The Passion of Ivan Rodriguez

By Hayden Trenholm

". . . a heady mix of big ideas from across multiple disciplines wrapped up in a fast-paced, thoughtful, and character-rich story." — Robert J. Sawyer, Hugo Award-winning author of The Oppenheimer Alternative

 

After decades of stability, climate stresses, never far from the surface, are bringing droughts, crop failures, and massive storms. The world's end—avoided once, centuries before—seems likely to succeed the second time.

 

Scientist Sarah Nahanni has a possible solution, but the math is daunting and the number of mathematicians willing or even able to solve the equations is very small. With the ancient satellites failing and the roads filled with hostile armies, the path to recovery seems lost.

 

Far to the south, Ivan Rodriguez, an unlikely genius, is on the run from the death squads of his feudal overlords, his head full of fears for his family and mathematical dreams of a better future. He holds the key to Sarah Nahanni's problem and would help—if only he knew she existed and he could reach her in time.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tyche Books
• Release date: Aug 8, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223236832

Book preview

Chapter 1

July 2366

Sarah Nahanni resisted the urge to punch the screen on her desk. It would be a futile gesture. The field model was virtually indestructible and, in any case, the application of force was not going to change the results for the better. It seldom does, she thought. And if she did manage to crack the screen, it might take months—even years—to get a replacement.

She scrolled up to the beginning of the output. The initial readings were precisely what her equations predicted but within a few lines they deviated, spiking below critical levels before trailing off to zero. Energy was being produced but not at the levels required, and not sustainably. Whatever was happening in the cyclotron buried at the bottom of the old mine shaft, it was not what her math predicted: a steady flow of clean sustainable energy.

Maybe the technicians screwed up the initial conditions or maybe the thing had some design flaw that prevented the reaction from reaching its potential. Her father’s voice came back to her: It’s a poor hunter that blames his rifle for the failure of the hunt. Sarah’s shoulders slumped. Something was wrong with her calculations, something she couldn’t see. Maybe even something she couldn’t understand.

No, she said, as if voicing it aloud could make it true. I know I’m right.

I’m sure you are, too. David March’s voice startled her. He was standing in the door to the lab. His lanky frame filled half of the opening and his bush of flame red hair brushed the lintel. Of all the scientists working in the Centre, he was the one who really believed in her project. But our certainty isn’t going to persuade the Director. Did the latest results show any progress?

The energy spike was higher than any of the previous trials; maybe that would be enough to convince the Director—or if not her, the Board—to continue to allocate scarce resources.

A little, she said, smiling up at him, but she suspected he saw right through it.

March held up a sheaf of filmy paper. Maybe this will improve your day. The gang in Finland have made some progress on the alignment problem. We had a window open so I’ve already sent it on to Argentina. If we can find another satellite, I’ll pass it on to Chongqing, as well. Maybe they can make something of it.

Meaning I can’t.

I didn’t say that, Sarah. David frowned. In fact, I didn’t even think it. He put the papers on Sarah’s already crowded desk.

You didn’t mention Denver.

David flushed, bringing the freckles across his cheeks and nose into high relief. Denver is still silent. Either Barker is having another of his spells or . . . His voice trailed off.

Neither of them wanted to voice the alternative. Rumours of a new general taking control of the Nueva Republica Horde had been circulating for months. Denver didn’t have much but it did have water, remnants of a dam system built in the late 21st century; water was the one thing no one could live without, making it a prime target for the horde.

Sarah looked out at the lake. From the third floor, the turquoise water of Yellowknife Bay was visible past the scrubby pines that clung to the side of the rocky hill that rose above it. Colourful houseboats, equipped with rooftop solar panels, were strung out along the shore, and, to the right, the bay opened onto the choppy waters of Great Slave Lake, their greatest resource and staunchest bulwark against invasion. To the left, the familiar line of Latham Island led up from the old village of N’Dilo, where she had been born, past the quirky architecture of the neighbourhood called Old Town—though as far as she knew it was not much older than the rest of the city—to the dozen or so high-rises that dominated the downtown.

