Chapter 10: In Book

Alexander leaned wearily back in his chair. Alexandria's infuriating habit of never letting anyone have the last word but her was, well, infuriating. And of course the date story didn't work. But the truth was that Alexander simply could not come up with a better one.

But if he could get the thing with Miranda to work, perhaps it would lend more credibility to the whole excuse. No need to backtrack yet.

He shook his head. Why was he thinking this way?

Alexander had been overreacting the night before, he was sure of it. He had ended up just falling asleep by the tree; he had been so exhausted and depressed. He had woken up with the sun, which was noticeably later than normal. Obviously it was due to it being late fall, but it was the first time Alexander had really noticed. He had been very cold, and he walked briskly back to his apartment. Instead of going in, he had found a good vantage point to his apartment and stayed there, watching. When Alexandria had left, he went in.

Alexander had decided to take a personal day, and not go to any of his classes. He took a very long and very hot shower, and tried to figure out what had happened the night before. He revisited his thoughts now.

Obviously the brews, and especially the drop, had hit him hard, but he had no reason to suspect that it would be the same every time. He had done a bit of research on the brews when he had fixed himself a small lunch, and apparently everyone was hit pretty hard the first time. Something to do with how the brain just wasn't used to the chemicals behaving in that way. Usually those sort of chemicals came during predictable events in response to various actions. You had chocolate, and you felt better. You saw a scary movie, and you were frightened. Certain actions had certain chemical consequences.

But the brews were, from the brain's point of view, unexpected, and the influx and outflow was hard to handle. It was similar to the hormonal craziness that happened to women during a pregnancy, but not, of course, the same. Alexander had never been pregnant, so he had no way to confirm or deny.

Did he need to go to the brewery again? Well, now that he knew what the dangers were, he couldn't really think of a reason not to. Elanor had made a good point during there conversation. Things just made more sense with the brews. Last night, he had been sure that Alexandria was just being supportive in an unconventional way. After this conversation, he was back to thinking that she was just mean.

The story you told yourself mattered. And right now, Alexander's story was pretty miserable. Endlessly berated by a sister who seemed to have life much more figured out than he did; unable to get women, or anyone for that matter, to really enjoy his company; uncertain of his direction in school and life. It wasn't looking good.

But with the brews, the story changed. Alexandria had his best interests at heart. Miranda was just being cautious, and perhaps a little hard to get. He just felt better about himself when he was drinking the brews. And that was a rare occurrence these days.

So what was the problem? Well, there was the money issue, but if Alexander just stuck to the softer brews with the smaller kicks, it should be manageable.

There was a buzz. Alexander got up, puzzled. Alexandria would just thumb herself in. Who was this? He activated the viewer. There was a man with medium-length blonde hair staring back at him. He looked eerily calm.

“Are you Alexander?” the man asked.

“Yes.” There wasn't much harm in that. What was going on? Was this something connected with last night?

“I'm a friend of Alexandria's,” the man said. “My name is Calvin. May I come in?”

“Yeah, I guess.” Alexander thumbed the viewer.

He heard footsteps coming down the hall, and he opened the door to let Calvin in.

Calvin wiped the sandy hair out of his eyes and looked around. “Is she here?”

“She left a while ago, I'm afraid,” Alexander said.

Calvin frowned at Alexander. “Why didn't you tell me that when I was outside?”

“Well, she went off to talk to a friend of hers. And you didn't ask. How was I supposed to know?” Boy troubles. He made up his mind then and there.

Calvin nodded. “You're correct, I should have been more diligent with my questions.”

Alexander waved to the couch. “Have a seat. Can I get you anything?”

Calvin sat down, and shook his head. “No, thank you.”

Alexander relaxed in his recliner, and looked at Calvin steadily. “So, what's going on between you and my sister?”

“Nothing, as far as I know,” Calvin said. “I just wanted to apologize to her for some things that I said while driving her home.”

“Why would you drive her home? What was she doing?” Some part of Alexander was hopeful that Alexandria, too, had some secrets. Other parts of him realized that he was being ridiculous. As Calvin started to answer, Alexander's phone went off. He waved by way of apology to Calvin, and thumbed the phone on.

“Hi, Al!” It was Alexandria.

“Hi, Lex.” He looked over at Calvin, who was watching him, expressionless. “Everything ok?”

“Yes, thank you.” She went on to explain about the dinner party, and asked him whether he could help with the story. Apparently Calvin was going to help with the puzzle.

“Have you asked him?” Alexander asked. Perhaps this was why Calvin was here, in addition to trying to see his sister.

