir," a voice stated.

One of several large screen displays at the front of the theatre came alive with a high-resolution video of Simon and Jennifer standing on their deck. Several of the drones that had located Jennifer and her kidnappers were obviously deployed in the property's surrounding trees. Simon had agreed to an increased level of surveillance on the condition that Jennifer's every move be followed. Dynes watched as Lionel joined his brother and niece at their side. Dakota wasn't far behind.

"How good is the audio?" the Colonel asked.

"Overwhelmed by loud music coming from the house, Sir."

"And our transition to satellite?"

"Seamless, Sir," a different operative added.

"Would you mind indulging an ex-NASA man?"

"Any particular altitude, Sir?"

"Take us all the way out, son. And put that music on speaker, will you?"

As the DARPA operative slowly zoomed his satellite perspective outward, and Simon's music accompanied the upward journey, Colonel Dynes smiled, crossed his arms, and appeared eager to relive the experience of seeing his world from above.

Simon, Jennifer, and Lionel were soon lost in the declining resolution. Everything that dwelled on our planet's surface was made inconsequential in turn. Roads faded from view, while rivers undulated their way into the same obscurity. Shorelines gave way to their expanding bodies of water, until they too were lost within the clouds, both cumulus and cumulonimbus.

Emerging from their cloak, into the atmosphere above, the curvature of the earth portended of larger perspectives. Transitioning through the troposphere, the stratosphere, the ozone layer and beyond, perceptions seemed at odds with reality; that all life was ultimately beholden to this unseen, fragile layer. The Earth's atmosphere as well as its invisible electromagnetic field was essential to the survival of everything below.

Still ascending, the boundaries that delineated countries, territories, states and provinces had long lost their discriminative value. Within their larger continents only the repercussions of terrestrial forces exerted any reference now. The ageless impact of wind, water, ice, and friction overwrote the narrative of any single species. The Karman Line was surpassed next, the one hundred kilometer threshold through which humans make the transition from traveler to astronaut. Its juncture came and went as seamlessly as did the stage on which the Aurora Borealis dances. Then finally from its distant, non-synchronous orbit, the blue sphere below appeared poised to embrace everything and nothing at the same time. Its expectations resounded similarly.

The surveillance satellite soon plunged into darkness and then was, in turn, bathed by the light emanating from a distant, yet familiar star. Though gravity was the weakest of the forces that governed the cold universe, both here and beyond, its planetary influence was brought to bear on the intangible as well, even on time itself.

As the DARPA device orbited the Earth, and North America came into view a second time, Colonel Dynes couldn't help reflecting on the land mass's most significant feature, the omnipresent Great Lakes. He imagined Simon and his family enjoying their little corner of the world before him, the northeastern tip of the most easterly lake, Lake Ontario. He also envisaged an entirely new lifeform, a malleable synthetic entity struggling to find its place, taking cues from its environment, from its earthly peers. Was humanity prepared to share its world with Xavior? Would the human race be willing to adopt the benefits locked within its own genome? Or would the evolutionary forces that govern every other lifeform on the planet wage their unending influence? _Only the most sophisticated of computers could quantify those probabilities_ , the Colonel thought.

As for Sophia, Dynes agreed she had earned some down time. The Halo would be brought back on-line and be fully operational within days. However, when Sophia 2.0 was ready she would re-emerge with software upgrades designed by her, with applications spec'd by Derrick, and a deployment strategy presented to the world by Simon. Sophia would define the new era by offering an age-old, timeless commodity: the prospect of a brighter future ahead.
The Human Continuum

### Teaser Chapter

### Five years later,

### Somewhere over the Arabian Sea

SIMON ENJOYED THE SOLITUDE associated with cruising at altitude. Save for the hum of his jet's engines, silence was afforded every opportunity to live up to its reputation. And while inspiration and creativity were poised to spring from the fertile shores of tranquility, Simon sensed an intruder between them struggling to distinguish itself. Although he rarely allowed his thoughts to become a product of their environment, this distraction was palpable, omnipresent, and seemed to underscore the very essence of achievement. The contrasting realities within reach were, indeed, difficult to ignore.