The sun was high in the bright blue sky, a welcome relief from the smoke that had drifted in from the forest fires farther west the previous week. She knew that, by all accounts, they were lucky to have all they had, but it all hung on a knife’s edge. We lost so much in the crash, she thought, so much information, so much science, so many good people. We’ve barely started to put things back together and, already, others are trying to pull it apart.

It gets worse, Sarah, said David, still slouching in the doorframe. We’ve heard nothing from High Level for thirty-six hours.

Maybe a radio tower’s gone down. The forest fires or, maybe, a lightning strike.

Maybe. But Enterprise station says they got no response on the semaphore relay. They sent a courier but he hasn’t come back.

But if High Level is gone . . .

The President has already sent extra troops to Fort Resolution. And ordered our people back from the outposts.

Everyone?

Henry and a few others volunteered to stay behind in Enterprise to run the relays.

Hank. Always trying to prove he was good enough. Why couldn’t he just come home?

Chapter 2

July 2366

The crowd gathered in the small square of Hidalgo waited silently for the Baron’s Voice to recover her breath. It was a long run up from Fontana and her face was still red from the exertion and the heat as she pulled the scroll from her pouch. Ivan Rodriguez knew it would be posted on the board outside the police station where he, and a few others, could read it but he preferred to hear the proclamations with the rest. He glanced over at his wife, Micah, the source of all his strength. If he was going to bring about change, he needed to be seen as part of the community. He recited in his head the numbers that always calmed him, the numbers he suspected underlay everything he could see and feel. Zero, one, one, two, three, five . . .

The woman held up a medal, a copy of the Baron’s own seal, so those gathered on the dusty stones could see it. The last light of the setting sun glinted off the copper as she turned a slow circle. She hung the medal around her neck and unrolled the scroll.

I speak for Baron Pérez; when you hear my voice, it is as if he were speaking himself.

Ivan doubted the Baron spoke in such a rich contralto but he understood the power of symbolism . . . eight, thirteen, twenty-one, thirty-four . . . . He ignored the throbbing pain in his left knee and pushed to the front of the small crowd of men and women, motioning Micah to stay back. She didn’t and a smile quirked his lips. He stood straight, directly in front of the Baron’s spokesperson, refusing to bow his head. He was pleased to see that some of the others were following his lead.

The woman frowned but began reading the words on the scroll. I require ten workers for a project on the dyke wall in San Ber’dino. The sheriff will conduct a lottery of all citizens between the ages of 15 and 50. The lottery will be held at noon tomorrow, witnessed by my Voice; the lucky winners will be escorted by my representative and an armed escort to the worksite.

Lucky winners, Ivan tried not to let his contempt show too clearly on his face. That was a new one, even for Pérez. As if the armed escort wasn’t to keep the winners from running away . . . fifty-five, eighty-nine, one hundred forty-four . . . Ivan smiled then. A dozen dozen was fair commentary on the Baron’s lies.

The spokesperson glared at the crowd. The sheriff put his hand on his holster and scowled at Ivan. He didn’t flinch but he didn’t return the stare either. Ivan had learned the hard way about the limits of disobedience.

Eventually they got what they wanted: a smattering of applause and a raucous cheer from the usual sycophants. There was some pushing at the back, which the law did nothing to discourage. Ivan waited for a hard hand between his shoulder blades but, before it came, the Voice said: You will disperse to your homes and return here tomorrow for the lottery.

Trust the Baron to schedule a lottery for the monthly feast day. The best part of the afternoon would be gone by the time they finished and few would feel like celebrating with ten able-bodied workers gone on some fool mission, with the rest of the village expected to pick up the slack. Ivan doubted their quotas would be lowered to compensate.

As he and Micah made their slow way back to the apartment they shared with their two children, he couldn’t help but consider how the shifts could be rearranged to increase output. It was a simple enough calculation—involving fewer than a dozen variables—and by the time he had climbed the three flights of stairs to their four-room flat, he had worked it out for the next month. All he needed to do was persuade the foreman to implement it.

