Page 67 of Imaginary Numbers

You don’t have a choice.

I think I do, I typed. I think I can just sit here and not touch the numbers. I have a computer now. I can look at pictures of cute cats on Tumblr.

Forever?

That gave me pause.

This was my mind, yes, but it was functionally an exercise in solitary confinement at the same time. Yes, I had a computer, with a telepath’s makeshift connection to the illusion of the Internet, and yes, I could call things into being by wanting them strongly enough, and no, that didn’t change the fact that I was alone in here. My family was out of range; the only person I could talk to was Ingrid, and she could just decide to stop talking whenever she wanted to. She could cut me off. She could leave me by myself in this blazing whiteness, until I started doing the math out of the desperate need to get out, to get away.

Maybe. Or maybe this was like a holodeck in Star Trek, and I could start calling people out of my memories of them, using them for company, for stability, for a way to keep myself from doing what the cuckoos wanted from me. Because if there was one thing I knew for sure, it was that doing what the cuckoos wanted wasn’t going to end well. Not for anyone.

“Took you this long to come to that conclusion, huh? Maybe you’re not as smart as you’ve always said you were.”

“Verity!” I looked up and there she was in all her glory—literally. She was dressed like she was heading for a dance competition, wearing heels so high that it seemed impossible she could walk in them and a short, fringed garment that barely qualified for the name “dress.” “Moderately long shirt” might have been a better description. The individual crystals stitched to the fabric gleamed and sparkled in the light, and her short blonde hair had been crimped into perfect finger waves, making her look like the very image of a Gibson Girl.

But her dress was gray, and her lipstick was gray, and neither of those things made sense. I wouldn’t imagine her that way.

“What’s wrong with your lips?” I blurted.

Verity smiled a little. “I can say this because I’m not really me and you know it, which means you know this, and you just never wanted to tell yourself. You can’t see the color red.”

“Of course I can. My favorite sweater is red.”

“And you know that because you’ve seen it through your father’s eyes. You know what red is because you borrow it from the people around you, so naturally that you don’t even notice that everything red is gray for half a second before the color turns on. That’s how it’s always worked for you.”

I looked at her blankly. “What does that have to do with anything? Why isn’t the color turning on in here?”

“Normal cuckoos don’t see the color red. They’ve never cared enough about how humans work to learn how to see it. Biologically, structurally, you can’t see it. It isn’t there for you. Socially, emotionally, you can see it. You had to learn how in order to be happy.” Verity took a step backward, leaning her hip against the chalkboard. “I’m not here.”

“I know.”

“You could make me think I was here, if you wanted to, but you’d know I wasn’t.”

“I would.” I glanced around at the nothingness. “Right now, anyway. If we stayed here long enough, I wouldn’t know it anymore. I could let this be the world. I could imagine more than just you.”

A smile tugged at the corner of Verity’s grayed-out lips. “No red.”

“No red,” I agreed. “But I’d be able to understand faces. That would be a nice change. You have a beautiful smile.”

“You’re remembering other people thinking that I had a beautiful smile,” Verity corrected gently. “You don’t know. Not really.”

I glanced at my computer. Ingrid had apparently noticed that I wasn’t responding to her anymore; she had typed my name so many times that it scrolled the chat client. Gently, I closed the screen and returned my attention to Verity.

“Does it matter what I know?” I asked. “If it’s in here, and it seems real, it is real. Everything here is whatever I want it to be. I think . . . I think I could be happy.”

“Hiding inside your own mind? Really?”

“Do you have a better idea?” I exclaimed, pushing myself out of the chair. I spread my hands, indicating the white nothingness around us. “All this is happening because the cuckoos want me to do the math! They want me to reach my next instar! I don’t know if you were paying attention when Mom tried to teach us about cuckoos, but doing what they want is never the right answer!”

“Neither is running away and hiding, and that’s what you’re trying to do. We’re Prices. We don’t hide.”

“I’m not a Price!”

“You took your last name from a science fiction novel about creepy telepathic children who want to destroy the world,” said Verity. “That may be one of the most Price-like things you could have done. You’re family. We raised you right. You’re a Price, and Prices don’t run, or hide, or refuse to do something because it might be dangerous.”

“But the cuckoos—”

“Want you to do some math. You love math. Math loves you. Do their damn math so you can get the hell out of here and stomp their blue-eyed asses into the floor.” Verity shook her head. “I believe in you. Artie believes in you. It’s time you started to believe in you, too. You can’t fight if you’re in the hole. Get out of the hole, and then come see me for real. I miss you, you big jerk.”