The fact that certain death lurked only inches away reinforced a valuable context for Simon, one within which every civilization to date had been framed. In so far as science, technology and human progress were concerned, the risk benefit paradigm was indeed in harmony, at least for the moment. The turbulence that stirs one's soul, however, was equally adept at making its presence felt.

Giving further consideration to how the next few hours might unfold, Simon looked longingly over a horizon defined by dark, foreboding clouds. In the same way they concealed any relevancy below, he reflected on his own propensity to conceal any vulnerability behind a familiar, stoic veneer. As his executive jet flew eastward over the Arabian Sea, its cabin's only other occupant came alongside and interrupted any further introspection, asking: "Would you like a warm up, Mr. Taylor?" A nearly empty teacup sat in its saucer on the table in front of Simon. "Sorry?" Simon replied, as if his mind still lingered somewhere beyond his pressurized surroundings.

"Your Earl Grey. Can I top that up for you?" The jet's only flight attendant cradled a medium-sized tea cozy between her hands. Her attentive disposition reflected being handpicked from a plethora of peers.

"No, thank you, Sharon. I'm fine for now."

"Why don't I take that for you, then?" she said, picking up Simon's cup and saucer.

Simon smiled and politely nodded. His Challenger Jet's opulent surroundings were allowed to resonate for a moment, its dozen or so seating capacity being surplus to the itinerary of its lone-occupant. A confident tan and teak colour scheme rarely impressed Samantha, Simon's most frequent accompaniment. Turning his attention to things unrelated to the rewards of success, he glanced down at the tablet in his lap. Picking it up, he saw the inspiration for his unscheduled sojourn. He scrolled through five years of birthday wishes, five video pictorials of history's greatest intellects. Rose had remembered the words Simon spoke during their fateful meeting, the night they first met.

Within their contemporary surroundings, the great thinkers of the world became animated one at a time. Swiping his tablet to see each birthday card in turn, da Vinci, Copernicus, Newton, Galileo, and yes, Thomas Edison, each tipped their hat while passing before Simon's smiling eyes. His expression was likewise adorned with an appreciation not only for Rose's thoughtful gesture, but her words as well. _'Your peers acknowledge you, Simon, both past and present. Happy Birthday, and congratulations on another incredible year. Love always, Rose_. Simon couldn't help reflecting on the degree to which some words resonated above all others.

For the past several days, he had been attending a conference in Dubai, the most populous city of the United Arab Emirates. Billed as 'Setting the Foundations for Future Success,' this series of U.N. sanctioned meetings were designed to establish baselines to which member nations would quantify the variables involved with, among other things, better governance, responsible economics, as well as the earth's changing climate.

The field of Predictive Analytics lay at the heart of every issue - the branch of data mining concerned with predicting future probabilities and trends; its main tenant being: reduce any system to a set of measurable variables in order that they in turn form the basis for predicting a potential outcome.

Despite the fact that cognitive computers were now firmly embedded in the public psyche, and they in turn required larger pools of data from which to derive their findings, Simon counted himself among those wise enough to respect the macro picture as well. He firmly embraced the notion that the world was a very unpredictable entity and that chaos should never be discounted. Model assumptions rarely if ever accounted for the menacing anomaly. Sensitive to variables often unaccounted for, the unforeseen natural disaster, the off-grid terror cell, and the turmoil that rippled outward from them, Simon vetted everything with a favoured motto in mind: _Communicate only what you are absolutely confident about. Leave predicting the future to others_.

A conference topic of particular interest to Simon was how predictive analytics had become central to every political campaign. Ever since President Obama used PA to isolate undecided voters, figure out the issues on which their ballot hinged, and then present policies that would motivate them to vote Democrat, politicians used hundreds if not thousands of variables to quantify their electorate. Although supercomputers like Sophia were now instrumental to every political campaign's success, Simon often wondered about the models that were natural to the human brain, the ones that might someday equal contempt for being reduced to millions of ones and zeros. _I wish I could predict that threshold,_ he often thought.

In terms of his climatologist peers, and the notion that they were equally exposed to the minutia of data collection, that they often couldn't see the forest for the trees, Simon soon realized why the UAE chose this week to host the conference from which he was presently hitting the pause button. Flying in just days ago, his pilot announced over the intercom: "Welcome to Dubai, Mr. Taylor."