Carlos had a cough that wouldn’t go away; Delores, a rash on her belly and legs that embarrassed her when she went to the baths. Neither condition would keep them out of the lottery. At least Micah—nearly eight months pregnant with their unexpected, but already loved, third child—was exempt. Ivan, with his damaged knee, could claim exemption, too. But he would place both his and Micah’s chit in the box to reduce, even marginally, the chances of either of his children being selected. Work on the dykes was hard and, as the storms of winter approached, sometimes dangerous. Labouring in the fields or workshops of the village was almost as arduous but, at least, he could intervene to keep Carlos and Delores from the worst assignments. As one of the few literates in the community and the keeper of its accounts, he had some small measure of influence and independence.

Ivan sometimes wondered at his facility with letters and numbers. He had had no more schooling than the rest of the villagers—less, in fact. Once they discovered he could already read better than most of the teachers and do four-figure multiplications in his head, he was withdrawn from school and sent to work. He supposed if he lived in a society that rewarded ability, like those in the books the Movement sometimes acquired and secretly circulated, he might have more than a waterless apartment on top of a ramshackle tenement. Instead, at 49, his body was already beginning to fail him, though his mind seemed to race faster and faster every day.

No matter. Work would not wait for idle speculation. While the rest of his family remained in bed, Ivan rose shortly after dawn to prepare the morning meal. He had bartered an improved design for a pump with a farmer in the hills for three extra rations of fruit and two eggs. Dolores had turned fifteen a few days before and Carlos turned eighteen before the next feast day, so this would serve as celebration for them both.

After the meal, he would have a meeting with some of the village leaders to plan the evening festival. The lottery might ruin most of the day but, Ivan was determined, they would still gather for music, food, and, if the sheriff and his men stayed away, a bit of watery homebrew.

He was basking in the smiles of his delighted family when he heard someone call his name.

Don’t, said Micah, but Ivan shook his head. He touched his finger to her lips and stood up.

Going to the window he looked down as one of the deputies bellowed Ivan Rodriguez a second time.

You know where I live, Tommy, he said, not unkindly. You don’t have to disturb the whole neighbourhood.

The deputy glanced at his shoes before lifting his head again. He tried to look fierce but the flush on his cheeks gave him away.

Ivan Rodriguez, you are summoned by the Baron’s Voice.

Now? We were just breaking our fast.

You are to come at once.

Ivan, what is it? Micah couldn’t keep the worry out of her voice.

It’s nothing. Probably something the Baron wants done at the festival tonight. Enjoy your food—but save me a piece of that apple. Ivan took up his satchel and slung it over his shoulder. Micah put her hand on his arm as he went by the table.

It’s nothing, baby, I’m sure of it.

Ivan hated to lie to his wife but sometimes it was necessary. Being summoned by the Voice was never nothing.

Chapter 3

July 2366

Still no word out of Denver, Captain. Do we continue our approach?"

Five years after taking ownership of the Oberon, Rhianna Jones still got a shiver whenever one of her small crew called her Captain. She savoured the feeling for a moment before responding.

Hold us here, Jocko, until I can take a look. The underside of the Oberon was coated with hardened fibre, enough to stop small arms fire but not worth risking anything heavier. The ship had been built to minimize the threat of explosion. The outer aluminized lift chambers were filled with expensive helium or helium-nitrogen mixes. The inner hydrogen-filled ones—separated from each other by helium aerogels—were in a sealed chamber in the middle of the craft. The entire ship was constructed of aluminum struts and fabric, aerogels and other spark resistant materials, strong enough for most purposes but little use against cannon fire.

The hum of the engines shifted down an octave and the farmland beneath them stopped moving. To the east, the dams on the Platte River formed a series of lakes that fed the city and provided the basis for its agricultural wealth. To the west, the tops of the Rocky Mountains glowed pink in the early morning sun. Between the two lay Denver, the largest city east of the Mississippi and west of Nova California.

Rhianna activated the external cameras and zoomed in on the area around the fortress, a massive bunker built during the Water Wars more than two hundred years before. Beyond the fortress, the shattered towers of the old city were a constant reminder of the need for vigilance against their southern neighbours. A few years before, the Governor had ordered the nearest towers torn down and rebuilt to house the growing population. Now thin lines of smoke rose from several of the restored blocks; the massive gates of the fortress, usually open at dawn, remained closed against some as yet invisible threat.

