How It Ends: Part 1 - The Evaluation Read online

He said it slowly and let it hang in the air. Her blush deepened, though she couldn’t say why.

  She handed him his drink.

  “Anything else Mr. I-Like-New-Things?”

  “What’s good to munch on?”

  “All of it.”

  “You on the menu?”

  She couldn’t get any redder. Her smile widened until Brian thought her face might rend in two. He heard the man behind him sigh again and heard the scrape of fabric over skin as the man checked his watch.

  “How about a scone?”

  “Sure.”

  She rang him up.

  He handed her money and she handed him back too much change.

  “Scone’s on the house today,” she said. She smiled. It was a shy smile.

  He smiled back.

  “Thanks.”

  He dropped the coins in the tip jar and pocketed the bills. He loved free stuff. He loved even more that he got it by turning on the charm.

  He picked a table by the front of the shop where he could see out the window and be seen and sat down. He took a sip of coffee. It was strong and sweet. He liked it strong as jet fuel. He wasn’t as fond of the sweetness of the coffee, but he could tolerate it. His next cup would be black as the devil’s heart and sugarless. He bit into the scone. Crumbs fell to the table which he swept onto the floor with his hand. The coffee and the scone had never tasted better, he thought.

  * * *

  Three months ago they had met. He was lecturing in one of the auditoriums. Juniors mostly. Science majors taking a robotics elective. The seats were filled three quarters of the way. That was about right. The beginning of the semester saw the house full. By the time October arrived about a quarter of the students had dropped the course or decided to take it in absentia. Which was fine by him as there were fewer papers to grade. The lectures were staid. This was the ninth semester he taught this course. He crafted it the first year, perfected it the second year and let it run on autopilot for this the third year. He recited rote teachings that could be just as easily researched in any decent text on robotics. He let his mouth ramble while his eyes wandered. Looking for someone lovely, always looking for someone lovely. There were so many to choose from. So many that wanted to touch greatness or simply wanted to ensure a decent grade. Transcripts were everything to some. Transcripts were gods and he was merely the high priest. So many worshippers at the idol of academic perfection that he would welcome into his cramped office stuffed full with a desk, a chair and two bookcases. Bookcases filled with volumes and bits and pieces of robotic engineering that he had found over the years, trinkets of memory. These were the holy relics the worshippers came to see and touch and pay their reverence. His desk was the altar at which self-respect was sacrificed in the name of good grades. He had a grading scale. He assumed all professors did but he rarely went to department parties or social get-togethers so he couldn’t say with certainty. His only certainty was that he had one. No matter how poorly they performed on tests or papers, there were always ways of guaranteeing passage. Handjobs were Ds. Blowjobs were Cs. Sex was Bs. Anal was As. Once they understood the lay of the land each girl was free to make her own choice. Some were repelled. Some were repelled but performed despite. Those that came for better grades chose their grade, that limit for which they were willing to debase themselves. Most got C grades or B grades. There were precious few As. Few were willing. But few were not none.

  He surveyed his lecture landscape as always. Scanning for the next willing subject. His eyes landed on her for a moment, then moved on. But they came back. Something about her. Something about the way she looked. Something hungry. To his surprise she was not a fool or an incompetent bitch taking his class because she thought she might skate by. She raised her hand and asked questions. She turned in papers that were not a chore to read. She had potential. She would not get above a B unless she came to him like most others did. But the raw talent was there. Raw talent was B material. For her.

  Come to him she did and react to him she did.

  Slap.

  Her right hand squarely across his face with the glowing red mark to prove it. Not the first time he’d been slapped. Was certainly not likely to be the last. But this one hurt more than most. This girl had power in her hands and knew how to wield it. This girl knew how to slap.

  “Don’t do that again,” he snarled.

  She responded with her left hand. His face was now symmetrical. The right side of his face hurt more. He saw the movement of her body. He turned his face to roll with the slap. She used her left hand against his right side and he leaned into the slap inadvertently. His eyes dimmed to a faded color of red rims. He breathed heavily. Control. It’s all about control, don’t lose it, don’t lose control. Keep your cool. Keep your hands at your sides. He flexed his hands and realized they were balled into fists. He wanted to hit her, to punch her face, to spin her around and yank down her pants and hit her again in the head and bend her over and thrust into her and plow her until she begged him to stop, to stop, to please dear god stop. He closed his eyes and took another deep breath and opened them again. The girl remained stock-still and defiant. She cocked her head at him.

  “Give me a job,” she said.

  “What?”

  “You heard me. Give me a job. “

  “What kind of job?”

  “A TA job.”

  “A TA job? You want me to give you a TA job?”

  “Yes.”

  “After you hit me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Twice. Hit me twice.”

  “Yes.”

  His rage reached its boiling point. There came a moment when his hands began to lift at his sides in a preparatory gesture for striking her and he nearly took a step closer. The moment he thought he’d explode. The absurdity and brazenness of her request, a non sequitur for their angry tableau. He burst out laughing.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Anita.”

  “Anita what?”

  “Anita Lory.”

