“I’m not pleading guilty to a lie,” Marcus said coldly. “I submitted my notebook as evidence. Did they look at it?”
“The Board has assigned an independent, blind reviewer to look at the work to determine its origin,” the advocate said, shuffling papers. “Standard protocol for high-level plagiarism cases. They blank out your name and Sterling’s name and send it to an outside expert to see if it matches any known published work. But don't get your hopes up. If it’s as advanced as Sterling claims, the reviewer will just confirm it’s too high-level for an undergrad.”
Marcus left the office feeling like the walls were closing in. An independent reviewer. Some other stodgy academic who would take one look at the equations, assume a kid couldn't have written them, and sign his death warrant.
The two weeks bled away. The date of the annual Hawthorne Physics Symposium arrived. It was the biggest event of the academic year, a massive gathering where faculty, alumni, and distinguished guests presented papers and celebrated the university's prestige.
Normally, Marcus would have eagerly attended, sitting in the cheap balcony seats to soak in the brilliant lectures. This year, he was scheduled to work the catering crew for the symposium's VIP reception.
He was assigned to hand out champagne to the very people who were about to expel him.
Chapter 5: The Symposium
The grand lecture hall of the Hawthorne Institute was a masterpiece of classical architecture. Modeled after an ancient amphitheater, it featured tiered seating carved from dark oak, sweeping aisles covered in crimson carpet, and a massive stage framed by velvet curtains. A giant digital projection screen hung above the podium, contrasting the modern technology with the old-world grandeur.
By 7:00 PM, the hall was packed to capacity. Over eight hundred people—professors, graduate students, university donors, and physics luminaries from across the Eastern Seaboard—were buzzing with anticipation.
Professor Alistair Sterling sat in the very front row, center seat. He was in his element, wearing a bespoke tuxedo, surrounded by fawning sycophants and peers. He was particularly excited tonight. The keynote speaker for the symposium was none other than Dr. Julian Vance.
Julian Vance was a living legend. A theoretical physicist who had won the Nobel Prize five years prior for his groundbreaking work in quantum entanglement, Vance was considered one of the most brilliant minds of the century. He was also notoriously reclusive, rarely speaking at universities. Getting him to headline the Hawthorne Symposium was a massive coup for the department. Sterling, who considered himself a peer of Vance (though Vance had significantly more accolades), was eager to shake the man's hand and perhaps discuss his own Stability Conjecture.
In the very back of the auditorium, standing in the shadows near the exit doors, was Marcus Thorne.
He was wearing his black catering uniform—a cheap polyester vest and a bowtie that choked his neck. He was holding a silver tray of empty champagne flutes, having just finished serving the faculty in the lobby. He should have returned to the kitchens. Sal would be looking for him. But some magnetic force had drawn him into the back of the hall. He wanted to hear Julian Vance speak. He wanted to hear the music of high-level physics one last time before he was banished from this world forever.
The lights in the auditorium dimmed. The crowd fell into a hushed, reverent silence. The Dean of the Physics Department stepped up to the podium, gave a brief, glowing introduction, and then stepped aside.
Dr. Julian Vance walked onto the stage.
He did not look like a typical academic. He was in his early sixties, but possessed a rugged, wiry energy. He wore a rumpled corduroy jacket over a plain black t-shirt, his hair a wild shock of gray. He looked less like a Nobel laureate and more like an aging rock musician. He carried no notes. He strolled up to the podium, adjusted the microphone, and looked out over the sea of faces.
“Thank you,” Vance said, his voice deep, gravelly, and instantly commanding. “It’s lovely to be here in Cambridge. I was asked tonight to speak about the future of quantum mechanics. To talk about string theory, multiverse topologies, the usual crowd-pleasers.”
A polite ripple of laughter moved through the audience. Sterling smiled magnanimously in the front row.
“But,” Vance continued, resting his hands on the edges of the podium, “I’m not going to do that.”
The laughter died. A murmur of confusion rippled through the front rows.
“I changed my mind about an hour ago,” Vance said casually. “Because something extraordinary happened to me this week. A few days ago, I received a secure file from your university’s Academic Integrity Board.”
In the front row, Professor Sterling’s smile faltered slightly. His brow furrowed in confusion. Why was Julian Vance talking about the disciplinary board?
“They asked me to act as a blind, independent reviewer for a piece of... what they called ‘highly suspicious student work’,” Vance continued, pacing slowly across the stage. “They redacted all the names. The student’s name, the professor’s name. They just sent me the math. They told me the student was accused of plagiarism, of copying an advanced derivation that was far beyond their supposed capabilities. They wanted me to identify the original source so they could expel the kid.”
Marcus, standing in the shadows at the back of the hall, felt his blood turn to ice. Oh god, he thought. They sent it to Vance. They sent my notebook to a Nobel laureate. He gripped the silver tray so hard his knuckles turned white. He wanted to run. He wanted to push through the heavy doors and disappear into the snowy night.
“So, I sat down in my office in California, poured myself a scotch, and started reading this ‘stolen’ work,” Vance said.
He paused, turning to the side of the stage. He gave a nod to the AV technician in the booth.
“Put it on the screen, please.”
The massive digital screen behind Dr. Vance flickered to life. The high-definition projector illuminated the dark hall.