Root of Unity

by SL Huang

  Of course, intentionally exposing myself like that for long enough meant the Lancer would eventually catch up to me. He’d put together all my identities and figure out I’d double-crossed him. If he won the cat-and-mouse game, he’d probably chop off my legs and keep me in a dark hole until I reproduced both Halliday’s and Martinez’s proofs myself.

  And I couldn’t expect any backup on this one. Rio would never be able to get here fast enough, and the Lancer had already proven his ability to hide from Checker, even if Checker and Arthur would be willing to come after me—and if it was just me in the crosshairs, I didn’t think it all that likely they’d be motivated to do a damn thing. Not when the reason this was all going wrong was my own insistence on hounding after Martinez; not when I’d been the one to put her at risk. Not when this was all my own fuckup.

  I could almost hear Arthur saying something about consequences.

  So be it.

  I called Tegan and got him to mock up cards and documents in four identities: a solid set of papers for Rita Martinez in a new name that she could use to disappear, and then some cards in the names of Rita Martinez, Cassandra Russell, and the alias Checker had used for me the first time we’d dangled me in front of the Lancer. I’d have to come up with ways people on the run would plausibly use those cards. Maybe an emergency ATM withdrawal somewhere, or a mixture of plane tickets to all different cities as if we were trying to get people off our trail—only I’d use a library terminal that could be traced back, and check out border crossings into Mexico at the same time. More ATM withdrawals to get cash, maybe a credit card used to reserve a rental car…

  I didn’t think I had to be too subtle; the Lancer would have to check it out regardless. Hopefully, by the time he tracked me down, Martinez would be long gone.

  And then what? Best case scenario was that I beat up his goons every time they came after me and eventually got a chance to shoot the man himself. Worst case scenario…

  Worst case scenario was also the most likely scenario: he wasn’t going to underestimate me this time. Worst case scenario was that he nabbed me and then still went after Martinez and Halliday without anyone being able to stop him. After all, the NSA hadn’t been able to find him, either.

  A stray thought flickered through my brain, and I stopped breathing. Regardless of what happened to me, I could make sure the Lancer got brought down. I could make sure he’d never come after anyone again. I could make absolutely sure the DHS caught up with him, took him by surprise, and dropped the hammer on his fucking head.

  It would mean I’d have to call Arthur and ask him for help—not just for backup, but help. And it would mean I’d have to willingly fuck myself over even more than I’d planned to.

  I laughed hollowly. I wasn’t sure which of those things I dreaded more.

  I rolled my phone back and forth in my hand. For this to work, I’d have to let myself get caught again, instead of leading the Lancer on a merry chase. And this time, who knew what he would do to me before I got him taken down? What if he took me out of the country, buried me somewhere outside U.S. jurisdiction, somewhere impossible to get to? If the Feds kept up their protective detail on Halliday, and if Martinez successfully dropped off the map again, then Arthur and the government task force would have no urgency in hunting him. I’d have sold myself down the river with no one harboring the least incentive to come drag me back, not the Feds and not Arthur.

  You don’t trust him, said Halliday’s voice in my head.

  Of course I didn’t. But it wasn’t Arthur’s fault, really, because…well, look what kind of person I was. I’d done the extreme opposite of what he’d asked, going after Martinez anyway, going after her with every intention of locking her up until she gave me her proof, and using a man we already knew was a vicious murderer to do it. If nobody else was in jeopardy, why would Arthur feel the need to help clean up after me?

  Why would he set it as a priority to go out of his way to help, to leverage his relationship with the Feds to extract me from a shit show that was all my own making? This wasn’t even karma; it was cause and effect. Play with matches and you’ll get burned. And don’t expect anyone to run in with a fire extinguisher and save you in the final act.

  Maybe I could present it as business. A deal that would make sense for Arthur on Halliday’s behalf, even though I’d be the only one at risk. If he said no, I didn’t have to do it. Didn’t have to get myself caught. Once I got Martinez out of danger I could just keep running, baiting the Lancer away, watching for the opportunity to shoot back.