  “Well Anita Lory, I must say, you certainly have a monstrous set of balls. Bigger stones than most men I know.”

  “So you’ll do it.”

  “No.”

  He could see her face scrunch up. Don’t tell me she’s going to cry, he thought. But she wasn’t. Not cry. Rather the preparation for another swing. He understood at the right moment, the last moment.

  She swung.

  He expected it and knew which hand would do the striking. Two slaps and he’d already absorbed this girl’s body language. It made blocking her blow easy. He put up his left hand and grabbed her arm. Twist it, something inside him said. Twist it until it snaps. Yet he didn’t. He let go of her arm.

  They stared each other down like a pair of cats circling each other, each seeking the weakest point to attack. She was lovely. Very lovely. Maybe we can do this differently. Maybe we can attack this from a different angle and still get the results we want. Maybe I can still get that ever-so-fine piece of ass.

  “I don’t have a TA job available. But I’ll tell you what.”

  “What?”

  “I do have a research project going on. I could use an assistant.”

  She nodded. “When do I start?”

  “Right now. Grab your bag. Let’s go get some coffee.”

  “I have a class.”

  “Skip it. I’ll write you a note.”

  She grabbed her bag and they went out for coffee where they discussed the research assistant job and many more things. No piece of ass tonight but the future looks bright.

  * * *

  The scone was gone. What crumbs remained swept onto the floor by his hand. The coffee half-drunk. He glanced at his watch. Late again. Then again she always was. He teased her about never being on time saying that if she were lucky she’d be late to her own funeral. She told him to shut up and then smiled her sheepish smile. It was coy and coquettish and he loved it. It made him hard. So different from the girl who slapped him.
Her many faces. She was an animal in bed and it turned him on when she played the innocent and then became completely unraveled sexually. She could pleasure him like few others ever had. She did things few did. She let him do things others had slapped him for.

  When she was late he wanted to kill her.

  Serves you right.

  Shut up.

  I hope she breaks your heart, you selfish cold bastard.

  Shut up.

  He shoved the voice of his mother aside, roughly, mentally. The voice always came to him during moments of quiet pleasure. Like this one with his coffee and his scone.

  Mother issues?

  No. Not Brian.

  Not many, at least.

  Foot traffic passed by him. Looking through the shop window was like watching the world’s most boring TV program. Legs and bodies and people shuttled past with hands shoved into coat pockets for warmth. He sighed and took another swallow of coffee.

  The door opened in a sweep of wind and noise. Even in the chatter of the shop the entrance was noticed. They turned to see what force of nature had blown in. Anita was oblivious to all. She spotted Brain sitting at a table in the front and made for him. He sat in his easy way with one arm thrown over the back of the chair and the other resting casually on the table gripping the base of his coffee cup. His eyes were like the sky before a storm. He shared his whitened smile easily.

  “Where have you been?”

  “Sorry. I got caught at home by my super and then I didn’t have money for the subway.”

  “Let alone a cab?”

  “Right.”

  “Then let me buy you a cup of coffee.”

  “No, I have money for that.”

  “Yes, but I want to buy it for you anyway.”

  He came back from the counter holding a cup of coffee in a ceramic mug and another for himself in a to-go cup. Her coffee was filled with sugar and half and half. She liked it sweet and creamy. He had given up making faces about it. Now he just brought her coffee the way she liked it. A compromise. Not something he was used to. Nor did he like the idea that he was adjusting. Such a cup of coffee would have been fodder for his acerbic humor with any previous consorts. For her he smiled and placed the mug before her without a word. He washed down his misgivings with a swallow of his own dark brew.

  “Thanks.”

  “Forget it.”

  She took a sip of the coffee. It was too hot for her to gulp.

  “What’s wrong with your apartment?”

  “How’s that?”

  “What did your super want?”

  “Mrs. Lighter upstairs burst a pipe in her bathroom. The water’s starting to leak down into my place.”

  “Suck.”

  “Major suck.”

  “Do you need anything?” He couldn’t conceive that he was asking the question. Offering help whereas before he’d merely smile at the trouble and know that in a few days the trouble would disappear when he broke off the affair. But that would not be the case with Anita. Something about her held him fast. Like cement.

  “No, I should be okay. Charley—that’s the super—he’ll fix the pipe and clean up the mess and believe it or not, I do have renter’s insurance, so I’ll start a claim if anything gets damaged.”

  “Pretty organized.”

  “I know,” she smiled. “Can you believe it?”

  She reached into her bag and took out her notes that were jumbled into loosely organized groups and spread them out on the table. She fished for a minute in her bag for a pencil. Then she threw back a long swallow of coffee.

  He watched this with amusement.

  “What?” she asked.

  “Nothing,” he answered.

 

  === Logging started: 07:30:00 ===

  Action start 07:30:00: POWERUP.

  Action ended 07:31:00: COMPLETE_POWERUP.

  [07:31:00:521]: Product: Robot Model: Physician, L Series. Denlas-Kaptek Industries – Power up completed successfully.

