Root of Unity (21 page)

Halliday dropped her spoon, spattering broth across the pages, and snatched the ones I was holding, her mouth gaping wide. “Yes—of course! How did we not see that!”

“You weren’t thinking?”

She brushed me off and snatched at a pen, but Arthur picked it up first and moved it out of her reach. “Eat, Sonya. The proof will be here.”

“Arthur, no, you don’t understand—I have to get this down—” She pawed around for another writing utensil and started scrawling on the back of one of the proof papers.

Arthur gave up and glared at me. “Russell, no more talking math at meal times. You gals have got to take care of yourselves.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked, as innocently as I knew how. “I ate.”

It took a little over two weeks for Halliday and me to complete the math, and a few more days to smooth it out into something coherent and readable. I kept my contributions limited to heckling and oral explanations so all the handwriting would be hers. Arthur tried to get the NSA to allow Pilar in to typeset the TeX, but the Feds refused to let another civilian have eyes on the proof, so Halliday did it herself. We worked on a computer with no network connection, printed the proof, and then magnetized the hard drive of the computer.

“You’d think they’d want the digital copy,” I said.

“Think it’s a security thing,” Arthur answered. “Probably don’t want it digital until it’s behind enough sets of closed doors. Too easy for someone to copy it.”

I didn’t really care. This whole fiasco was over—well, over for us. We’d never figured out who’d stolen Halliday’s work in the first place, but the Feds had been very clear that it was their investigation now and that they would look unkindly on anyone stepping into it. Since the imminent danger to both the country and Halliday’s well-being were over, we’d agreed to let it go, which meant we were done. The Lancer and D.J. were still out there somewhere—their bodies hadn’t been found buried in the building we’d blown up—but the Feds had helped us there, too; they’d continued going after the Lancer with the fury of a thousand avenging angels, and last we’d heard Interpol had reported intelligence he was somewhere in Croatia. I wasn’t convinced we’d seen the last of them, as they probably craved some violent vengeance against us if nothing else. But Halliday’s proof was a whole lot less valuable now, so maybe we wouldn’t be worth the trouble.

The afternoon we put on the final touches, Halliday and I sat out on the deck of the safe house, staring at the neatly completed proof stacked between us. I was drinking tequila out of the bottle and appreciating the fact that my various recent injuries had all mostly healed. She had a glass of ginger ale.

“When’s the switchover happening?” I asked. I was exhausted, but something felt…good about finishing this. Complete. Like it had been a job that meant something.

“Xiaohu’s coming by tomorrow morning, and I’ll be passing it off to him.” Halliday smiled. “He was giddy as a schoolboy when he told me they’d cleared him to take custody. I think a promotion might be in his future.”

“He seems like a good guy,” I said.

“Yes. And he reminds me…” She stood and wandered over to the railing. “He reminds me of why we do this. Of how amazing this is, what we are a part of, what we can build. He reminds me to love it. Sometime between the kidnapping and the government custody I had lost that.”

I stood up and joined her, still suffused with good feeling. “Well, you did it. I…it’s a marvelous result. I don’t think I ever told you that.” I clinked my bottle against her glass. “Congratulations, Professor.”

“It is marvelous, isn’t it?” Her eyes were shining. “Thank you, Miss Russell, for…for giving me this. For everything, but—for this especially.” She huffed a laugh. “Is that wrong, that rebuilding my work was the most important part to me?”

I shrugged. “It’s math, right?”

“It’s math,” she repeated reverently.

We sipped for a moment in silence.

“I wish you would let me add you as an author,” Halliday said, gazing out into the woods. “This will be history, some day, and it’s your work, too.”

“Nice of you,” I said, “but it isn’t. I filled in the gaps, but those were your leaps, every one of them.” I raised the bottle. “To a job well done.”

She didn’t toast, instead speaking very quickly. “Collaborate with me.”

I spewed tequila all down my front, my good feeling evaporating like a popped soap bubble. “
What?”

“We work well together. Keep collaborating with me.”

I shrank away from her. The cool mountain afternoon was suddenly too hot and close. “What are you talking about? No!”