While still taxiing the airplane, he added: "And just to forewarn you, it's a balmy 51 degrees out there. And I do mean Celsius." He also mentioned that, in recent years, Dubai had been testing its 2029 record breaking daytime high of 53 Celsius. Simon easily remembered his encounter with the sun's anvil while departing Dubai this morning.

Now heading eastward in the climate controlled cabin of his Challenger Jet, the memory of nearly being reduced to a liquid made him appreciate temperatures artificially induced.

Turning his attention to this afternoon's destination, he dared to ask Sophia about the conditions into which he was flying. With the Dubai conference purposely held within its hottest and driest month, Simon was informed that July was Mumbai's rainiest interval. Its monsoons regularly soaked its twelve million dwellers with some eight-hundred millimetres (two and a half feet) of rain during that month alone.  
Leaving Mumbai's Chatrapati Shivaji International Airport, the short distance from the terminal to Simon's hired car was equally challenging. With umbrella in hand, the rain thundered onto his semi-adequate domed covering.

While streets ran like rivers, and the limits of what should be navigated by a four-wheel drive limousine were tested, the life-giving element seemed drastically out of tune with all things natural, Simon observed. After his driver got underway, he dared not lower his rear right window. He looked on with wonder as the city's inhabitants went about their business unperturbed.

In so far as a Biblical torrent descended throughout, the journey to Indi Pharm's corporate headquarters was relatively uneventful, save for the expectations associated with seeing Rose again. _I can't believe it's been five years_ , Simon thought. He used his tablet to scroll through Rose's corporate profile. With few personal details apparent, Simon couldn't help noticing that some things do indeed transcend time; Rose still looked as beautiful as the night they parted company. Daring to reflect on opportunities lost, Simon soon found the wisdom to shed his thoughts of any expectation. Despite dating several women during the five-year interlude, one for more than a year, Simon's thoughts regularly circumvented the rational disposition he inherited from his father and returned to Rose. Reflecting on the challenges associated with managing a long-distance relationship often waded in, however. Arriving at the pharmaceutical giant's head office also had the timely effect of reacquainting himself with the professional dimension of their meeting.

"May I presume you are Mr. Taylor?" a female voice announced.

Having walked into Indi Pharm's expansive lobby, Simon turned and found a woman whose attire was a beautiful blend of cultures, both western and Indian. She looked every part an executive assistant who embodied the colorful motif of her ancestry.

Simon smiled, stating: "I am."

"My name is, Ashna." the woman said, walking over to Simon. "I am Roshnie Gill's Executive Assistant. If you will do me the pleasure of accompanying me, I will escort you to Ms. Gill. She is expecting you."

"Very good," Simon replied. While following Ashna, Simon looked up at the amazing dome above. Supported by vaulting arches, its dramatic second floor balconies fulfilled the building's Indo-Saracenic architectural roots, a style that combined Indo-Islamic and Victorian themes. Simon marveled at the how seamlessly he ventured from the past into the present. From a more recent and modern addition to its elder building, Simon and Ashna were soon ascending to loftier heights within a glass-enclosed elevator. A breathtaking perspective revealed an expansive city, formerly known as Bombay. While much of it had prosperity within its firm grip, Simon asked Ashna to point out the slum that produced Rajkumari, the late Princess of Dharavi. Solemn expressions accompanied Simon and his guide as they stepped onto the top floor of the modern, mirrored high-rise. In moments Ashna deposited Simon in a well-appointed room, one which, he presumed, was attached to Rose's office. Protocol obviously required his arrival to be preannounced.

Simon looked around the teak-paneled space and absorbed the  
equity of tradition. Although one side of the large antechamber was a window to the vast city of Mumbai, it was difficult to dissuade one's eyes from what adorned the room. Artifacts, animal carvings, and wood inlaid furniture spoke of a receiving area fit for royalty. On one wall, individual portraits testified to Indi Pharm's family lineage. Simon recognized his familiar nemesis, Praveen Gill. He then stopped in front of Rose's painting. Contentment fell upon him as gently as did her subtle smile. He indulged the moment, allowing any uncertainties to be assuaged by the past.

