Chapter 6: First Base

(Four years ago)

Alex started to think about her 7:00 o'clock date at about 2:15. She'd never been on a date before. In high school she was a geek: she had skipped grades and was graduating at 16; she was on the chess team; she was a math-lete; she always entered the county-wide science fair, and in her senior year, the state fair also. It wasn't that she was unattractive, but she wore clothes that hid her best features. Sweatshirts that were too big, baggy pants, and exuded an attitude that just said 'keep away.'

Well, the senior class advisor in high school insisted that everybody had to go to the prom, and if you couldn't find a date, he'd get you one. She hooked up with a fellow-geek of the male persuasion, and got a prom dress and everything, but it wasn't a date. She had to stop hiding her physical beauty, because of the gown, even with her parents insisting that she wear a conservative dress, and several guys tried to hit on her at the dance. She danced all right, but the guys all wanted to go out back and 'do stuff.' She didn't. Her official date had brought his phone and had a game app on it, and played all night. Her house was four minutes from the gym where the prom was held, and he dropped her off at exactly 11:04.

She hadn't been expecting a lot, but she'd expected something.

After her emancipation and subsequent enrollment at UFW she decided to be a new person. But deciding to be a new person was easy compared to actually being a new person. Between the extra classes she was taking, the time in the library, the time in the computer lab, the time at her own computer writing code, and her off-time at the pool – there was no time left to be a new person. Plus, she was significantly younger than a typical freshman, and she was a little scared. No dates. There were plenty of boys – or men actually – who asked her out, but there wasn't enough time. Truth be told, she didn't want to be anything but what she was.

But that was then and this was now. She had a date that she didn't want to avoid. David looked like a good guy, and he was a hottie to boot.

She looked at herself in the mirror. She tried her hair this way and that, combed over so it partially hid one eye. She tried to do something to be sexier in the overly large t-shirt, and settled on tucking it into the skirt and putting a bulldog clamp around the back so it would be pulled tighter. Then she put on the jacket. Satisfied, she checked the clock again. 3:30. What was she supposed to do for three-and-a-half hours?

She pulled up MPC again and re-re-looked at David's profile. She dug into the description deeper than she had previously. He'd developed a minor ear infection, and he had a recurring problem with sinus infections. He had a fungus that had invaded his left big toenail. At age 9, he'd broken an arm and his left arm was slightly longer than his right. If you looked closely – and she did – his right eye was slightly bigger and slightly lower than his left. He had a benign spot on his liver. He masturbated frequently, as much as two or three times a day. He'd had one sexual partner in the last 30 days, and two in the last 60 – one of each gender! – but none within the last eight days.

Alex could go crazy looking at this. She corrected his infections and erased the spot on his liver but did nothing else. She didn't even want to look at the Mental section of the record. She'd go nuts, if she could read his mind.

She checked the clock again. 3:40. Alex told herself to breathe normally and relax. She did breathe normally; she did not relax.

She cast her mind to Marc-Us. What was she going to do with him? It would have to be more than a stern talking to, but not something really debilitating. He was a father of two and he'd need to get his baseball money to support them – and their mothers. Something to get his attention, then. There were some ads in the back of the Fort Worth Tattler that might be of use. She ran out to the coffee shop to get the current Tattler, a free newspaper that catered to the rock and country music crowd, the drug-user crowd, and to the underground kinky crowd. Alex snatched one, got another double latte and went back to her office.

Alex was just about to get online with one of the kinkier sites that advertised in the Tattler, when her computer 'binged.' It was a local news story. 'Breaking news' said the headline. 'An unknown person or persons has taken hostages at a local high school pep rally.' Alex clicked the link to get the rest of the story.

There wasn't much to the story, because the media didn't have any information. There were cameras in the air from helicopters; they showed the outside of the high school, and dozens of police vehicles surrounding it. It was an inner city HS, with a mostly minority population.

She called up MPC and entered what she data she had. The cursor blinked for a maddening length of time, and finally resolved into a description of one Lattrell Corvos. Apparently Lattrell was holding a long gun of some sort, and pointing it at someone. She entered a quick command: 'Do not shoot anyone.' She checked the Mental section and found that Lattrell was highly excited and under extreme stress. Well, I hope so, since he's holding a gun on somebody, Alex thought. She looked at the Physical description: he was loaded with some chemical she'd never heard of.

A piece of sugar-free gum found its way to her mouth and Alex began to enter commands into MPC. Having to be careful so that they were simple instructions that could be understood by someone who might be high on something, she typed: Open the door. Hold the rifle over your head in both hands. Walk slowly toward the police and surrender to them.

He did so. And Alex was shocked when, fifteen seconds later, he crumpled to the ground, and MPC reported 'Subject is dead.' Alex immediately switched to the live feed from the TV station. They reported that shots were fired. Their reporter on-scene said that the man (Lattrell) refused the officers' instructions to put the gun on the ground, and instead he kept walking toward the police. Someone on the police side shot, and before it was over, he died in a hail of bullets.