  === Logging stopped: 07:31:00 ===

  It was morning. It knew this fact due to its internal clock. The clock ran off a specialized lithium battery that would last far longer than the batteries that had been developed before. The battery ran all essential internal systems that needed to continue if ever the primary power source was interrupted. The battery ran the clock and the clock told the robot that it was morning. It was time to wake.

  It began to prepare for the day. It chose clothing and dressed itself. It was Kilgore.

  Once finished it left the facility that housed it and entered the flow of pedestrian traffic, human and robot.

 

  Chapter Three

  Eric stood before the mirror in the private bathroom of his office. He stared at the reflection. There were new lines at the corners of his eyes. He followed with his eyes. His nose jutted before him like the prow of a ship. His eyes were ice blue and cold. His blood felt hot in his veins. Hot with the boil of a man driven to power by a greedy need. He was a thin man by genetics, not athletics. He had gray hair that was receding slowly and dyed black to satisfy his vanity. He was not an old man. The premature gray also ran through his family. He did not wish to look like an old man. That would run counter to his objectives. His look was a weapon and he used it as such. He glared at people like an eagle at prey. He was dressed in a fine navy suit with a starched white shirt and a blood red tie. He adjusted the tie a nudge. The picture of power.

  The act of self-inspection and admiration helped clear his thoughts. Clear the head. Clear the mind. Focus. Today was important. Today was another meeting before the board of directors to justify his actions. Once again. He had come in early to review his facts. They stood out on the paper before him, boiled down to the bones of a single page of numbers. He reviewed the bottom line of the company, then his division. His division was up while most other divisions were down. He was carrying the company. He was carrying the fucking company and he once again had to prove to the board of fucking directors that the programs he developed and tested and moved into production and sold by the hundreds to companies and customers were the ones keeping the fucking company profitable.

  Easy.

  His face flushed.

  Easy.

  He didn’t need to go into the boardroom with a chip on his shoulder.

  “Easy,” he said aloud.

  He didn’t need to go in looking for a fight. The fight would come to him.

  * * *

  He stood at the head of the circular table in the wood paneled room.

  Around the table sat the oversight committee for the board of directors of the robotics engineering company Denlas-Kaptek Industries. Karl Kaptek had started his firm seventy years prior with a few ideas and space in his suburban garage. Today it was the leading robotics firm in the world. The board of directors gathered more frequently than that of most companies. DKI was constantly reviewing new projects, constantly evolving their product line and service offerings. The board took full responsibility for the oversight of these projects. Several were designed and developed by Eric. He was not fond of having to report his every move. His latest success was being questioned today. He was being required to provide insight into the robotic physician program. A program that had been ten years in development and had cost somewhere in the neighborhood of eight hundred fifty million dollars. There were five such functioning physicians. Eric managed each one. The board oversaw the management.

  The oversight committee was comprised of three members of the board.

  One was a thickset man with a large bushy mustache. His mustard yellow hair was in bad need of a trim. His manner was forceful and full of bluster. In his light-colored jacket he looked the part of a southern gentleman. Another was a younger man in his mid-forties whose dark hair was thinning and whose body seemed consistently charged with electricity. His quick and jerky movements came from either his frenetic personality or the nine cups of thick black coffee consumed daily. The last was a tall gaunt man
with a long face. He had a quiet even way of speaking and rarely smiled. At times his narrow face appeared so taut he looked skeletal. Behind his back the other board members called him the Undertaker. He knew of the nickname. He enjoyed it. Together these three men led the oversight committee. The committee Eric answered to and would face today.

  They barraged him with questions. The primary interrogator was the thickset man who did not like Eric and whom Eric did not like in return.

  “So you expect us to believe that there have been no problems with the robotic physician program despite the fact that we know there have been?” the thickset man asked.

  “I never said there weren’t any problems. I said there weren’t any unmanageable problems.”

  “Semantics. As always, with you, it is semantics.”

  “Not really.”

  “Oh no?”

  “No. There are no unmanageable issues. Would you like me to define unmanageable?”

  “You’re on thin ice with me, Eric.”

  “You lack vision.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I said you lack vision. The robotic physician program has been far more successful than we anticipated. We have requests for information coming in every day. When we go live with the program, we have twenty-three orders already waiting.”

  “Twenty-three orders is hardly a number to brag about.”

  “Given the cost of a single unit it is. On twenty-three units alone we can make the year, much less the quarter. Twenty-three units will bring in a return on our investment three fold. Or perhaps you didn’t take math in grade school.”

  “Please watch your tone, Eric,” the younger man said.

  Eric’s eyes never left the thickset man.

  “My apologies,” Eric said.

  “I don’t care if you’re getting a thousand orders a day,” said the thickset man. “One single problem, one single missed diagnosis or badly performed procedure and you’ve cost us millions.”

  “But there haven’t been any problems like that, have there?” asked the gaunt man. “The robotic physician program has taken on a life of its own and has generated a buzz in the industry that is unparalleled since the introduction of the rubidium brain. This is thanks to Eric.”

  “Where’s the documentation?” asked the thickset man. “Where’s the empirical data? What proof do we have that it’s working?”

  “Other than the orders we’re getting?” Eric said.