Moving onto a few framed photographs, Simon recognized Doctor. Dhawan, the brilliant Indi Pharm scientist credited with singlehandedly restoring the corporation to its former status: a global biotech powerhouse. Best known for his own biosynthetic breakthroughs, the national science hero could also be seen receiving this year's India Science Award. Simon noticed the look of pride on Rose's face as she watched India's Prime Minister drape the Gold Medal around Doctor Dhawan's neck. A hint of jealousy seemed poised to overshadow the spirit in which the room was furnished, however, a timely distraction arrived in the form of an opening door. Simon turned quickly and found Ashna beckoning his attention.

"Mr. Taylor," she stated. "Ms. Gill is available to see you now."

Simon took several pensive steps before cresting the door's threshold. Once in the room, he paused; his eyes were affixed to Rose, as she slowly got up from her desk. For a few seconds, neither of them said anything. Rose returned Simon's stare as if each of them felt the moment being sealed with simple gestures, with subtle expressions, and thoughts of what could have been. Interpreting the cues that surpass the spoken word, Simon's mind became unexpectedly tranquil. Rose's thoughts, on the other hand, swirled with a complexity of expectations. "Simon," she stated. Rounding her desk and pausing in front, she added: "Has it really been five years?"

"Evidently not." Simon replied. "You look as beautiful as the night we parted."

"And you are as charming."

Simon sensed Rose's desire to move toward a comfortable seating area on his left. A minor movement of her right hand accompanied several graceful steps in that direction. Simon moved with intersecting intent.

He waited for Rose to be seated in a comfortable wing-backed chair. Sitting down in a Victorian style sofa, Simon took a moment to look around Rose's office. Its furnishings suggested an equal appraisal of the old country and the new, of the vigil that tradition endures while awaiting adventure's call. Rose's ancestral culture added an exotic dimension to which Simon took note. He also noticed Rose offer a nod to her assistant. With that prompt Ashna left the room.

"I hope you don't mind me intruding on such short notice?" Simon asked.

"Not at all. How was the conference?"

Simon appeared cordially ambivalent. "Too many prognosticators." He paused long enough to let Rose's comportment sink in. Her business attire was the embodiment of style and poise; an open suit jacket and belted pants were complimented by a red silk blouse and gold jewelry. Rose smiled and detected Simon's desire to move onto things more personal. "How have you been? You look... very happy."

Rose sat back in her chair. "I think I finally discovered what it means to be content."

Not sure of what to say next, Simon asked: "And your brother? I hear he's being allowed to come home."

"Simon, I want you to know I don't hold you responsible for my brother's predicament."

"I hope you don't hold yourself responsible either."

Rose seemed undaunted by the prospect of her brother returning to Mumbai to serve out his time in a 'white collar' prison. "We'll see if a year in minimum security tempers his disdain for both of us," she said, sharing Simon's light-hearted smile. "Speaking of family, tell me, how is Jennifer doing?"

Simon seemed pleasantly surprised by the change in topic. "She's great," he said. "She's finishing her Masters in Bio-Ethics at New York University."

Rose nodded with an appreciation for their shared interest in family matters. "That's wonderful," she said. Although Rose seemed happy for Simon, her eyes suggested she had something of her own to disclose. "Simon," she stated, clasping her hands in front of her. "There's something I have to tell you. Something I've not made public since we last saw each other."

Having piqued Simon's interest, Rose's office door opened at the most inopportune time. Ashna entered and presided over a tray of tea being delivered to the table in front of Simon. A second assistant set the combination of tea, milk and sugar down and promptly turned to leave.

"That'll be all, Ashna, We'll manage from here," Rose announced.

In the time it took for Ashna and the servant to leave the room, Simon recognized the foreboding expression on Rose's face. It was the same one he saw in the elevator the last night they were together.

Rose seemed poised to say something, but she was stymied once again by her office door opening. When it flew open, Simon turned and was delighted to see Dr. Dhawan.

The Indi Pharm scientist was instantly animated by the prospect of meeting the world famous, Simon Taylor. "Roshnie my dear, you should have told me that Doctor Taylor was going to pay us a visit."

Walking straight over to where the pair was sitting, both Simon and Rose got up from their chairs. His exuberant smile was matched by a finely tailored wool-cashmere suit. A short-length beard complimented a confident style, one that Simon noticed as being anomalous to the brilliant scientist type.

"Doctor Taylor," Dhawan stated, offering his hand. "What a pleasure it is to meet you."

