Root of Unity (26 page)

Do not try to remember under any circumstances.

I only knew that my brain had been right not to want to remember. I had been right, and here was the proof.

I didn’t text Checker to tell him I was coming. Instead, I busted into the Hole hard enough that the door banged against the computer towers behind it, the metal bruising the paint.

“Cas,” Checker said coldly, sitting back from his keyboard and crossing his arms, a set look on his face.

For some reason I hadn’t expected
him
to be upset with
me.
I’d expected him still to be in irritating pleading mode about looking into my past, worried and pestering. I was the one with the righteous anger about how he dared violate my privacy and my life; he was the one ignoring my feelings—right?

I suddenly remembered how he’d left my place earlier. How stiff he’d sounded.

How much that had hurt, for some reason I couldn’t explain.

The solid wall of fury I’d built up against him wavered.

I pulled out the note from my jacket pocket and threw it on one of his keyboards. “Here.”

He made no move to pick it up. “What is that?”

“A note. One I found, addressed to me.” Sort of.

He reached over and unfolded the paper. Read it. Looked back at me.

“I hope that’s enough to convince you to stop your little crusade,” I said snidely.

His eyes narrowed, studying me.

“What?” I demanded.

“I’m trying to decide whether I’m a good enough person not to say ‘I told you so,’” he said. “No, apparently not. I told you so.”

“Told me what, jackass?”

A slight frown appeared between his eyebrows. “I told you you’d lost your memory, and you didn’t believe me. You’re really messed up in the head about this, Cas.”

My thoughts screeched to a halt. I had gone from vehement, thorough denial to “Yeah, somehow my past is gone, but
nobody
is to look into it” without noticing. Something
was
wrong with me.

But it was something I obviously didn’t want to change.

“Well, apparently my brain knew enough to try to keep you from looking,” I snapped, trying to get back to a level of dignified fury at him. “Sounds like there’s a reason for me not to look. I respect my subconscious for protecting that.”

Checker was staring at me as if I had just announced the speed of light would henceforth be sixty miles per hour. “How can you say that?” he cried. “This is
you,
Cas! When is not knowing
ever
better than knowing?”

“This time,” I said. “You can consider me fully informed now. And I’m telling you—”

His phone buzzed. “It’s Arthur.” He picked up, leaving my rage whirling impotently. “What’s going on?…Okay, yeah…Yeah, of course.” He glanced up at me. “She’s here, actually.”

“Is he done making nicey-nice with the Feds?” I asked.

Checker ignored me. “Yeah, got it. I’ll let her know.” He hung up. “He says you should fill me in, presumably so he’s not talking where the NSA can potentially listen in on the cellular network, and then you need to get your ass back there and give a statement to the DHS before they decide you’re worthy of suspicion. What the hell is going on?”

I took a breath. Jesus, what was wrong with me? I was supposed to be working. I’d never let my personal problems bleed into a job before. Never let…

“Cas.” Checker reached out tentatively to touch the back of my hand. “We’ll figure things out, okay? Let’s table this for now and get whatever the government people want sorted before they bust in here looking for you. Okay? Now what’s happened?”

I forced everything back in its compartmentalized box, ignoring the edges and corners that stuck out jaggedly and jammed against the lid I tried to slam on them, and gave Checker the rundown of the past few hours. He searched for any security footage around Zhang’s house immediately, but there was no sign of Dr. Martinez. Either she’d been smart or she’d been lucky—either way, it made things easier for Arthur and his story.

“They’re probably going to drill you on the timeline,” said Checker. “To make sure you and Arthur and Professor Sonya all match. Make sure you’re clear on any time you had a phone call with anyone and on when you met up with Arthur, and on whatever you might have witnessed. I’ll help you. Cas?”

“Yeah.” I pulled my jacket tighter around me. My clothes were still wet from the sprinklers. “Yeah. Okay.”

♦ ♦ ♦

Arthur’s story
worked—well, at least insofar as the Feds eventually decided I didn’t know anything of value. They arrested Dr. Zhang, but Arthur had gotten the party line to him before turning him over, and he stuck to that story like gangbusters. The mess quickly evolved into a staring match between Halliday and the Feds, with her refusing to rewrite her proof
again
unless they let him off, and them disinclined to agree this time.

