Chapter 3: Bastards

(Still five years ago)

Alex Chatris woke up with a start. She knew she had forgotten to do something, but now she couldn't remember what it was. She reviewed what she had been doing.

It wasn't about Mr. TenInches, she felt confident of that. She flicked on the all-news channel on the TV. The airwaves were filled with the story of a man in South Boston who had seven sex slaves in his basement and had confessed to many more that he had killed in the past decade. They were searching his home: child porn had been found on his computer.

OH! YES! His computer.

She tapped her signon to the MPC program and entered the command 'Find copies of MPC program.' A little green 'in progress' indicator came up as the database query began. She had neglected to eliminate the random copies of MPC. There were 147 Users in the Boston area. She didn't want any more of them, in fact it would be fine with her if there weren't any at all.

She'd never get all of them, because some bright bulbs somewhere would have made copies to disk of their programs. But maybe she could cut down on the random abuser population. Before she went any further, she decided that she'd better make a copy to CD of her own MPC. Wouldn't do to have that wiped out while she was wiping others.

SHIT! Her plan also wouldn't reverse the changes made to anyone's 'subjects, ' so no matter what, they and the MPC User would still be there. She'd have to give this more thought.

The program's search for MPC copies was done. There were over 300 copies of MPC floating around Boston. Each copy had a twenty-five digit serial hexadecimal number. Presumably that was only the actively running copies, or those that had been online recently – she didn't know how the MPC database would work. She found her own serial number and deleted that from the list.

She wrote a little program that said 'Thank you for trying Master PC. Your time has expired.' Then she instructed the Master Master PC computer to delete the MPC copies as they signed on, and to display the message she prepared. When she hit 'Enter' she felt somewhat better, even though it wouldn't be enough.

Alex logged in to the MIT archive and deleted the copy that was stored there. How many other copies were out there, safely tucked away in some archive, waiting to be re-discovered? This was hopeless.

It was also self-defeating, she soon discovered. The list of MPC Users now in the Boston area was only 23. All of them 'Hidden.' So she would never be able to find another Mr. TenInches. That was a big fail. She'd have to be more careful. She'd have to go after them one at a time.

She chewed on a finger and thought about it.

...

Alex spent the better part of the next day entering the DNA information for her rapist. It seemed that the program could search on a description like: 'blonde' or 'bust over 40 inches' or 'shoe size over 6' ... or the DNA parameters of a rapist. The DNA information that identified her attacker was extensive, in English. There wasn't any real way to enter the picture version of the DNA that was gathered from the 'seminal liquid' at the time of her rape. That sounded much better than 'rapist sperm, ' didn't it?

She didn't expect to find anything within 250 km of Boston, but who knew, right? The program answered 'Not Found' – as expected. She saved the DNA search criteria.

Should she search for men with enormous penises? What was the plural of penis, anyway? Penae? Penii? She was prone to thinking of random tangents, it seemed. Maybe she was ADD? Anyway, big cocks couldn't really be an indication of MPC use, some might be normal. And changing them arbitrarily would be as much an abuse as anything else.

She chewed on that same finger again.

...

She'd go back to Fort Worth.

It was nearly August by now, and the next semester would be starting soon. She felt safe; she wasn't an unarmed victim any more. She'd get the bastard, she was sure.

Bastard. Why stop at just one? There were bound to be many others. Alexis Chatris was looking for bastards, plural. Not in the technical sense. She didn't care if she found someone who had parents that were married or not. No, no. She wanted the other kind of bastard: the kind that took advantage of other people, especially in the sexual way. Why limit myself to those? She asked herself. There are plenty of other kinds of bastards: racists, homophobes, financial cheats, the Old Men of the Texas Legislature who passed laws that ... well that I don't like. Tempting, but no. Better limit myself to the bastards that everyone would dislike. The kinds that would get killed in prison. She nodded to herself.

She hadn't really thought about it that much, but maybe she was a bastard by that definition. Nah. Avenging angel maybe. No, that was too far in the other direction. Avenging bastard, that sounded right. She wasn't an abuser herself – not yet anyway.

When the plane landed in Dallas, she pulled out her laptop right in the airport lounge and reentered the DNA search for her rapist. She couldn't believe it: 'Not Found.' Where had he gone? She wondered if he'd moved to better 'hunting' grounds. How could he? He needed a room where he wouldn't be bothered while he was raping. And money ... where did he get the money and time to pursue his vile hobby? How could she track him, now?

She chewed on that finger again.

Then Alex shut her laptop. She'd retrieve her luggage, find an apartment, and see the UFW registrar – it was past time to register for the fall semester, but maybe they'd make an exception.

...

"No exceptions could be granted," said Bunny Sue Albright, the middle-aged matron who handled registrations for the U. The nameplate on her desk didn't do justice to the former Miss Somewhere who was behind the desk. She was blonde, blue-eyed, and had Texas hair – really big and teased and full of hair spray, in a snappy little green-gray suit, white silk-ish blouse. Alex definitely got a hostile vibe from her. She thought about that: probably the information about her rape was available on the University grapevine. It was supposed to be confidential, but...

She left the registrar and found a secure place in the building's lobby. Surely MPC's abilities weren't limited to sexual perversions.

MPC calmly asked, 'Name.' Of course the MPC program would ask 'calmly, ' it was only words on a screen. It didn't have the emotional component that a human had.

She answered 'Bunny Sue Albright.' Sure enough, up popped Mrs. Albright, on the display, sitting at her desk. Alex scanned the information on the display. Under the 'Mental' category it said 'heightened vulnerability to religion.' That was a little harsh, thought Alex: listing religion like a condition – even a disease – that could affect the mind. In any case, it explained Bunny Sue's attitude toward Alex. She thought about modifying Bunny Sue's religious rigidity, but that wouldn't help her in the short term.

Finally she decided to have Bunny Sue retire at the end of September, to approve Alex's reinstatement, and then to forget all about Alex.

...

Alex settled into a routine. She attended classes, did her homework, activated the DNA search. Rinse and repeat, like the shampoo instructions said. Time passed.

One evening in late November, she was running a routine check on the female students in her classes. Tempesta Gonzales was a tall Latina who died her hair blonde; she seemed smart but Alex knew that she got grades that were only fair. She and Alex had worked together on one project and Tempesta was a contributor with good ideas. It didn't seem right that she'd gotten only a C on the project while Alex got an A-; they submitted the same work, after all. The profile showed that she had elevated blood pressure, was developing an ulcer and was 'under severe stress.' She watched the body outline as it moved to a 'downward facing dog' posture – Alex was into yoga.