Sometimes paranoia is just clear thinking. Rhianna focused the scope on the walls of the fortress. The gun batteries had been uncovered and a scurry of motion along the walls told her they were on high alert. The rumours about the Nueva Republica horde are obviously true. I wonder how I can profit from that.

Nothing on any channels? she asked. They should have been hailed as soon as the ship crested the horizon, sixty kilometres from the city’s edge. From anyone?

Jocko Deminski, a muscular white man with an open expressive face and shaved bald pate, shrugged and twisted a dial on the receiver. There’s a carrier wave but nothing on it. No audio, no video, not even code. There’s some chatter south of the city but it’s mostly encrypted. Except for the prayers; they never encrypt the fucking prayers.

Respect, Jocko. We may need to trade with them someday. Rhianna paused. The Governor must be limiting communication—worried about infiltrators maybe. Do we still have any of those LED flashlights?

A few. We traded most of them with those gun runners in San Louie. Why?

How’s your Morse code?

I doubt— Jocko shrugged. Worth a try I guess.

Jocko climbed into the top of the gondola, returning a few minutes later with a couple of the large lights. They were designed to be visible at a distance and should be clear even in daylight against the dark underside of the ship.

Jocko leaned out of the port and signalled -- . . . . . .--, paused and then signalled again. Rhianna leaned against the window and looked down the dark mass of stone.

What are you sending? Rhianna’s own knowledge of code was rudimentary.

73. It’s how we say hello. Not sure if anyone . . . hold it.

A short flash, a longer one, then a short one again. Is that R?

Jocko flashed a quick grin of admiration. R for Rodger. Someone’s receiving.

A quick exchange of messages told Rhianna all she wanted to know. No one was going in and out of Denver for a while—maybe a long while. The on-going threat of further incursions by the Horde had made the Governor too nervous about lowering the city’s defences, even for friendly visitors.

Looks like we’re going to have to find a new buyer for those guns, said Jocko, after he stowed away the light.

Rhianna briefly thought of swinging south to see if the new general running the NR horde would be interested. Too unpredictable, she decided.

Swing well north of the city and then take us northwest to the Portland Peninsula. I understand they’ve been having some trouble with pirates.

Jocko relayed her orders to the engine room where the other two members of the Oberon’s crew—Patrick Willett and Carolyn Villegas—were stationed. The ship turned slowly and then picked up speed as the twin propellers engaged.

Soon the cityscape had disappeared in the haze and the ship began its climb to cross between the jagged peaks of the mountains. But Rhianna’s thoughts were still on Denver. Nothing ever changes, she thought, no matter how far up people pull themselves, there’s always someone ready to pull them down again.

Trust no one. She repeated the mantra she had learned in the ghettos of New England. Trust no one but yourself.

Chapter 4

July 2366

Despite the urgency of the summons, Ivan was kept waiting in the anteroom for over an hour. Two men and a woman, all white, were there when he arrived and another woman, brown as polished wood with a long braid of black hair down her back, was brought in while he waited. The first woman—Emma Newman—was from his village but would not meet his eyes. The others were from the next valley, though he recognized them from meetings he had attended in the caves. They were all members of the Movement though none were leaders. Even Ivan operated only at the lowest ranks.

One by one, the others were taken into the main office. None of them returned, though Ivan presumed they had been taken out through the station and either released or held in one of the cells. By the time his name was called, his knee had stiffened and he struggled to regain his feet. Tommy, the young guard who had brought him, made a move to help but stopped when the other guard—an older black man Ivan had never seen before—hissed a command.

Ivan swayed for a moment before trusting his left leg to take his weight. He had been dutifully doing the exercises the village healer had recommended but recovery from this injury had been slow. He supposed that was his life now.

The older guard took a step toward him, his hand on the baton strapped to his belt. Ivan made a dismissive gesture and walked carefully to the office door. It swung open before he reached it and Sherriff Garcia directed him to a low chair in front of the desk, where the Voice was ensconced.

I prefer to stand, said Ivan. If anyone was going to have to look up during this interview, let it be her.

Suit yourself, said Garcia, resuming his seat by the door. But this may take a while.

