Epilogue
SIX YEARS LATER
Our son is hacking his father's computer.
Again.
I stand in the doorway of Xavier's study holding a cup of tea and watch five-year-old Pierre Blackwell attack a keyboard with the intensity of a man attempting to prevent nuclear war.
Clack-clack-clack.
Pause.
Mouse.
Clack-clack-clack-clack.
His dark head tilts.
Tiny brows draw together.
Then he mutters something in Italian that would be adorable if the tone didn't sound exactly like Xavier criticizing a junior programmer.
I look toward my husband.
Xavier sits on the sofa reading something on a tablet as though our kindergartner is not currently commandeering one of the most sophisticated private workstations in Europe.
“Are you seeing this?”
“Yes.”
“Your son is in your system.”
“He has limited access.”
I stare.
“Limited?”
“He thinks it's unlimited.”
“That seems unnecessarily deceptive.”
“It motivates him.”
Pierre makes a frustrated sound.
Xavier doesn't even look up.
“Your variable is wrong.”
Pierre spins in the enormous desk chair.
“Non è sbagliata.”
His Italian is flawless.
Naturally.
Xavier finally lifts his eyes.
“It is.”
Pierre glares at him.
Same almost-black eyes.
Same expression.
Same deeply irritating certainty.
“Non lo è.”
“It is.”
I take a sip of tea.
“This feels familiar.”
Neither acknowledges me.
Pierre turns back to the screen.
Three seconds later his little fingers begin moving again.
He spoke French first.
That part was nonnegotiable.
Not because I dislike English.
Because Papa gave me French, and there are some things grief makes sacred.
Italian came almost simultaneously because Xavier and I spent years speaking it inside NULL and apparently forgot other parents don't conduct marital arguments in three languages.
By three, Pierre was fluent in both.
English came third.
Then Spanish.
Then Mandarin after Blackwell Senior decided his grandson's “linguistic development lacked strategic depth” and hired a nanny who happened to hold doctorates in developmental linguistics and computational cognition from Harvard.
I objected.
Mostly because she had three doctorates and our child was still eating crackers shaped like dinosaurs.
Pierre adored her.
By five, he can write essays in five languages, does arithmetic several grade levels beyond anything I understand without coffee, and has become disturbingly interested in game design.
Today he is coding his fourth video game.
The first involved pirates.
The second involved spaceships.
The third was apparently designed specifically to prevent Drew from winning.
Drew called it “targeted discrimination.”
Pierre called it “balancing the user experience.”
He was four.
I walk farther into the study.
“What is this one?”
Pierre doesn't look away from the monitor.
“Espionage.”
I stop.
Xavier lowers his tablet.
“No.”
Pierre glances back.
“It has dragons.”
Xavier considers.
“Fine.”
I look between them.
“That was your concern?”
“Genre matters.”
“Not espionage?”
“He's a Blackwell.”
I close my eyes.
“We've created a baby genius.”
Xavier shrugs.
“I noticed.”
“We should be worried.”
“Probably.”
Pierre begins humming under his breath while several windows move across the screen.
I watch for another moment.
“Your father spoils him.”
Xavier's mouth twitches.
“That's an understatement.”
Blackwell Senior has spent the past five years transforming from terrifying international-security magnate into a man who keeps emergency macarons in his desk because his grandson once mentioned liking pistachio.
The change is unsettling.
Pierre is technically the heir apparent to the Blackwell dynasty.
Senior treats this less like a family fact and more like an international development project.
Pierre has nannies with advanced degrees from universities I once spent considerable time hacking around.
His science tutor previously worked at CERN.
His chess instructor is a retired grandmaster who initially refused because Pierre was three.
My father-in-law sent a car.
The grandmaster came.
Pierre beat him for the first time six months later.
Senior keeps a miniature tea service in his Monaco office specifically for Thursdays because Thursday is apparently Grand-père Day.
They have tea.
Fresh scones.
Organic honey because my son inherited that particular preference from me.
And conversations that no five-year-old should be having with a seventy-something billionaire.
Last month I walked in and heard Pierre ask whether vertical integration creates unhealthy incentives in chip manufacturing.
He was eating jam with his fingers at the time.
Two weeks ago, Senior arranged what he called a “playdate.”
It was with the chief executive of one of the world's most advanced semiconductor companies.
I assumed the man was bringing a grandchild.
He did not.
The “playdate” consisted of Pierre, my father-in-law, the CEO, two engineers, a prototype chip package, chocolate milk, and scones.
Pierre came home with a signed nondisclosure agreement.
He cannot legally sign anything.
Senior framed it anyway.
I look at Xavier.
“Your father bought him another processor.”
“I know.”
“He's five.”
“It was an educational gift.”
“It isn't commercially available.”
“That makes it more educational.”
