COGITO

CHAPTER 1

Pasadena, California

November 5th

Chaos is fundamental, but the universe strives for order in rebellious fits. Like how every day, at the halfway mark of the Colorado Street Bridge, my heart begins to pound.

First law of motion: Every object persists in its state of rest or uniform motion in a straight line unless it is compelled to change…

I stop and close my eyes.

Second law: Force is equal to the change in momentum per change in time. For a constant mass, force equals mass times acceleration.

My chest constricts.

Third law: For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.

If only it were a Newtonian universe and not a quantum one.

I peer over the railing, and my heart beats faster as a familiar anticipation races down my spine. I know that for this one moment, everything is perfect.

No one understands why, but the urge to jump is natural—even if one has never had a suicidal thought. Some scientists think it scrambles the visual and vestibular systems. Others think the brain mistakes the fear for excitement, a rush of dumb adrenaline, but whatever the cause, it’s the one time a day I feel normal.

My phone vibrates, rattling against the metal guardrail, and I almost miss the call because I can’t remember the last time my phone rang. I fumble for it, frowning at the blocked number.

“Hello?”

“Ethan!”

“Christian?” I ask.

Checking my watch, I frown. It must be nearly midnight in Johannesburg. A stab of guilt twists in my gut. I waited to return his last two calls until I knew he’d be out on rotation because I just didn’t feel like faking, and now I’ll have to come up with some good excuse. And then there was his last email…

“Did I catch you at a bad time?” he asks.

“No.”

“Great. How’s it going? Found the cure for cancer yet?”

It’s impossible not to smile. Christian has that effect on people, no matter the distance. He always knows what to say to lighten the mood.

“I’m an engineer, not a doctor, remember?”

He laughs. “Of course. Still engineering lattes?”

I am, and I smell like a rancid baby to prove it. “Yes.”

The other end of the phone falls silent. I look out over the bridge, southeast toward Cal Tech where I studied for years before we met. A single sweetgum sticks out like a flame from an assortment of willow and pepper trees, a deciduous beacon of change in a sea of evergreen. My mother loved them, and I used to make fractals from the fallen leaves in our yard.

“Still haven’t gone back to school then I take it?” he asks.

I bite my lip, trying to force out the lie I can never muster, but it’s pointless. “No.”

My PhD advisors have given up trying to persuade me to return. I’ve been meaning to withdraw for over a year now, but somehow it never happens. I figure they’ll do it for me eventually.

He sighs, the sound like static. “You should come to Johannesburg.”

I stifle a bitter laugh. I swore I’d never go back to Africa.

“Been there, done that. We both know how it turned out.”

Christian curses under his breath in German. “It was a black goose.”

Goose…goose…

“You mean a black swan?”

“Goose, swan, emu, whatever. And you liked Africa aside from the war,” he continues doggedly. “Besides Johannesburg isn’t Congo, and we’ve an opening for an engineer.”

The offer is tempting. No one here understands why I decided to stop my research. Of course, they didn’t understand why I went to Africa in the first place when there were patents to secure and millions to make. But I remember looking down at a gun after things went south and wondering if Gatling ever regretted his invention.

I sigh. “There are plenty of engineers in South Africa.”

“Yes, and I’m sure you could tell me exactly how many.” He pauses. “But I want you.”

A muscle in my jaw ticks. He doesn’t know what he’s asking for. Who he’s asking for.

He remembers the old, driven, stubborn, single-minded Ethan, who walked on to his humanitarian team with the naïve swagger of someone of didn’t even to know where to start looking for a clue but was damn good at fixing things.

“For what?” I ask.

“You know,” he falters, “engineering stuff.”

He’s being intentionally vague, and it’s not like him at all.

“Now’s not really a good time.”

“Ethan. Please.”

Something in his voice triggers it, a quaver concealed behind a smile, and cold sweat beads on my forehead.

Sound always disappears first. Then the darkness seeps from my peripheral vision like an overturned inkpot.

All I can see is the first child who tried to kill me. The girl’s drugged out of her mind as her weapon levels on my chest. I hold up my hands to show I’m unarmed. I beg in a frantic mix of pidgin French and Swahili, but she doesn’t hear. Her voice is shrill with panicked bravery, its pattern echoing the percussion of the AK-47s.

“S’il vous plait,” I whisper, but the sound sticks in my fear-swollen throat.

She staggers, and her weapon sags. Blood blossoms from her chest, dousing the faded rainbow printed across her T-shirt in a final monochromatic red.

At night, I lie awake wondering what I looked like to her in those last seconds before Christian blew a hole through her heart. Was I a man, a boy, or some sort of cocaine and gunpowder chimera?

I went to Africa to build solar generators and water purifiers in North Kivu, Democratic Republic of Congo in memory of my mother because she had loved exotic flowers and the movie The African Queen. I went to Africa because I wanted to deny death and because I was a stupid American kid who needed to believe one person could make a difference.

One person can make a difference, but more often than not, he’s the final grain of sand that sends all the shit tumbling down. The war broke out, and I left a killer. Irony’s finger to best-laid plans.

“Hey, man!”

A dull roar floods my ears, and someone’s fingers dig into my arm, hauling me away from the railing.

“You ok?”

“Ethan?” Christian asks.

The jogger’s face is pale despite his exertion. I nod and wave him off, but he hesitates.

“Are you there?” Christian demands.

I smile apologetically and point to the receiver. Bad news, sorry. Thanks, I mouth.

They’re the right words. He sags and gives me a sympathetic smile. “Sorry,” he murmurs, clapping me on the shoulder before jogging on.

“Yeah, I’m here,” I say. It’s hard to breathe, but I refuse to gulp air like a lunatic. “Listen, Christian, I appreciate the thought I really do, but—”

“Please,” he repeats. “For me. And for you. You need a change of scenery.”

He’s right. Whatever this limbo existence is, it isn’t working. Plus, I owe Christian my life, and he may be the only person left who remembers the Ethan I was.

Still the words stick in my throat, and the silence draws out until he takes it for agreement. “I’m sending you the details now,” he says softly. “We’ll talk more when you get here.”

I swallow. We should talk now, but I can’t manage the words.

“I’ll see you in a couple days.”

Title: Cogito

Words: 95,000

Genre: Upmarket science fiction thriller

Market: Would appeal to readers of Blake Crouch, Elan Mastai, and Emily St. John Mandel