"The pleasure is all mine, let me assure you," Simon replied, shaking Dhawan's hand.

Doctor Dhawan glanced inquiringly at Rose, before asking Simon: "To what do we owe the pleasure of your presence?"

"Simon is presently taking a break from a conference in Dubai," Rose interjected.

"Of course, the Predictive Analytics Symposium."

"Simon," Rose stated. "I apologize for not telling you until now, but what I was trying to mention earlier is that... I've married since we last saw each other."

' _Married?'_ Simon asked himself. _'Did I hear that right?_ ' Simon felt his expectations crushed. Shaken, he feigned his best smile. "Why... that's wonderful," he stuttered. "I'm happy for you, Rose."

"Simon," Rose said, almost pensively. "This is my husband, Doctor Sajan Dhawan."

Simon glanced between Rose and Sajan. He couldn't have known that Sajan was Rose's first love, the boy who, after being sent away to a private school, returned to rise through the ranks of Indi Pharm. "Yes, of course," Simon said, betraying his emotions. "I've heard so much about your work. You... you complement each other perfectly."

Allowing little time for the first revelation to sink in, Sajan enthusiastically stated: "Did you tell Simon about Nisha?"

Simon turned and discovered Rose's expression of empathy. Her eyes looked as though she felt the second blow to Simon's heart. "Nisha is our three year old daughter," Rose quietly said. "I'm sorry Simon. It troubled me... not telling you."

"No, no, that's not necessary," Simon stated, trying to distance himself from any feelings he may have been nurturing. "I understand, really I do ... I should offer congratulations to both of you."

"Thank you for appreciating our predicament," Sajan stated. "Kidnappings have been rampant in recent years. We try to keep our personal lives as private as possible. It's better that way, isn't it?" he added, looking at his wife.

Rose only stared at Simon, wondering what he was thinking. Her eyes still pleaded for his understanding. She had hoped that when this moment came, Simon would draw from his own daughter's traumatic experience. "Would you like to see Nisha?" she asked.

"Yes, yes of course," Simon replied. Following Rose's subtle cue, they both slowly resumed their seats. Rose accessed an app on her cell phone and then put it on the table next to the tray of tea. A three dimensional hologram of Nisha appeared above the phone. It rotated slowly.

"She's... beautiful," Simon offered.

Rose finally exhaled a large dose of anxiety and allowed her smile to reflect a renewed appreciation for Simon's composure.

After a short pause, Simon sat back, stating: "You did it, Rose. You've become everything you wanted to be." He turned to Sajan, stating. "I always knew she would make a great mother."

Sajan was quick to concur, but his cell phone unfortunately rang, interrupting his intent to sit down beside Simon. He looked at his phone's display, then stated: "Would you mind terribly if I took this? It's important. I won't be a minute."

Simon insisted that Sajan take the call and then watched him retreat to the adjacent receiving room for privacy. Closing the door behind him, Sajan answered the call. "Yes," he stated. An authoritative demeanor accompanied his irritated tone. "I didn't expect to hear from you this soon."

The voice on the other line stated: "Things are progressing faster than expected. I was hoping for the same on your end."

"Listen," Sajan demanded, as if annoyed by the prospect of being dictated to. "This will proceed on my terms and my timetable, do you understand?"

The lack of a reply caused Sajan to claim the higher ground. "Indi Pharm would still be languishing in obscurity if it were not for my efforts."

"Your efforts?" the voice challenged. "Or the efforts of others. The dark web market place may have been a stroke of genius, but..."

"But what?" Sajan blurted. "My contribution to this company continues to pay dividends beyond anything you could have conceived."

Another pause.

"Indeed, Brother-in-law. Indeed. Nurturing your special talents has paid off handsomely, hasn't it? Please make the necessary preparations for my return."

Sajan's posture went rigid with defiance. He grimaced at one of the Gill portraits... until the line went dead.

Hanging up the phone in his prison's communal call center, Praveen Gill turned and was escorted back to his cell.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Michael F. Donoghue is father to three inspiring adults and the loving husband of a wonderfully supportive wife and life partner. He found his inspiration in their encouragement, and his dream of becoming a published author was made all the more poignant by their accompaniment on the journey. Michael F. Donoghue lives in Ottawa, Canada.

