Mike & Karen Ch. 18

***

"Let me get this straight," Mike said in a low and dangerous voice as he looked steadily at Dan, who still didn't dare to move, rooted to the spot on his throne-stool. Nobody else had moved either, afraid to interrupt Mike. "You hadn't done your assigned task for weeks, you were panicking, and you happened to find an abandoned workbook in a lab, jammed full of exactly the calculations you needed, and you absconded with it?"

Still pale as a sheet but too frightened to lie, Dan nodded.

Mike turned his head slightly and looked at his other peers, the intent gleam in those laser-blue eyes indicating what he wanted to know.

"It was not my notebook, Michael!" Gergo said hastily.

"Nor was it mine," Indur added, shaking his head.

"Not mine," Sam said.

"And it is not mine either," Ping finished, still baffled by what was happening. What had Cummings done to them?

"So... whose was it?" Gergo asked timidly.

Mike fixed his deadly gaze back on Dan, who looked like he was going to throw up. "I... I dunno... there was no name in it."

"Show... me... the... book..." Mike growled. He looked like he was ready to peel Dan's skin off, slowly.

"I... don't have the book," Dan stammered, trying to explain himself. "I took it to an office, found a Xerox machine, and copied all the pages quickly before putting the book back in the lab, just in case whoever had left it there came back looking."

"Then show me your photocopied notes," Mike instructed.

Dan slipped off the stool and hurried over to his backpack, rifling through it and coming back with nearly a hundred pages in his hands. He offered them to Mike, who refrained somehow from angrily snatching them away from the saboteur and started perusing them.

The scowl never left his face.

"There is no way you did these numbers," Mike said in a barely controlled tone. "You aren't nearly this good. And even if somehow you were, the numbers are still wrong, and they've been engineered to be wrong, and to fuck up everything on a basic level. Sabotage."

"I swear, I had nothing to do with that!" Dan protested again.

"I believe you," Mike said, glaring at the student. "You're a lazy fucking tool, but you're no saboteur. You're bad enough at this that you couldn't even tell these numbers were wrong, could you?"

Dan's mouth moved, but no sound came from it.

"Why didn't you say anything?" Mike said in loud exasperation. "You couldn't've just said 'Hey, guys, I can't be bothered to do my part, would someone please take over?'? Why?"

"I... I didn't want everyone thinking I couldn't pull my weight!"

"But that's exactly what happened!" Mike exploded, his fellow student quailing on his stool. "You just thought that magically the answers to your problems landed in your lap at the last moment?"

No answer.

Mike thrust out the papers Dan had given him in his hand, pointing them at the other students present while still glowering at the third year student. "Guys, take these and everyone go to the tables and check your numbers on a minus x plane. I'm pretty sure you're not gonna like what you see when it's viewed in sections instead of as a whole and then extrapolated back..."

Gergo reluctantly took the photocopies from Mike and led the others over to a table, to begin checking their work, already dreading what they'd conclude. That left Dan with Mike, and he felt more terrified than he ever had in his entire life. The titan student stared down at him, his expression bordering on loathing.

"Congratulations, Cummings," Mike said in a quiet but dire voice. "You have thoroughly fucked us over. The whole department. Not only will all our grades suffer badly, but our submitted group theorem will be a flop, Theoretical will be the butt of jokes for years to come, and we most certainly will be bumped from all but scraps of funding for the foreseeable future, thanks to your dishonesty."

"I... I meant well," Dan pleaded. "You have to believe me!"

"I believe you were willing to take shortcuts to make yourself look good at the expense of honest hard work and your fellow students," Mike answered tersely, not bothering to hide his disdain.

"I... I totally would've shared the credit," Dan insisted. "I had every intention of making sure everyone-"

"WHAT CREDIT?!" Mike exploded, finally sick of this idiot and his simpering excuses. How had this fool reached fourth year? "Credit for nothing is still nothing! Worse, we all look like fools now!"

As if to punctuate his remark, cries of dismay were going up from the tables, as the other students realized exactly how screwed up all their numbers and algorithms were. This was an unmitigated disaster. Ping was on the verge of tears from the sound of it.

"Give me one good reason to not report you to the department head, to the dean, and to the president," Mike ordered, wanting to throw the lazy sot out the nearest window. They were only six stories up, so if the moron landed on his thick skull, he might not die. "By rights you should be expelled for theft, fraud and plagiarism."