  And if I got caught anyway…

  Well, that was the danger of playing with matches, wasn’t it?

  I dialed Arthur. The phone rang through to voicemail.

  I hung up and stared at it, my mind going momentarily blank. I honestly hadn’t envisioned that as a possibility.

  I dialed Checker. He almost always answered his phone, but his number rang through to voicemail, too.

  Shit.

  I texted them both with my current phone number, telling them to call me back urgently, and drove out to Tegan’s to pick up my nicely forged documents and cards. Neither had called by the time I returned, and I was running out of time.

  So this was what it felt like to be persona non grata.

  As a last resort I dialed Arthur’s office number, the landline.

  “Arthur Tresting Investigations.”

  It was Pilar. Of course it was Pilar; she ran the office. For some reason I hadn’t considered she would be the one to answer.

  “Hello?” she said, when I hadn’t spoken.

  “It’s Cas.” I wasn’t sure whether I’d said it fast enough to catch her before she hung up.

  “Cas!” she cried. “Oh, thank God. We’ve been worried sick.”

  We? “I was trying to reach Arthur,” I said. “He didn’t pick up his cell.” Because he’s avoiding me.

  “Oh, yeah, he’s out right now taking care of something; he warned me he might be out of cell range. But he’s going to be sorry he missed you.”

  “Right,” I said, almost under my breath.

  “He will! He was just asking me if I’d heard from you. Everyone’s worried. Are you okay?”

  “They’re not worried; they’re mad at me,” I said.

  “What? No, they’re not!”

  “Why aren’t they picking up their phones, then?”

  “Okay, maybe a little, but—”

  A little? If that was true, it was only because they didn’t know what I’d done since last seeing them.

  “But—but that’s not why—well, I told you, Arthur’s out, and it’s probably just coincidence if you can’t reach Checker. Maybe he’s finally sleeping or something—I hope so. Come on, you know they’re not passive aggressive people; they’re not ignoring you!”

  I bit my lip.

  “Cas? Are you okay?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Sorry, but you don’t sound like it. Are you sure? Is something wrong?”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “Listen. It doesn’t matter if Arthur and Checker are mad at you, you know that, right? If you’re in trouble, they’ll drop everything. You know that.”

  I did?

  “Cas, are you? In trouble?”

  I hung up on her, pressing the button on the phone so hard my hand cramped.

  I’d never wanted to depend on other people, because when it came down to it, other people could let me down, and I had no control over it. Or I would do something, something unimaginably awful, like help a killer track down an elderly woman, and then…they would turn away, and there would be good reason.

  I’d always assumed one of those things would happen, eventually. Been subconsciously preparing for it, emotionally.

  But what if I was wrong? What if Pilar was telling the truth?

  No matter what they think of you now, when they hear what you did…

  It was hard to believe Arthur wouldn’t think it justice, for me to correct what I’
d done by sacrificing myself. He’d think it fitting. Wouldn’t he?

  Faith, Professor Halliday had said. I might not be good at reading people, but even I could see from the giant neon signs between the lines that she and Arthur had been estranged for years. And yet, when she’d called, he’d come. When she’d tried to push him away, he’d insisted.

  When she’d asked him to trust her, he had.

  Of course, he’d known her since they were five years old. Did I really merit that kind of loyalty? He and Checker had already chosen Halliday over me.

  That’s not fair, I chastised myself. You know that’s not fair. It had been Halliday’s work, Halliday’s friend, Halliday’s case.

  I thought about Arthur driving to pick me up injured out of the desert dust, a year ago, after I’d gotten someone killed. I thought about standing outside Checker’s house, in the rain, and I thought about the fact that he’d let me in.

  Faith, Halliday had said.

  Faith.

