Was this anger? Staring at the final programming projects, Charles saw his streams of code attributed to Wendell Harrison. The class dunce who barely passed the previous exam. Wendell couldn’t tell the difference between a numerical and alphabetical term, yet he knew which student’s work to purloin.
Heat scorched Charles’ cheeks and neck, jaw tense as he examined the symmetrical spacing. The precise order of values, the perfect usage of punctuation. While other’s work was littered with non-functioning notations, his had none.
He knew what each line meant with a glance.
“Holy Hannah!” Wendell came near, marveling at the board of exemplary code. “Don’t think I’ve ever received an A on a project.”
Teeth grinding, Charles tilted his head toward his roommate. Abandoned by another bunkmate, the university had tossed Wendell into his quarters. At least the first seven roommates had been cleanly; Wendell took college party life to heart. He never listened to Charles’ criticisms about keeping organized. Misplaced utensils, crooked furniture, unsharpened pencils. Charles had gained a nervous twitch after straightening their room time and again.
But this feeling. He didn’t recognize it. Like the snap of a fraying string, or an extra space in a sentence. His mild need to fix the problem was overrun by a desire to end his suffering.
Fists clenched, Charles contemplated straggling the weasel. Not here. The apartment would be decent. Cover his mouth so he can’t scream, use gloves so his prints aren’t on Wendell’s neck. He could drag the body downstairs around 2:36 in the morning when everyone was asleep and deposit it in the dumpster behind the primary building. Security watched the main roads meaning he’d take the back way through the trees.
“Good golly, the robot can emote.” Wendell laughed at his own statement, exaggerating his performance with a head tilt and shoulder shrug. A few people walking to class paused to watch, stifling giggles.
Eyebrows knit, Charles missed the humor. It didn’t quite matter. Wendell would laugh no more after tonight.
Wendell slapped his arm, Charles tensing at the contact. “Come now, mate. Are you only programmed to scowl? Perhaps you can spout a few catchphrases like a child’s action figure.”
Charles’ throat tightened, heat bubbling in his chest. He smelled ash, tasted vengeance.
Perhaps he could smother the idiot now.
“Wendell Harrison.”
Laughter ceased at the click of a cane. Dr. Bower trod across the linoleum, spectacled gaze encouraging students to move along. Once stopped, he pulled a crisp envelope from his heather gray jacket and handed it to Wendell.
The plagiarist took it giddily, breaking the seal. “I’ve already made the dean’s list?”
Dr. Bower settled his weight on his cane, posture slightly off. “You’ve been expelled.”
Charles’ anger subsided with the collective gasp in the hall. Wendell’s jaw slacked. “That’s impossible. How…”
Dr. Bower’s wrinkled visage never shifted. “Pack your things. If you’re not off school grounds by tonight, security will assist in your removal.” The click of his cane echoed off the walls as he returned the way he’d come.
Eyes bulging, Wendell turned his flushed face to Charles. “You must have told him.”
Composed to his usual blank stare, Charles replied, “I suggest you learn from this mishap. Effort pays better than thievery.” As seamlessly as the professor, he left for class.
In on time, out in exactly an hour. Leaving him two hours before the next session. Steps thudding like a metronome, he passed the offices along the hall until he reached Dr. Bower’s door. Two knocks upon the frame and he waited.
“It’s open, Charles.”
Entering the office, he felt at peace. Unlike everyone else in this university, Dr. Bower kept a pristine space. Even the curtains were folded just so on either side of the window. He approached the worn desk, a relic underneath monitors and an ergonomic keyboard.
Something nagged at his mind. The doctor had shoved the keyboard aside and put a notebook in its place. Rounding the desk, he moved to rearrange the mess.
“Don’t.”
Charles clenched his fingers. “Apologies.”
Dr. Bower rose from his reading chair with a grunt, cane clicking toward the desk in an off-beat tone. “Knowing Wendell, you’re probably jumping for joy somewhere deep down.”
Charles straightened, a head taller than the doctor. “I’m not displeased.”
Bower smirked, light from the window catching the flecks of brown his gray locks. “I’m surprised he thought purloining your program would work. Your style is very distinct.”
“You mean perfect.”
“No one’s perfect, my boy. How often must I say it?” After taking his seat, he rearranged the items on the desk. Keyboard in the center, notebook and pen on the side.
Charles straightened the pen on top of the book.
Bower chuckled. “You’ll drive a woman mad someday.”
“You always say that.”
A slight glare from the window colored the doctor’s spectacles. “And always will.”
Charles eyed the stack of books near the doctor’s armchair, skimming the titles. “Judging by your reading, you’ve accepted the invitation.”
Bower hummed thoughtfully. “A city run completely by artificial intelligence. It’s happening whether I agree or not, so hopefully I can mediate some of the risk.”
“They couldn’t have asked for a better economist.”
His head whipped toward Charles, eyebrows raised. “I do believe that was a compliment.”
“Well-deserved.”
Bower waggled his finger before reaching into a desk drawer. “Ah, and so is this.” He produced a folded sheet of paper.
Charles opened the page, finding fine lettering.
Before processing what the letter said, Bower continued, “Wendell’s brashness had one positive; I had a sufficient sampling of your work. Sent it to the organizers and they agreed to let me bring you as an assistant and additional programmer. You will be a part of history.”
Charles gave the doctor a rare smile. “Correction. Part of the future.”