The Voice had neither spoken nor raised her head from the tablet she was scanning, an ostentatious display of the Baron’s wealth. She tapped the screen a few times and Ivan felt a curious envy. He relied on his own brain and a few reams of tattered recycled paper. How much more could he do with one of those?

Foolish wishes, he thought. The Baron’s power comes from his control of water, guns and scarce technology. Even if he had a thousand computers gathering dust in a warehouse, he would never send one where it could do the most good.

Ivan’s throat was dry and he longed to clear it. But one didn’t speak or even make a sound before being spoken to. Not in this office. Not to this person.

Please sit down. The Voice did not speak loudly but she spoke and he obeyed, cursing himself for doing it. Think of your family, Ivan, he told himself. He smiled despite the situation. He had come late to marriage—late to any kind of relationship. Until he met Micah, he had thought he would live his life as a bachelor.

Do you find something amusing,—she glanced down at the tablet—Mr. Rodriguez?

No, no. I was thinking . . . of the plans for tonight’s festival. Will you grace us with your presence?

She looked at him sourly. I’ll be leaving immediately after the lottery. But I’ll tell the Baron of your kind invitation.

Behind him, the creak of leather told him that Garcia had stood up. Ivan shifted in his chair. His neck tingled and he resisted the urge to turn around. If the sheriff was holding his baton in his hand, or his gun, Ivan didn’t want to know.

What is the Movement?

Sweat beaded on his brow. What had the others told her? What did they know? He could calculate the height of a tower by the shadow it cast on the ground but guessing what other people might do had always eluded him.

I’ve heard some talk, he said. Talk was obviously what had brought him here.

Not good enough. We want details. She looked down at the tablet again. Ivan wondered what was written there. What did you talk about and with whom and where?

I met some people at . . .—they already knew about Emma—Emma Newman’s apartment. That was true, at least. She would have said as much, wouldn’t she? Meeting people wasn’t illegal. There were some other people there. I didn’t know most of them—they weren’t from here. Names were never given out at meetings. A code, nothing written down, gained you admittance.

What did you talk about?

Garcia stepped closer. Was he trying to overhear?

Production. How we could increase production.

Secretly. Without the Baron’s knowledge and approval. There was no question in her voice; she knew.

It was a crime to try to keep goods from the Baron’s tax collectors. But, if that was all they knew, it would be unlikely to result in anything more than an onerous fine. People would go hungry this winter but no one would go to jail—or worse. That would be counter-productive; the Baron never did anything that would decrease his wealth.

Yes, said Ivan. We conspired to make a better life for ourselves.

At least Garcia used his fist when he hit Ivan in the side of the head. It would bruise but wouldn’t break bone.

There is no better life than life under the Baron, he intoned.

The punch had rattled his teeth and produced a faint ringing in his ears. Ivan nodded his head and waited for a second blow.

Enough, said the Voice. I’m not done questioning him.

But he . . .

I said enough. Do you forget for whom I speak?

No. Sir. Garcia retreated to his post.

The Voice put the tablet to one side and leaned back in her chair. The hinges squeaked as she rocked slowly back and forth.

This movement of yours—who organized it? Who are its leaders?

The pressure in Ivan’s chest subsided. These were questions he could answer truthfully. He had learned to lie but he hated doing it and, he feared, he wasn’t very good at it.

I don’t know. It started a few valleys over. I don’t know which one. As for leaders, no-one ever gives their names. I could point them out—though he wouldn’t—but I couldn’t name them.

But here, in this valley, who organized the meetings?

There were three of them and Ivan knew their names. But of the three, Ivan Rodriguez was the least important. The others could each name at least one of those who came from outside but he hadn’t advanced far enough to be given that responsibility.

I did, he said.

All by yourself? Without knowing who was giving the orders? She leaned forward in the chair and rested her elbows on the desk. Her black-eyed stare was almost painful.

Messages came in code. They told me whom to look for. He cleaved as close to the truth as he could. The Movement was organized in triads—even if they found the others, it would not be fatal. But it would set them back weeks, maybe months in their plans.