Alex Chatris' instructions, via MPC, had killed a man who she hadn't intended to kill at all. She had no idea if he'd ever done anything worse than get high on something and point a gun at someone. He died because of her carelessness, because she thought she knew the best way. If she'd said 'Follow police instructions and surrender, ' he'd be alive now and on the way to some psych ward.

Life with the Master PC program did not offer do-overs.

The TV station, with its typical care for people involved in tragedy, now zoomed in on a young black woman – perhaps she was a student – on her knees at Lattrell's side, with his bloody head in her lap. She was tearfully shouting at the police: "Why did you have to kill him? He didn't ever do nothing, 'cept get high."

Alex wanted to scream at the computer's monitor, 'They didn't kill him. I did.' But all she did was turn off the monitor and put her hands over her eyes.

It was 7:06 when she lifted her head again. She stared at the clock as it ticked over. 7:07 now. She spat out the now-dead pop-o-mint gum and opened the MPC program. She intended to delete the whole program, but held back at the last. It wasn't its mistake, it was mine. She called up her own profile and typed a simple instruction: 'Do not think of Lattrell Corvos or the high school hostage situation until tomorrow morning.' She hit Send and closed the program.

She found David waiting for her when she got outside. "Sorry," she said. "I got hung up doing something – can't even remember what it was now. So ... we going to dinner or what?"

David took her to the finest hole-in-the-wall Italian place in Fort Worth. It was run by a Montenegrin family: dad was the cook and didn't understand two licks of English, the boys (of college age) served the tables, and mom handled the cash register. The food was exceptional. Neither Alex's t-shirt or David's warm-up pants raised the eyebrow of patrons or staff.

They played little finger-touch games and eyes met in smoky glances throughout dinner. David walked her back to her car after dinner and moved in close to her. Very close. Alex leaned back against the sloped side of her Camaro; David moved so he was leaning against her from thigh to chest. He didn't say a word. Then he moved three inches closer.

Alex knew that she was supposed to kiss him at this point. She wanted to kiss him. The thought was exciting. But suppose he wanted to do something beyond that? Was she ready for that? She thought about the outline of bodies fucking on her computer monitor. Those women were being abused. The last person who had seen her naked was her rapist.

Alex leaned forward and kissed him. David was not her rapist. No, it wasn't her rapist. The rapist was an animal, a criminal, an abuser.

Her lips felt his. They were moist. She touched his lips with her tongue. His tongue was immediately in her mouth. Of course, it would be, she told herself. He's not a fucking virgin. He has done this before. He knows what he's doing.

The kiss broke and David backed off a little.

"Mmmm. That was nice. Maybe we can do this again," he said. "Next Friday? I can pick you up and take you to a nicer restaurant."

What did I do to turn him off? she wondered. Was I too aggressive? Maybe I'm a cruddy kisser. It would make sense, since I don't know what I'm supposed to do.

But she said, aloud, "Next Friday would be good. Meet me at the CS building about 7?"

"Seven is good." He leaned in again and gave her a kiss with accompanying tongue lick across her lips. It was so fast, and surprising, that she didn't even have a chance to respond. He backed up a couple of steps.

She just looked at him, missing the full body contact already. She had felt the firm touch of his crotch against hers. Her eyes were wide, showing a lot of white, in the glare of the parking lot.

"I'm going to wait until your car starts," he explained.

"Oh. Good. Thanks. That's a good idea." She fumbled in her purse and finally found the key ring. The car started right away. She rolled down the window, and gave him a little finger wave. "Next Friday, then."

Alex woke the next day and the image of Lattrell Corvos was still on the TV, and worse, in her mind's viewscreen. She thought back through everything she entered in that man's MPC record, picked it apart word by word. She could have said 'cooperate with the police' or 'follow the police's instructions' or something. No, she had to say 'put the rifle over your head and walk toward the police.' That got him killed.

So, he wasn't the greatest, most upstanding individual. He still had someone who mourned him.

Maybe she could call up her record and ameliorate her bad feelings. I think I've done enough to help that family, she thought.

And then, AND THEN, I went out and had a nice date. What kind of person am I?

She looked over and Spats was just sitting by the closet door, swiping his paw at the belt that she'd just looped over the doorknob. Finally it was over-balanced and it came crashing down on his head. He ran off into the other room. It took Alex ninety minutes to get from her bed to the shower. With a sigh, she got herself up and moving.

Over breakfast, she thought of Marc-Us, who was meeting her Monday evening. What was she going to do to convince him not to be a bad boy? And could she do it without killing him?

She wondered if she could have her words to Marc-Us have the same effect as the things she typed into MPC. Maybe, maybe not. Maybe the words need to be processed – somehow – by the MPC master machine. Or maybe she could instruct Marc-Us to believe ... Well that kind of what-if thinking could go round and round forever.

She called up Marc-Us's MPC record and began typing: 'What Ms Chatris says to you will have the same effect as if it were entered in this program.' She reflected on that a bit and changed it: 'Whatever Ms Chatris says to you that begins with "Marc-Us listen to me"... ' and the rest of the instruction. She popped a piece of pep-o-mint gum into her mouth; it didn't exactly go with the flavor of cinnamon-apple oatmeal, she decided.