Chapter 5
FIVE
My eyes skim over the journal article on my screen, and it’s immediately clear to me that this might be the worst piece of research published in the last three years in quantum thermodynamics and information theory.
They’ve completely misrepresented the implications of entropy reduction in small-scale systems, casually side-stepping the very core of Landauer’s principle. No discussion of feedback control, and no mention of non-Markovian reservoirs. Not even a whisper of strong coupling effects.
Fucking amateurs.
I lean back slightly in my chair as I stare at the screen with a mix of disdain and disbelief.
Yet still, something stirs in the back of my mind.
A thread from my own theoretical work on fluctuation theorems in stochastic entropy.
For all its flaws, the way this paper frames the problem sparks a possible application, and a new direction.
If I can isolate the quantum cost of information erasure under…
But my eyes quickly flick to the corner of my screen.
9:52 AM.
A long, low sigh escapes me as I lean back in my chair. My grad student will be here in eight minutes.
My gaze darts to my partially open office door as someone walks by.
Once their footsteps fade away, I reach down and open the bottom drawer of my desk and unscrew the cap on the bottle of rum tucked neatly out of sight.
I pour a generous shot into my empty coffee cup and knock it back, letting the burn skate down my throat.
Then I stash the bottle again and nudge the drawer shut with my foot.
Spinning my chair slowly towards the window, I stare out at the campus through grimy glass.
The midmorning sun is just beginning to force its way through the dull grey clouds, hazy and half-hearted…
which feels familiar. I stare at the clouds and let the light hit my eyes until I see spots, waiting for the rum to kick in.
But then there’s a knock on my door, and I close my eyes with a sigh.
He’s early.
“Yeah,” I call out flatly as I spin my chair back around.
But it’s not my grad student. It’s Dr. Halberg.
Great.
“Hey, Cade,” Annika chirps, stepping into my office. “Just wanted to check in about the student conference next week.” She pauses with that radiant, overachieving smile that makes me want to drink more. “I sent an email, but didn’t hear back. Are you able to be a poster session judge?”
I’d rather teach Intro to Physics.
She hovers in front of my desk with that relentless optimism she’s known for around here, as I try hard not to roll my eyes.
She’s a teaching-first academic, through and through, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she keeps fucking stickers in her desk drawer.
She organizes this conference every year like it’s her personal crusade, dragging the rest of the faculty into it whether we want to or not.
“The judging will only take a couple hours on Tuesday…” Annika adds gently, like she’s speaking to a skittish animal as she tries to get closer.
I need another drink.
“Fine,” I mutter, knowing I can’t get out of it anyway. And so I can get her out of here before my student arrives.
But as I inch myself closer to my rum drawer… she sits down.
“Wonderful!” She beams. “So the posters will be set up—”
“I have a student coming,” I interrupt, sharper than intended… but justified.
And right on cue, Spencer appears in the doorway.
Fuck’s sake. I’ve barely even had enough rum to take the edge off.
“Well, I’ll… I’ll just talk to you about it later, then,” Annika says, standing and pushing her chair neatly back into place. “Can I send you an email?”
“If you want to,” I say, shifting my gaze to Spencer and gesturing him in with a flick of my fingers. Anything to get this over with.
Annika hesitates awkwardly for a moment, but then she smiles again and steps out. Spencer cautiously steps forward, eyes wide like he walked in on something he shouldn’t have.
No fucking way, buddy. Even if she’s beautiful, she’s far too bubbly and annoying. And I’m far too fucking gay.
Spencer slides into the chair she just vacated and pulls out a notebook from his bag.
I click open his draft manuscript he sent me yesterday, scrolling to my notes. “You’ve referenced Frey and Lasker, which is good. But you need to engage more directly with the objections raised in Hoshino’s 2021 paper. They tore that whole assumption about negligible back-action to shreds.”
Spencer quickly scribbles this down. “How even the ancilla can’t be treated as non-interacting if you’re measuring actual cost?”
“Mm-hm.” I scroll again. “Drop the second figure, it adds nothing. And expand your derivation in section three.”
“Ok,” he says with a nod.
“And reframe your conclusions. They’re overstated for a conceptual model.”
Spencer hesitates, then chuckles awkwardly. “I guess I got excited.”
My eyes flick to him as he shifts in his seat, dropping his gaze to his notebook.
“So…” he continues. “You think it’s worth submitting?”
I lean back in my chair and turn my attention fully to him. “Why else are you doing this?”
He just stares back at me, like he’s not sure if that’s rhetorical or a trap.
So I take pity on him and nod.
And that’s all it takes for a huge smile to spread across his face. Then he just… sits there. Still watching me, like he’s waiting for a gold star.
Like we’re not fucking done here.
“That’s it,” I say.
It takes him a moment, but then his eyes widen. “Oh, ok, yeah.” He fumbles with his notebook, quickly shoving it into his bag as he stands.
“Have the revisions to me by Wednesday,” I say as he makes his way to the door.
He nods back at me as he hastily makes his exit. “Thanks, Dr. Cormier.”
Once he’s gone, I exhale slowly and rub a hand down my face… like I can wipe the interaction away.
He’s a smart kid, so it’s nothing on him. I just don’t want to supervise students. But I guess if I have to have one… this is the best-case scenario.
I tilt my head back and let my gaze wander over the ceiling, counting water stains and pinholes in the tiles like they might distract me long enough to avoid what I’m about to do.
But they don’t.
I lean forward, open the drawer again, and this time I don’t bother with the cup. I lift the bottle straight to my lips, even though my door is wide open.
But no one walks by, and no one sees.
I’m not sure if I’m disappointed or relieved by that.
The rum burns down my throat, leaving behind that slow, familiar warmth I’ve come to rely on. It doesn’t make me happy, but at least it provides a dull heat where I’m usually cold. Just enough to let me function, show up, and pretend I care.
Though even then… I don’t.
A thin sliver of sunlight stretches across my desk as the sun finally breaks through the clouds, the same way the alcohol finally starts to settle in me…
quiet, creeping, and deceptively gentle.
I stare at it for a long moment before I shift my hand into the sunspot and let the light bathe my fingers.
But it doesn’t reach the places that matter.
Then, a low rumble cuts through the air, and my head snaps towards the window.
A motorcycle drives by, and I can’t ignore the lurch I feel in my chest.
My gaze follows the bike down the street, even though it’s not the Basin Kings… and it’s not him.
Still, something hums under my skin. Something buzzing and tingling. It’s not quite warmth, but it’s not far off. Just a flicker of the same something I felt last week, when I was on my knees in the back office of the bar.
I keep my gaze on the window as the bike fades into the distance, and I’m left with nothing but the silence it leaves behind.
Maybe what I’m looking for isn’t in the bottle… and I’ve been chasing the wrong burn.