All right. I suspect that’s at least partly true. She smiled and it was even more painful than her stare. True enough for my purposes. You will go about your business, as if this conversation never happened. You will organize meetings and attend them and, when the opportunity arises, you will point out these leaders to Sheriff Garcia. Is that clear?

Ivan almost sighed with relief. Garcia was loyal to the Baron and brutal in the performance of his duties but he was not very smart. And, he was lazy besides. It would not be very hard to fool him. The Voice had returned to tapping on her tablet and Ivan slowly rose to go.

By the way, do you know who has won the lottery today? she said.

How could I? The draw won’t be held until noon.

Nonetheless. Two of the winners have already been selected. Carlos and Dolores Rodriguez. How fortunate you must feel. To have both your children chosen to serve the Baron.

What have you done? Ivan’s voice trembled with an emotion so bleak he had no words to name it.

The Baron’s spokesperson tapped at the screen in silence. Garcia took Ivan by the arm and led him to the exit.

You might want to hurry home, Rodriguez. His words were unaccountably gentle.

Are they still . . . ?

Garcia squeezed Ivan’s arm and glanced over at the Voice. Micah was . . . she was overcome by the good news. She’s had a fall.

Chapter 5

August 2366

The math was wrong. Sarah could see that it was wrong but she couldn’t see why it was wrong. She certainly couldn’t see how to fix it. Xi Chou had pointed out some of the mistakes but even he was stumped by the final transformations. Maybe Marie Alvarez and Pete Ledesma in Argentina could make sense of it—if they could ever reconnect.

Sarah glanced skyward as if that would somehow reboot one of the few communication satellites that still occasionally turned its antennae towards Earth. I suppose, she thought, we’re lucky any of them work at all; it’s been more than two centuries since the last launch. Most had long since lost contact or had burnt up in the atmosphere. Perhaps a dozen of the last to be launched—kept in orbit by their ion propulsion systems—still functioned intermittently, operating well past their fifty-year life expectancies. Without the satellites, communications were limited to those few nights when the upper atmosphere was cool enough and calm enough to allow skip propagation over shortwave.

The link to Finland was still running but they were engineers—not physicists. They had advised on the construction of the collider beneath her feet but had little understanding of what was actually happening at the quantum level. Not that anyone else really did either.

Barker was probably the only living physicist whose skill with quantum energy formulations was greater than hers but Denver had now been silent for more than ten days—on both shortwave and the line-of-sight radio relays. And no word from Henry either, she thought. Don’t; Hank can take care of himself, if anybody can.

Thirty-five years ago—or so her father had told her before his untimely death—some roads to the south had reopened, bringing news, goods and, even immigrants, including some who had formed the core of the new university. Things had changed a lot since then. Though the data was sparse, it pointed to one conclusion: global temperatures were on the rise again. As human populations had finally begun to rebound from near-extinction levels, someone somewhere had started burning coal again and a lot of it.

Which is why, Sarah thought, I’ve got to get these equations to work. We need a source of energy that doesn’t pollute the environment. We can’t rely on people to learn from the past. Not that she blamed them; it is hard to think about the seventh generation when you were struggling to feed the next one.

The white board had dissolved into a jumble of numbers and symbols and the more she stared at it the worse it looked. She shook her head, a few strands of her long hair breaking free of the barrettes that kept it out of her eyes.

I need to clear my head, she said. I’m going for a walk.

March looked up from his work. Do you want company?

No, Dave, I need some time alone. Away from all this. She gestured around their shared office at the tabletops covered in displays, circuit boards, rolls of drafting paper and empty cups. I won’t be long.

Tin Can Hill had once been prime real estate in Yellowknife and you could still—if you looked hard enough—see the traces of old town houses and ranch style cottages on the rock faces that rose above Yellowknife Bay. For the most part, though, nature had reclaimed the area for her own, with a little help from residents who valued trees and birds over a million-dollar view. The best thing about it was that it was less than ten minutes’ walk from her downtown lab.

The autumn solstice was nearly two weeks away but she already could see the promise of winter in the angle of the mid-afternoon sun. Still, the air was warm and she soon regretted wearing a jacket. The meandering path that would take her to the far side of the hill was steep and sweat beaded on her forehead and trickled down her sides. She paused at the top, enjoying the slight burn in her thighs, somehow better than anything she ever got in the gym. If she looked to the south, all she saw were trees and rocks and open water. If it weren’t for the faint drone of a boat engine and the hum of the co-generation plant near the old mine shaft, the city might not be there at all.

