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fellow well into his twenties who had never quite grown up: a tousled mass of blonde hair, thin shoulders and thinner hips with barely a hint of muscle tone, bright green eyes, and a sharp British nose. But appearances can be deceiving, Simon told himself. No one would guess that this young man was the single brightest student that Oxford’s College of Robotics had seen in more than twenty years. Hayden thought so, and Simon’s own experience with the boy had proven him right. They were more than happy to let him stay on for a few extra years, just to enjoy the benefits of his remarkable brain.
    “Never mind then. Andrew, take a seat. Simon, you’re here for a reason. I know that. Now sit down and spill your guts.”
    Still, Simon hesitated. He didn’t want to look Hayden straight in the eye, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to mention this all in front of Andrew.
    As usual, Hayden anticipated him. “You can trust him,” he said, tilting his head toward the grad student. “I do. And trust me, there’s plenty to trust him with around here.”
    Simon thought about it for a moment as he stared at the chessboard, then came to a decision.
    All right then, he told himself. Then he looked at his father’s best friend and said, “Hayden, I think Dad is still alive.”
    Hayden lifted his sky-blue eyes and looked directly into Simon for the first time. Those eyes had always terrified him a little. They could see so much—too much, actually.
    “Simon,” he said patiently. “We’ve been over this. Shit happens, and your old man got himself caught in a hurricane full of it.”
    Andrew sat silent and nearly motionless, watching them both with eyes as big as an owl’s. Clearly, this was important.
    “No.”
    “Yes. I talked to the university, to UNED, and to the authorities who certified his death. I’m telling you, Simon, he—”
    Without another word, Simon took out the black memory card that Jonathan had given him, squeezed the corners just so, and put it on two of the empty squares on the chessboard. Instantly, a black cube almost a meter square blossomed in the air above the table, and Oliver’s head emerged from its darkness.
    “What the bloody hell is this?” Hayden demanded.
    “Cool…” Andrew said, as fascinated with the technology as the face that was forming in front of him.
    “Just watch,” Simon told him.
    “Whoever sees this,” Oliver said to a spot just to the right of the scientist, “if anyone does: please get it to my son, Simon Fitzpatrick…”
    None of them said a word as Oliver’s speech unreeled. Simon adjusted his seat so he could watch Hayden rather than the image of the back of his father’s head, and cast uncertain glances at the grad student. Andrew was clearly in awe of what he was seeing, but Hayden’s expression was unreadable…though he visibly flinched when Oliver barked out his hollow, entirely artificial laugh: “Ha. Ha.”
    A beat after the image faded away, the black cube collapsed into the card.
    “Wow,” Andrew said, almost breathless.
    Hayden looked up at the younger man, blue eyes burning. “What do you want me to say?”
    “There’s more.”
    Hayden’s eyes flickered up to meet his. “More?”
    Simon pulled the small black book from the inner pocket of his jacket. “Here.”
    Hayden leafed through it rapidly, his long, thin fingers trembling slightly—whether from excitement or rage, Simon couldn’t say. He seemed to absorb every page with the single blink of an eye. “It’s a chess diary,” he said, surprised.
    “Yes.”
    Hayden had been one of Oliver’s closest friends and most challenging chess opponents for more than ten years. Simon suddenly wondered if the games recorded in the little black book were ones that his father and Hayden had played together.
    “Your dad never kept diaries…” Hayden said. He paused to absorb another game completely; it took him only moments. “Though maybe he should have. He might have beaten me more