"Please," Dan said weakly, his voice trembling. "Please don't..."

"Sit... here..." Mike said to him, holding a finger up and glaring at him. "Don't you dare move."

He turned and walked over to the table where his peers were gathered around, comparing their notes from many months of work with the photocopies relevant to their assignment, and they were all in the grip of despair. Ping indeed had tears on his cheeks.

"It is ruined, Mike," Indur almost whimpered as he looked up at his friend. "Ruined. I must almost scrap everything and start again."

"I too am needing to start again," Gergo sighed, shaking his head. "These false numbers, they change everything, and it is subtle but completely wrong. These is so much math to undo."

"What's the point?!" Sam complained, slapping his hand on the table. "There's barely a week left! We don't have the time, we have to undo and redo over a month's worth of calculations in that time! We're thoroughly fucked!"

Ping broke down sobbing. Sam was correct, they were out of time, and the damage was too great. These bad numbers were like a cancer that had crept through the entire theorem and corrupted it before anyone knew anything was wrong.

Indur looked at Mike, his eyes pleading for answers. "What... what do we do?"

Mike let out a sigh, closing his eyes. "I don't know. I just... I really don't know, guys."

He leaned back against a table, pinching his eyes and sighing again. "Just... leave everything here and go, there's nothing to be done right this second."

The students got up and began shuffling toward the door, Ping still sniffling.

"And take that fool with you," Mike said as they walked away.

Sam slapped Dan roughly on the shoulder and moved him toward the door, closing it behind him. Long moments of silence passed before Mike exhaled, feeling his head spin.

What had happened? Why?

He didn't want to, but he trudged over to the table and began looking at the unmitigated disaster that was their theorem, meant to be the crowning achievement of their undergrad years, and a feather in the university's cap internationally.

Now it was a joke. An elegant, horrifying joke.

He picked up some photocopied pages and stared at the long series of numbers blankly, his brain almost numb from the magnitude of the shock he felt. He hated feeling numb, and he forced himself to look at the equations, trying to discern what had happened.

It was all so wrong. Subtle, but wrong. It felt right, but it was wrong.

Sublime numbers, absolutely brilliant numbers.

And at that moment, he knew where he had to begin finding answers.

***

Blackwell Manor, the following morning, the present...

Alexa was staring at the plate in front of her as they all sat in the small dining room, just off from the kitchen. Normally it was meant for staff, but since the big dining room had not been uncovered and readied yet, the family was taking breakfast in the smaller room. The staff had all eaten earlier and were dutifully out of the way, already about their duties under Tatyana's efficient direction.

"Wow," the blonde girl murmured as she gazed at her food, prepared by Theresa. The breakfast crepes looked wonderful, accompanied by bacon, English muffins and berries. "I kinda feel bad for having to eat it, because I really wanna be an annoying millennial and take pics of it for my Insta."

"Thank you, hon," Theresa said easily as she breezed around the table and refilled Mike and Alex's plates with enormous amounts of food- bacon, sausages, eggs, fried potatoes, grilled tomatoes, and bowls of muesli on the side. "Eat up, you two, there's plenty more for growing boys!"

"Please, no more growing for my husband," Karen said as she smirked at their new chef. "I barely come up to his sternum as it is." Her breakfast consisted of tart plum and melon balls, chilled to almost being icy, croissants, berries, and lightly grilled quinoa cakes for protein. Strong coffee and fresh-pressed juice rounded out everyone's meal. "Although Alli is right, Theresa, this is exquisite. Thank you."

"You're too kind, ma'am," the woman said, nodding her head as she passed Karen. "I'm looking forward to this, a chance to keep busy, but also not the frenetic pace of a restaurant or catering."

"I can't believe you found time to personalize everyone's meal," Alex remarked as he gladly dug into another helping of his eggs. Currently they were scrambled, but apparently there were eggs Benedict coming if he finished what he had.

"Like I said, sir, a welcome change of pace," Theresa replied cheerfully, topping off Mike's coffee. "This is a walk in the park, comparatively speaking, I assure you."

"Okay, but there's no need for the 'sir' part," Alex said, adding some Tabasco to his eggs.