This, she thought, is what my great, great, seventeen times great grandmother might have seen, before the Europeans came, before the world almost killed itself. She shook her head again, this time pulling out the barrettes and letting the dark tresses roll down over her shoulders. The world didn’t almost die, she reminded herself; that was civilization. The world got along fine before we came and will do equally well if we all go away.

A few birch leaves had already begun the turn and as she watched several of the golden slivers drifted to the ground. A sudden breeze lifted one before it settled and it turned and twisted in the air before passing out of sight behind a copse of thin twisted pines. Of course, she thought, I’ve got the polarity wrong.

Sarah almost fell twice in her haste to get back to the lab before the insight faded like a waking dream.

That was . . . David started before she cut him off with a hand gesture and a scowl. He knew better than to interrupt her when she was having a moment.

Sarah grabbed a grubby cloth from the countertop and quickly erased several of the plus signs and replaced them with minuses, then changed one of them back. Integrate here, she muttered. Sine not cosine . . . and . . . of course, 2n not n. She stood back from her handiwork.

Well? asked David.

She held up her hand, palm out, and he got up from his desk to see the changes she had made.

I’ll need to run several iterations, Sarah said. But I think this is right.

Maybe, but I’m kind of worried about this part here—where you integrate 0 to infinity. He pointed to the third line of the equation. Shouldn’t that be limited to— He scribbled several calculations on a blank space off to the side of Sarah’s work.

Right, she said. A very big number but not infinity because—

—then the sun would explode.

Sarah and David laughed at their shared joke, born out of their love for physics and bad science fiction. Of course, in the earliest days of nuclear physics, some scientists feared that starting a chain reaction would lead to the destruction of the universe, or, at the very least, set the atmosphere on fire. They had even produced some pretty good math to prove it—though in the end it wasn’t nuclear fission that had almost destroyed civilisation but something far more mundane.

Which, of course, demonstrated once again that it didn’t matter how good your math was, it was only an approximation of reality. The proof would come in the experimental results. At least now, or more likely a week from now, they would have a clear set of instructions to give to the technicians who would run that experiment.

Sarah looked up at the clock on the wall—though the darkness outside told her well enough they had lost track of time—and said: I think, David, that we’ve earned a beer.

March raised his eyebrow at that. You that confident? That you would have your quarterly beer to celebrate?

Yes, she said. I’m that confident.

March put down his phone and cleared his throat. Sarah held up her hand and re-checked the final settings for the first experimental run of the new equations.

Sarah, that can wait.

No, it can’t. The run is scheduled in less than an hour.

Sarah. March’s face paled and his usual gentle smile had been replaced by a deep frown. I’ve been talking to the Director and . . .

It’s Henry. Sarah’s stomach clenched.

No, not that, though they . . . He shook his head. The Director has cancelled the run.

What? No. She can’t.

You know she can.

Okay, okay. If there’s a problem with the equipment . . .

It’s not that, Sarah. She’s shutting you down.

She jerked to her feet. Black dots swam into her vision and she put a hand on the worn wood of her desk to steady herself. Amazing how something that is mostly empty space can seem so solid, she thought stupidly.

Are you alright? March was beside her, his long arm around her waist. She shrugged it off and gripped the desk with both hands. Her body was trembling and she had difficulty speaking past her anger.

Why? Did someone senior need my scraps?

March turned away. He stood with his back to her and his hands clasped behind his head. She is concerned about safety.

Safety?

It’s new ground, Sarah. We discussed this. If your calculations are off—

Seriously off!

—seriously off. It could wreck the equipment. Hell, it could blow up the lab. People could be hurt.

This is bullshit! How did she even know to ask the questions? She’s a fucking biologist—not even that—an administrator.

March’s voice was little more than a whisper. She asked me to look at your numbers.

And you said it wasn’t safe? You know—

No, Sarah, I don’t. March dropped his hands to his side. "I don’t know whether it’s