  I picked up the phone and dialed Checker again. His phone was more secure and the voicemail wouldn’t cut me off. “I need help,” I whispered. I tried to gather my thoughts, tried to figure out what to say. “I did something stupid, and I need…I need help.”

  I talked for several minutes after that, stumbling through the thickness in my throat.

  Then I hung up the phone, took a breath, and got in the car. I had one more stop to make before going after Martinez, before I hustled her back into hiding and then willingly put myself in the hands of a morally bankrupt crime lord.

  All on the tenuous thread of trust that Arthur and Checker would get my message and do what I’d asked.

  Vertigo suffused me, like I was tumbling off a ledge to plummet without any promise of a net. I jammed my foot to the floor all the way out to the desert, purposely not thinking of what I was headed out there to retrieve.

  Chapter 33

  I arrived in Hollywood a few hours early—the Lancer might already be waiting, and I had to get Martinez out of here the moment she popped up. I sat in a coffee shop by a window and let my vision unfocus over the crowds. I’d only met Martinez the one time, but I was reasonably sure I’d still be able to recognize the individual mathematics of her posture and stride to pick her out of the throng.

  The sun set, but the bright cheeriness of enticing storefronts blazing across the street made it as easy to see as in the daytime. I watched and waited.

  At a little before half-past eight, Rita Martinez appeared.

  She had on a shapeless sweater covering bulky layers of clothing and a scarf over her hair, and huge sunglasses that disguised her features. She wandered toward the concert hall, sat down on a bench, and checked her watch.

  I stood and slipped out of the coffee shop, keeping my eyes on her.

  Pedestrian traffic flowed by her. She looked around and then checked her watch again. She crossed and uncrossed her ankles. Then, before I was halfway to her, she stood and walked over to the ticket window at the concert hall, handed in some cash, and toddled inside.

  I stopped, frustrated. Why on earth was she going into a concert? Because you told her ten p.m., and she allowed too much margin for error and doesn’t want to sit in the open on a bench for an hour and a half.

  Great.

  I could find a way to break in, but the path of least resistance would be faster. Fortunately, I always kept a large amount of cash on my person. I marched up to the window. “I need a ticket for tonight.”

  The little old man behind the window paused in the act of closing up. “We still do have some mezzanine seats. I can sell you one, but…” His eyes glanced up and down at my cargo pants and combat boots, and I wondered if he was about to quote a dress code at me. I tried to remember the last time I’d showered, and couldn’t. “But the performance has already started,” he continued. “You’ll have to wait for an usher to seat you.”

  “That’s all right,” I said, shoving money at him.

  An honest entrant for once, I pushed through the door and into the concert hall. Martinez was nowhere in sight—she must’ve been seated already.

  Only mezzanine seats left, the attendant had said. I climbed the broad staircase in front of me, my boots soundless on the luxurious carpeting.

  An usher stood sentinel near the top of the stairs. I waited until she glanced away and then slipped by her. Classical music poured out when I opened the door, but I was inside before the usher could turn around.

  The mezzanine was only sparsely filled. I slid into the nearest empty seat and waited for my eyes to adjust, the rich acoustics of the symphony swelling around me. Then I studied the rows of heads in front of me, measuring heights and eliminating hairstyles.

  There. There she was.

  Martinez was a few rows back from the more populated section at the front of the mezzanine, a small, squat silhouette in the darkness. Keeping low, I slipped out of my seat and forward, then down the row so I could sink onto the red velvet of the seat next to her.

  She was perched straight-backed and alert but staring at nothing, twiddling her fingers against each other along with the music. The movements were jerky and almost fanciful, like she was a witch incanting over a nonexistent cauldron.

  “Professor,” I said softly. “Remember me?”

  She ignored me. The music swelled, bursting to a climax.

  “I was working with Professor Halliday,” I said. “We discovered what you proved. We know.”

  Cymbals crashed. The violins screamed across the scale.