"Yes, we can't have him thinking he's people," Mike added, causing Karen to give him a look, while Alexa almost choked on a mouthful of food.

"Har har, dad," Alex said dryly. "But for reals, Ms. Martin, the 'sir' thing isn't necessary. Just call me Alex."

"That's fine, love, but there's no need to call me Ms. Martin," she offered. "Theresa will do nicely."

"No, I was brought up to address all my adults formally," Alex pointed out. "Mr. Winson is Mr. Winson, you'll be Ms. Martin... everyone addressed by their surname. Uh, except Trilby, who apparently doesn't have a surname."

"We'll find out what it is one day, Alex, worry not," Karen said easily. "Theresa, the chicory root in the coffee is a lovely touch, thank you."

"Thank you, ma'am, it's nice to be appreciated for the small things."

They finished breakfast, enjoying pleasant conversation while Theresa quickly and efficiently cleaned everything away. The only person missing from the little family meal was Jordan, but he was shadowing Tatyana, answering any questions she had, on the very first day of operation.

"So during breakfast, Trilby and Ms. Prospero were uncovering the portraits and busts in the hall of ancestors," Karen mentioned as she walked arm in arm with her younger sister out of the staff dining room. "Shall we go and say hello to everyone?"

"Well, as long as you're with me," Alexa replied, giving her sister's arm a squeeze. "You or Alex."

"Alex is overseeing delivery of new computers and hardware along with young Mr. Jaffe, so he's somewhat occupied at the moment."

"Good Lord, shiny new computer toys? I may never see him again," Alexa giggled as they walked through the grand foyer and entered the Hall of Ancestors. She reminded herself to breathe, already tense because the dozens of portraits were uncovered and awaiting them.

"Thaddeus Blackwell..." she mused as they walked by the oldest portrait, commissioned in the early eighteenth century. "Mom told me he was a real ogre."

"Maybe; in addition to being patriarch of the family, he acted as a privateer for King Charles the Second," Karen explained. "He was the one who commissioned the first ship we called the Thunderhawk. He plundered the Spanish Main along with Drake, and he made our already wealthy family very wealthy, Alli. Some of his most exotic artifacts are hiding in the basement, I will have you know."

"Can't wait to see 'em," Alexa mused as they walked by some of the portraits and busts. They stopped in front of a marble bust that showed a handsome man, his aquiline features leaving no doubt as to his lineage. "So this is Harcourt Blackwell. He's the one who left England to live here and start the new branch. Mom said he had to give up the family's titles to do it."

Her sister nodded. "Money mattered to him more than titles. His younger brother became the title holder back in Hampshire, Ashton Blackwell. Apparently he was a real piece of work."

"Oh, my God, Kar," Alexa breathed, looking at another bust, this one very old and delicate, actually painted in faded colours, but the flaxen hair and pale blue eyes were still evident. "Is that really him? James Blackwell?"

"The same," Karen confirmed. "Burned at the stake by Mary, Queen of Scots for refusing to renounce the new faith. But not before months of torture. He died singing one of the new Church of England canticles, very loudly, in English, just to drive the queen crazy. Or so we're told."

"I'll never be able to sing it in church again without giggling," Alexa quipped, continuing their slow walk, looking at both walls and recalling everything she could about each patriarch represented. "It's so cool to think you're gonna be the first woman, the first matriarch, represented in this hall."

"The first, maybe, but I doubt the last," the older sister mused, smiling as she watched Alexa. She remembered well the feelings of awe and intimidation when she walked down this hall when she was younger. "You and Alex will no doubt be on this wall some day, the first couple."

"But there were so many strong Blackwell women before us, Kar," Alexa said, feeling a pang of injustice. "Don't they belong up here?"

"If the sole qualification to be on these walls was strength of character, then yes, definitely," the bronze-haired goddess agreed. "But both walls would be covered from floor to ceiling in portraits of men and women, and the busts endless. No, this hallway is the domain of the patriarchs who headed the family up to this point, Alli. And they were all very formidable men. They needed to be, to keep our family in line."

"Well, true dat," Alexa admitted. "Still seems unfair, though."

"The Manor is home to scores of other portraits of prominent Blackwells, men and women of great ability, who just happened to not be the head of the family," Karen said. "But maybe you and I can make it a project of ours to find ways to bring them to prominence."