“I don’t—I don’t understand,” she faltered.

“This isn’t what I do, okay?” I snapped. I backed away from her until I hit the other rail. “It’s fine for you, but it’s not for me. Not ever. No.”

“But why not?” Her voice rose, disturbed and hurt. “I asked Arthur—he said you don’t work, not that he knows of—you don’t publish—why not?”

“Why
not?”
I cried. “Why
would
I?”

She stepped over and literally got in my face. “Because the type of talent you have—not to use it is tragic!”

“I use it!”

“You know what I mean.” Her face tightened, her anger personal. “When I think what you could give—the advancements—I know it’s not a matter of interest; you clearly keep up with the field. If it’s money you need, I can get you a research position—”

“It’s not money,” I said.

“Please.” Her voice cracked on the word. “I’m pleading with you. What you could bring to mathematics—you can’t walk away. You can’t.”

“It’s my life,” I said, slamming down the tequila bottle on the rail. “I sure as hell can.” I turned and pushed off the deck, down the stairs, and away from the house.

Chapter 21

Professor Halliday’s
words echoed in my ears all the way back to my current apartment, as if my skull were empty with only her voice rattling around inside.

Collaborate with me. We work well together.

I shook my head, violently, as if that would fling the words out, make me forget what we had just done.

I went inside and sat down at my table. I had some printouts on it, some journal papers I’d been reading before this case started. A lifetime ago.

I picked one up. One of the latest advancements in number theory.

I glanced it over. I’d read to the end of this one already. The final conclusion included questions for future research.

Number theory.

Number theory was easy.
Piece of cake,
I told myself, the claim trembling even in my thoughts.

I looked at the questions, picked up a pen, and turned the sheet of paper over. The blank back stared up at me, ready to envelop me.

I put the pen against the paper. Considered the first question in the future research section.

Do the upper and lower bounds proved here for g(k) hold true for all n?

I could answer it. I should be able to answer it.

The white page mocked me. The faint outline the black ink on the front showed through: words, formulas, lemmas, equations—ones I hadn’t written. Such unassuming text, and suddenly so monumentally unreachable.

I had taken down a global conspiracy using mathematics.

I had survived a sniper shot using mathematics.

For fuck’s sake, I had just helped Professor Halliday complete her proof of one of the most fundamental results in modern complexity theory.

I was unbelievably, impossibly good.

The ballpoint pen dug through the page, stabbing a hole in it and indenting and blackening the tabletop beneath.

I could see patterns, build structures out of them. I could compute faster than anyone should be able to. I could connect the fucking dots when someone else laid the insights out in front of me.

But those insights themselves…the ones Halliday had drawn out, the brilliant jumps she had made, the ideas she had thought to use…

The leap of inspiration, the piece of my brain that made me a mathematician instead of a computer, I reached for it, and, and
nothing.
I groped as if for a phantom limb and found myself lost, with no touchstone, no mathematics.

Inspiration isn’t supposed to come every second,
I reminded myself. Was I being too paranoid? Used to seeing things so fast that I leapt to a conclusion something was wrong if the math took only a little more work?

I knew the answer even as I asked the question. Because I hadn’t always been like this, had I? I knew I hadn’t. A ghost of memory whispered by; I recalled the feeling of making connections as fast as I could write. I’d had the skill. Had the power.

And now I…didn’t. I was broken. And I hadn’t even realized it until this moment. I could understand, I could calculate, but I couldn’t create. I didn’t have the one most important skill that made me a human mathematician instead of…instead of a very slick computer.

My hand shook as I pressed on the pen, as I dug a trench into the table, tearing the paper, and then I flung the pen away from me with so much force it left a black slash on the wall before dropping to the floor. I scooped up the pages in front of me, tearing at them, shredding them. Cast the crumpled papers away as if they scorched me. My breath heaved. I felt a dizzying vertigo, as if the ground had just opened up and swallowed me into darkness, and I was floating, disoriented. Lost.

Mathematics was who I was. If I didn’t have math…then I had nothing.