  “Sonya,” said Martinez. Her voice was a grandmother’s voice, scratchy yet delighted, tired but mischievous. “She was always too smart for her own good, was Sonya. I’m sorry for what I’ve done to her.”

  “We’re not the only ones who know,” I said. Thanks to me.

  Her head bobbed up and down, resigned. “The NSA?”

  “No. None of us told the government; even Dr. Zhang kept you a secret. But the men who had Halliday before—they’re coming. They know you’re here. They—” I swallowed, wondering if or how I should reveal my own part in it. “They don’t really have Halliday again; she’s safe with the Feds. They were just saying that to get you back here.”

  “I suspected.” The slightest sigh escaped her. “But in the expectation calculation, Sonya’s life has infinite value. I had to come.”

  It was so like something I would say.

  I slid the envelope of clean documents out of my jacket. “Here. Use these to disappear again. Check in with Halliday later; let us know you’re—let us know you’re safe.” I clenched my mouth shut. I shouldn’t have said that last bit. But even after everything, I couldn’t bear the thought of her disappearing entirely again. I had to leave that window open, that sliver of hope we could find another way, a better way, for her to fix me. “Go now, Professor.”

  She made no move to take the envelope. The music paused, holding its breath, then dove into a smooth, slow river of sound.

  “The second movement,” whispered Martinez. “The andante. Mozart was a perfecter, you see. Haydn the inventor; Mozart the perfecter. The perfect symphony. Almost half a hundred of them.”

  I had no idea what she was talking about. Arthur was the classical music buff. “Professor, did you hear what I said? They know you’re in Los Angeles. They’re coming—”

  “I think I could do it.”

  I closed my eyes and forced myself to patience. I couldn’t drag her out of here; we’d make a scene. “Do what?” I bit out.

  “Write one,” she answered. “Write a Mozart. I think I could quantify my appreciation sufficiently.”

  And then it hit me. If you can verify, you can solve. So if you could appreciate…you could create.

  Martinez’s proof potentially let her solve any problem in the universe. It could lift the veil from any spark of human inspiration, including Mozart.

  Potentially.

  “I think maybe I should do that,” she said quietly. “Just once, before I die. To see
how it feels. The world might like another Mozart. Do you think?”

  “It doesn’t matter right now,” I said, even though nothing had ever mattered more, in the grand scheme of things.

  She lifted her hands and took the envelope from me, cradling it as if it were something fragile.

  “If you’ve been using any credit cards, give them to me now, and then go,” I said.

  A disturbing frisson ran through the orchestra. Martinez didn’t seem to notice, but I did. The mathematical rhythm was off, the pitches ever so slightly discordant as their frequencies failed to line up in pleasing ratios. Something was wrong.

  “Get out of here, now,” I hissed, grabbing Martinez by the elbow and heaving her to her feet.

  There was a shuffling down below, in the packed orchestra section. The planes of music from the stage were sliding apart, offset, the harmonies gliding further and further apart.

  The shuffling got louder. Someone a few rows in front of us coughed, and whispers rose across the mezzanine. I dragged Martinez toward the door.

  The music finally collapsed, jaggedly trailing into silence, the whispers from below becoming shouts and cries. We reached the door and I yanked on it only to find it barred from the other side.

  That’s okay, I thought. That’s okay; a proper application of force—snap off the door handles, the screws will pop—

  I tried to draw back to kick and almost fell, my foot impacting limply against the hinge like a soggy French fry.

  The people in the mezzanine were staggering up now, climbing over each other, a faceless, clawing mass.

  “Gonna get…trampled…” The voice sounded like mine, but I didn’t remember speaking. The voice was right, though—the rest of the audience was going to maul us trying to get to the door, the door that wouldn’t open—

  Martinez lolled against me and started to sit down. I heaved her back up and half-threw us into the last row of seats, covering her body with mine. Someone kicked me in the head with a high heel as we went down. Someone else stepped on my hand.