"Like, feature them in the big library and other places that give them a spotlight?" Alexa asked, liking the idea already.

"Absolutely. Catherine Jessleton-Blackwell deserves at least as much respect as most of the patriarchs here ever did. But this hall has a purpose, and we must honour it."

"Fiiiiine," Alexa sighed. "I'll learn to respect these old goats. They're in my blood, after all. But mom told me all about your staring contest with them when you were little, so don't try to tell me you never disrespected them, Kar."

"Perish the thought," said the older sister. "When I was nine, I got so angry at Henry Blackwell for staring at me and judging me that I turned away from him, flipped up my little skirt and mooned him."

"Mom never told me that story!" Alexa laughed.

"She never knew, and neither did dad," Karen admitted, shrugging. "The only person I ever told was Michael. I tell him everything."

"Believe me, I know," Alexa said, smiling and rolling her eyes. "I'm constantly reminding myself that anything I tell you in confidence means I'm telling King Kong as well. But I don't mind, as long as you're not telling him about anything I get him as a present."

She turned and looked up at Henry Blackwell, who gazed down at the sisters in disdain, his hawkish features etched with a regal arrogance born of impeccable breeding. "Y'think he remembers what your butt looks like?"

"A Blackwell never forgets anything. Why?"

"Well, we are both wearing skirts..." Alexa replied, smirking, her sapphire eyes glinting with mischief.

Karen caught on instantly and smirked back. Both sisters turned to face away from the large portrait of Henry Blackwell, bent over, and pulled up their skirts, exposing their behinds to him. The were both snickering like children as they wiggled their cheeks at him. Neither woman, of course, was wearing underwear.

"That's the spirit, Kar, give it to 'im!" Alexa giggled as she pulled her cheeks apart to give her ancestor a really good look at her puckered knot.

"I haven't done this in forty years," Karen almost gasped, enjoying the rebellion. "Heaven only knows, the old ogre deser-"

They both paused and looked down the hallway as somebody came into view and just stopped. The sisters stared at the interloper, while Trilby stared back at them, one eyebrow raised and tapping a feather duster against her thigh slowly.

"It... it's not what you think..." Karen offered rather lamely.

"It couldn't be," Trilby replied, wrinkling her nose.

They stared at one another for some seconds longer before Trilby turned and decided to find another path through the manor to her destination.

"Yep, I'm earnin' these paycheques fair and square..." she said to herself as she wandered off.

Red with embarrassment, the sisters slowly stood up and lowered their skirts, straightening them so that there was no sign of impropriety. Without another word, they turned and walked out of the hall of ancestors, going back the way they had come.

Karen swore from that day forward that there was a hint of a snide smirk behind old Henry Blackwell's perpetual expression of disdain.

***

St. George Campus, January, 1987...

Mike opened the door and strode purposefully into the study hall, his expression grim. Other students seemed to sense the aura of danger around him and suddenly made themselves scarce, vacating the room. He took no notice of them, however, making his way directly toward the back of the hall, to a certain table. Four young women were sitting around it. Three of them seemed nervous and dared not look up from their studies.

Mike wasn't in the habit of using his sheer size to be intimidating, but today, he simply didn't care. He loomed over his peer, the only student in the entire Science department, and possibly the university, who was his equal. His electric blue eyes bore down on her, but she seemed not to notice.

"Why, Gordon?" he asked in a quiet voice, but it was also a strained one, and dire. Mona, Lisa, and Janet all kept their attention fixed squarely on their own books. "Tell me."

Karen Gordon finally looked up, as if just noticing him now, and blinked. "To what are we referring, sirrah?"

"The numbers, Gordon, the fake notebook," Mike said rather tightly, irked that he was having to play this game. "It was yours."

"Please elucidate, good sir."

"The notebook full of sublimely incorrect math that completely undermined and destroyed Theoretical's submission for next year's funding," he pressed, somehow controlling himself. This was no place for unbridled fury. "Only you could possibly have gotten the numbers so subtly wrong as to underwrite a series of complex formulas and construct a beautiful disaster. And that idiot Cummings fell for it."

Karen considered for a moment. "So you are positing that I faked an elaborate notebook full of progressively wrong numbers, that a member of your department then stole my notebook full of progressively wrong numbers, and used it to accidentally unhinge your entire theorem."