I didn’t care. I stayed as far away from the safe house as possible.

I thought about walking off this endless job entirely—quitting, letting Arthur keep looking into Martinez on his own if he wanted to bend over backward for Halliday. She didn’t want the damn proof back anyway, and finding someone only to demand an explanation and then possibly help hide her from the federal government—pro bono, no less—sounded like the most pointless commission ever. But every time I thought about quitting, a nudge in my brain reminded me exactly what would happen the moment I stopped working.

This wasn’t going to be like most spans of unemployment, which I dreaded only for their unfocused, alcohol-soaked monotony. This time…

This time, I was afraid. Afraid of what would happen once I lost the focus of a job. Afraid of what my own brain would do.

I kept working.

Checker and I had fallen into a fragile truce; we kept our conversations strictly to the case and never strayed off it. But the days stretched into weeks with no sign of Martinez—it was as if she’d disappeared off the face of the earth. I settled into a cycle of working myself to exhaustion with Checker in the Hole and then dropping into sleep on his couch when my muscles wouldn’t support me anymore. The extreme fatigue didn’t stop the nightmares, which, if anything, had worsened—cluttered with dangerous silhouettes and a horrible sense of urgency and failure, and a dark man I didn’t recognize who appeared over and over to plead:
Stop, Cassandra, stop, you have to
stop.

It wasn’t restful.

Arthur eventually felt safe enough to search Martinez’s apartment and office. He brought me whatever of her work he could find—it wasn’t much, and it only took me a few glances through to see it was all old notes, research that had gone circular. Any true breakthroughs we found were ones Martinez had already published.

“Looks like she had stuff missing,” Arthur said, standing behind me at Checker’s kitchen table where we’d spread out her notes. “Maybe she took the current stuff with her.”

“Maybe she’s an old, washed-up mathematician who can’t do her own research anymore, so she started stealing other people’s,” I said, leafing through a stack of clearly recreational notebooks. Martinez had apparently enjoyed playing cryptographic games with people—long strings of pattern matching broke down into keys pages later, and she had one notebook of zany code ideas and another filled with sheets of letters. I strongly suspected that last one was a booklet of one-time pads, cryptographic keys of perfect security to be shared between only two people.

Arthur watched as I flipped. After a few minutes he dug into his pocket and held out a sheet of white paper that had been folded so many times it had been creased into a tiny square. “Did also find this on the table. It’s a note to Sonya.”

I unfolded it. Martinez’s handwriting was cramped and meandering; she didn’t stay to horizontal lines but wrote in slanting angles and curled around the edges of the paper.
My dear Sonya,
the note began.
I have done a terrible thing…I destroyed everything you have worked for. The world is dust, I made mathematics dust, your mathematics, our mathematics…I wish I knew whether you could forgive me. I do not know if I will be able to forgive myself. ‘Forgiveness’ is such an emotional term, is it not? When I say I do not know if I will be able to forgive myself, I mean that in the most literal terms, as I do not know if ‘forgiveness’ is the right word: I am lacking definitions, and I find myself lost. But I digress…perhaps I can still apologize in the absence of fault, that I broke your world. I am sorry.

The note rambled on in much the same vein, without paragraph breaks, until it ran itself up against the bottom corner of the page. There it was signed,
With love, also ill-defined but here applicable by hypothesis, Rita.

“Can’t make head or tails of most of it, but sounds like she’s sorry,” said Arthur. “You think she ain’t mean to do nothing with Sonya’s proof after all?”

“Or she already did it, and that’s why she’s apologizing,” I pointed out. “It could be we just haven’t seen the fallout yet.”

He sighed heavily and folded the note back up to tuck in a pocket. “I’ll bring it to Sonya.” He turned to go, then came back and leaned on the table. “Do me a favor?”

“I thought I was already doing you one,” I said, not entirely without bitterness. “Isn’t this whole job a favor?”

He huffed out a breath. “Talk to Checker?”

Fury clawed up in me, shockingly hot, clogging my head until my scalp prickled with it.

Arthur twitched back. “Not about that, Russell. Not talking about you. I swear.”

I clamped my jaw down on what I had been about to say. “What, then?” I growled through my teeth.