The papers strewn across my table and floor grew monstrous, mocking. I bolted out of the apartment, down the steps, blindly trying to escape from the brokenness I carried inside me.

It had started to rain, the flat, drenching downpour LA got a handful of times out of the year, and it stuck my clothes and hair to me immediately, waterlogging the cloth against me and plastering it to my skin. The rain fit, somehow, the flood washing me away just as I so desperately felt everything else in me washing away. Dribbling out of me.

Leaving me empty. Desolate.

I didn’t know who I was anymore.

I found myself standing in the rain outside Checker’s house without remembering how I’d gotten there. The grayness of the sheeting rain combined with the grayness of the evening, but Checker’s living room window was a yellow square shining through the shadows; he wasn’t in the Hole for once. I trudged up the ramp onto his porch and rang the doorbell. My fingers were numb.

“Cas! Are you all right?”

Checker had swung open the door; he wore a dark green fleece and was backlit by a bright and warm entryway. I stood on the porch, shivering.

“My God, come in—you look like a drowned rat. Come in. Are you okay? There aren’t any bad guys chasing you or anything, are there?” He cast a quick and slightly nervous glance at the street behind me as he ushered me inside and shut the door.

I shook my head and stood still. I was dripping all over his floor. That was probably rude.

He touched my arm. “What’s going on? Are you okay?”

I kept dripping.

“Hey, um, let me get you a towel—and some clothes—hang on a sec—”

Within seconds he had thrust a thick towel and some folded sweats into my hands and was gently pushing me into the bathroom. “Get cleaned off; shower if you want to—you’re covered in mud—you’re okay, right? I mean physically? You don’t need a first-aid kit or anything?”

“No,” I said.

“Good, good, okay, then, uh, get dry, and I’ll, uh, I’ll make some tea or something, okay? You need anything else?”

“No,” I said, and shut the door.

I took a long shower, the steam scalding my skin raw. I didn’t know why I had come here. I didn’t know what I was doing.

When I came out, wrapped in the warmth of thick, dry clothes, Checker immediately thrust a hot mug into my hands. A half-sweet, half-spicy aroma spiraled up with the steam from the contents.

“It’s cider,” said Checker. “With, uh, some whiskey in it. It looked like you could use some. But if you want it without, I’ve got that, too. And I put some soup on; it’ll be another few minutes, though.”

I’d known Checker over two years and had no idea he was capable of being so domestic. I stood stupidly with the warm mug of cider in my hands.

“Cas.” He tugged gently at my wrist. “Come sit down, okay?”

I followed him into the living room and allowed him to ensconce me on his couch. He levered out of his chair to sit next to me; across from us, a black-and-white Western played on the flat screen, the volume muted. Tall, rugged white men squinted at each other and put meaningful hands on their six-shooters.

I can draw faster than that,
I thought. But I couldn’t do what really mattered.

“What happened?” said Checker softly.

I stared down into the cider. The steam coming off it burned my face and made my eyes water. “I think I lost something,” I said.

He waited.

“I don’t know if I can explain it,” I mumbled. “Working with Halliday…I hadn’t realized, before. I can’t…I used to be able to do that.”

“Do what?” asked Checker gently.

“The…the spark.” I wasn’t sure what to call it. “The leap…the inspiration, or intuition, or—I can’t…I can’t do it. I can’t do…math. Not real math. Not the type that counts.” My voice crackled around the edges.

He digested that. I wasn’t sure what I would do if he told me just to keep on, that he knew I could do it, or some bullshit like that. Or, worse, if he told me it wasn’t important, that lots of people couldn’t do it, that this was a minor thing, a nothing thing—because it didn’t
matter
if other people couldn’t; other people had husbands and wives and children and hobbies and passions and
lives,
but mathematics was the only thing I had, the only thing that made me worth anything at all. And the one piece of it that made me a
person
…it was gone.

“You’re sure?” Checker said finally.

“I know I used to be able to, a long time ago.” The admission took effort to force out. “And now I know I…can’t. I’m—I’m damaged, somehow.”

Checker reached over and took one of my hands off the mug to squeeze it in his. “I’m sorry,” he said.

I was sorry, too.