I point at him.
“You are part of the problem.”
“Yes.”
At least he's honest.
Pierre suddenly stops typing.
The room goes silent.
I know that silence.
It is the same silence Xavier gets when something clicks.
Same one I get.
Our son slowly leans toward the monitor.
“Oh.”
Xavier sits forward.
“What?”
Pierre doesn't answer.
He grabs the stylus beside the keyboard and begins writing across the digital pad.
Numbers.
Symbols.
Several things I cannot identify despite having married into a family that treats advanced mathematics like recreational reading.
I move closer.
“What is he doing?”
Xavier stands.
His expression changes.
That's when I become concerned.
“What?”
He doesn't answer.
“Xavier.”
Pierre fills another screen.
Then another.
Xavier walks behind him.
Reads.
His eyes narrow.
“Pierre.”
“Hmm?”
“Where did you see this?”
“Grand-père's office.”
My stomach sinks.
“What did Grand-père show you?”
“A math question.”
Xavier becomes very still.
“What math question?”
Pierre points casually at the screen.
“That one.”
I look at Xavier.
He looks at our son.
Then at the screen.
“No.”
“What?”
Xavier moves closer and begins reading everything from the beginning.
My son spins once in the chair because apparently revolutionary mathematics gets boring quickly.
I grab Xavier's arm.
“What?”
He looks at me.
“You know the Cambridge problem?”
“No.”
“The optimization proof they've been working on.”
Still nothing.
“The one that has resisted a complete solution for almost twenty years.”
I stare.
Then look at Pierre.
He is now drawing a dragon on the margin of his proof.
“No.”
Xavier's mouth twitches.
“I think he solved it.”
I swear loudly in French.
Pierre looks up.
“Maman.”
“Sorry.”
“You said the bad one.”
“I know.”
Xavier looks far too amused.
I point at him.
“This is your fault.”
“My genetics alone didn't produce this.”
“I was normal.”
He looks at me.
I reconsider.
“Comparatively.”
“Better.”
Pierre pushes the stylus aside.
“Can I have a biscuit?”
I stare at him.
“You just solved a twenty-year mathematics problem.”
He shrugs.
“I'm hungry.”
Xavier reaches for his phone.
I grab it.
“No.”
He looks at me.
“What?”
“You are not calling your father.”
“I need independent verification.”
“You call him and we will have forty mathematicians, six physicists and a film crew here before dinner.”
“He won't call a film crew.”
“Last month he hired a photographer because Pierre built a circuit.”
“It was his first optical processor.”
“He wore pajamas.”
“They were good photographs.”
“No.”
Pierre swivels toward us.
“Can I send it to Grand-père?”
Both of us look at him.
I sigh.
Xavier takes his phone back.
Traitor.
“Send it.”
Pierre smiles.
Three minutes later, Xavier's phone rings.
We look at each other.
“That was fast,” I say.
“It's my father.”
“Same thing.”
Xavier answers.
Senior doesn't bother with hello.
“Put Pierre on.”
“No.”
“What did he do?”
“I haven't verified it.”
“He solved it.”
“You don't know that.”
“I know my grandson.”
I hear him despite the phone not being on speaker.
Pierre climbs down from the chair.
“Grand-père?”
Xavier sighs and hands him the device.
Pierre takes it.
“Bonjour, Grand-père.”
Then he wanders toward the window while Senior begins interrogating him about convergence conditions.
Five.
He is five.
I look at Xavier.
“I think we should be worried.”
He slides one arm around my waist.
“I told you. Probably.”
I lean into him.
Our son is standing beside the window explaining mathematics to one of the most intimidating men in the world while absentmindedly picking lint from his shirt.
“How did this happen?”
Xavier kisses my temple.
“You married me.”
“You married me.”
“You infiltrated my wedding.”
“Drew invited me.”
“He still claims matchmaker credit.”
“He wants equity in NULL because of it.”
“He isn't getting any.”
I smile.
NULL is now almost six years old.
Six years of Ghost and Vesper working side by side instead of against one another.
What started with two computers and an argument in Monaco has become something neither of us anticipated.
Cyber defense.
Intelligence recovery.
Threat hunting.
Government work when we trust the government asking.
Private work when we trust the client.
And absolutely no black-market assignments unless you count the time Drew asked me to recover deleted video from his bachelor party.
I refused.
Some information should remain dead.
Xavier and I still work together.
Mostly.
Sometimes working together means sitting side by side for fourteen hours and finishing each other's code.
Sometimes it means shouting in French across a server room while Blackwell Senior leaves because he says listening to married people argue violates international labor standards.
Sometimes Ghost takes one route.
Vesper takes another.
We meet in the middle.
We are very good.
Embarrassingly good.
Senior was right about that.
Together, we became dangerous.