Arthur hesitated, his fingers pressing against the laminated pine of the tabletop. “This thing with the Lancer. Was hard on him.”

“It was hard on
him?”
I repeated. “Excuse me, was he shot at and locked up and also almost blown to pieces three separate times?”

“He could use a friend, ’s all I’m saying.” He made a vague gesture and headed out the door.

I turned and leaned my head against the wall. Arthur had too high expectations of me, as always. I wasn’t in any condition to be a friend to anyone. I’d
never
been very good at being a friend to anyone.

Scraps of memory sparked from the past few weeks. Checker updating me on Interpol’s reports. Checker asking oblique questions about the explosives lab I’d seen. Checker telling me he’d checked and that the Lancer had submitted dozens of fallacious proofs of the P versus NP problem—all with different conclusions—to various places, thus confirming his obsession.

I’d figured the updates were just because he was curious, or keeping tabs for us, as he did. Or, hell, I hadn’t figured at all—I hadn’t even thought about it.

Fuck. I pushed off the wall and went out to the Hole.

“Hey, Cas.” Checker had dark circles under his eyes, and his hair was shaggy and spiky with sweat. I hadn’t noticed before now, but he’d been matching me hour for hour in our push to find Martinez. And it wasn’t like I was getting a healthy amount of sleep.

I glanced over his shoulder, and he blanked the screen, asking, “What’d Arthur say?”

“Eastern Europe.” I responded to what I’d seen him looking at instead of the question. “There’s no reason to think Martinez is there. Arthur’s right; you’re still looking for the Lancer.”

He was silent for a moment. “So what if I am? He’s dangerous. He very well might come after you and Professor Sonya again.”

Far too slowly, shreds of a conversation with Pilar came back to me. It felt as if I was dredging them up from a lifetime ago. “The Lancer,” I said. “Or…the little guy blowing up all the buildings. D.J. You went up against them before?”

Checker’s hand froze on his mouse. “Who?”

“The Lancer had a pyro expert. Short, black, rotund, way too excited about dynamite. Someone you know?”

Checker still hadn’t moved. “You didn’t tell me.”

“It, uh, it slipped my mind.” I swallowed. Guilt nibbled at me. I had the distinct impression Checker had tried to say something to me about this before, and Pilar certainly had, and I…well, it somehow never occurred to me that I should try to be a friend
back.
“Do you need a hand? We’re not making much headway on Martinez; if you want to—”

Checker moved his hands too quickly, and the keyboard banged against the desktop. “Did Arthur put you up to this?”

“What? No!” I rewound what I had already let slip. “Well, he said—”

“
God,
typical.” He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “Arthur and his goddamn need to fix everything.”

I was confused. And stung. “If you need help—”

“Arthur thinks if we all share and bond we’ll end up singing kumbaya and it will all be hunky-dory,” Checker interrupted loudly. He was staring at his hands, not looking at me. “Cas, I don’t know who you are, and that wouldn’t be such a problem, except
you
don’t know who you are, and that scares the ever-living shit out of me.”

I took a step back.

“Something happened to you, and we have no idea what, or—for all we know you could be a ticking time bomb. We have no idea whether—”

“That’s not fair,” I said. “You can’t tell me you know every little thing that has ever affected you—and if we’re talking about Pithica, Arthur was just as much—”

“I’m not done! This isn’t about me being afraid for me, or for Arthur, or for anyone else, even though God knows I am. I’m afraid for
you,
Cas. Can you understand that? At all? You can’t ask me to be friends with you and watch you ignore this!”

“Who said you have to?” The words were out before I could think about them, ugly and saw-toothed. “If you don’t like being friends with me, fine. No one’s forcing you.”

“Oh, fuck you, Cas.” He sounded bitter and frayed and exhausted. “Do you even know why you can do what you do? You are
not possible.
And you can’t remember why, or how you ended up here, or if there’s any sort of reason tangled up with you shooting people without asking questions or having a drug and alcohol dependence Bane would envy—”

“If you have a problem with the way I do things—”

“
You
should have a problem with the way you do things! Or at least with the fact that you have no idea why you do them! What are you going to do, hop from job to job and grab for more dangerous fixes until you get killed doing one or the other? Is that your goal in life?”