“Not yet,” she replied.

Odd. “I can,” Alexander said. He brought the phone down to his shoulder, and talked to Calvin. “Have you heard about this dinner party thing that the girls want to do?” Calvin nodded. “Well they want to do a murder mystery night. They want us to do the story and the mystery. You cool with that?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Alright.” He picked the phone back up. “Yeah, Lex, that sounds great. We'll hammer something out.”

“We'll take care of the food and the decorations and all that,” his sister replied. “Feel free to invite the girl from last night too. Or anyone, really.” She hung up. Alexander snarled. She was really taking every cheap shot she could, wasn't she? Calvin was talking.

“In case you have not figured it out by now, I'm Theresa's roommate. I was able to drive Alexandria home last night, and on another occasion this morning.”

“Gotcha. I guess I thought you were just her friend or something,” Alexander said.

“No.”

Alexander leaned back in his chair. “Have you ever written anything before?” He asked.

“I have not; and I'm not too familiar with story structure, either. But I am fairly logical--” Al could tell. “--and I imagine they want me to help you with the mystery. Making it logically difficult but not logically impossible.”

“Fair enough,” Alexander said.

For a good hour or so, they planned for the mystery. Alexander pointed out a few common mystery tropes, and how he hoped to subvert them. He doubted that many attendees would be as knowledgeable about tropes as he would; but he didn't want anyone to be able to figure it out. On the other hand, most everything that could be done in the mystery world had been done by author's seeking to subvert tropes, so Alexander wasn't exactly on new ground despite his efforts. Calvin was particularly interested in that.

“It's a large problem in the literature world, then, that things are more or less explored?” Calvin asked.

“Well, yes. There was a whole literary movement based around trying to create new things, and realizing it's impossible. It was called modernism, and some author's were depressed as hell about the fact that they could never create anything new. And in there quest to create new things, some of their work was pretty terrible. It still haunts some authors today.”

“Odd,” Calvin said. “May I use your surface?”

Alexander nodded.

“Because that is not the same in other places. Mathematics, logic, computer science, any of the physical sciences. Let us take games for an example.” Calvin thumbed the surface; the table brought a chess arrangement onto the board.

“I thought chess hasn't been interesting since computers beat master back in ninety eight.”

“Ninety seven, actually. But yes, it's still interesting.” Calvin looked at him, and smiled. “I'm not quite sure what a modernist thinks like, but I suspect you're thinking like one right now. You must not.” He looked back at the board. “There's a concept in chess called the Book. The Book is a database of every single tournament chess game ever played. It records all the moves. So for each move, we can see whether there has been a tournament which has used those moves. Now, a modernist would say that every game of chess that could be played has been played, yes?”

“A modernist would say that, I suppose. But probably not literally about chess. I can imagine some pretty stupid games that would probably never be played, in the same way that some pretty stupid art had never been created.”

“The same might be true of mystery stories,” Calvin said. “But you make a good point. If we were to take another game, checkers for example, the 'perfect game' has been discovered a while ago. A checkers championship a few years ago had a curious thing happen in the final round. The match between the two finalists was decided by a forty game series. They were all draws. Every one of them. And twenty of those games were the exact same game.”

“Move for move?” Alexander asked.

“Move for move. A modernist would say that literature is like checkers, yes?”

Alexander shuddered. “Yes, they would.”

“I thought so. Let me show you something.” Calvin pressed his index finger down on a white pawn, and flicked it forward two spaces. “If we were to consult the Book,” Calvin said, and based on the numbers that were appearing on the surface, Alexander suspected that he was doing just that. “We might see that this move is the opening move in one million, seven hundred and seventy five thousand games.”

“What?” said Alexander, astonished.

“There are not that many legal opening moves, and fewer good ones. Let me continue.” He moved one of the black pawns forward. “Let us say that this sequence of moves has occurred in five hundred and fourteen thousand games or so.” He flicked another white pawn forward. “Three hundred and thirty five thousand.” A black pawn. “Three hundred and one thousand.” A white knight. “Two hundred and fifty thousand.” A black bishop. “Ninety one thousand.” He took the black pawn with the white knight. “Two thousand four hundred and twenty eight games.” He moved the black bishop into an attacking position. “Two thousand four hundred and three games.”

Alexander laughed. “A common counter?”

“Perhaps.” Calvin continued, moving another white pawn to defend. “One thousand nine hundred games.” The black bishop retreated. “One thousand, eight hundred games.” The white queen moved. “Three hundred games.”

“A sudden drop.”

“That happens too, on occasion,” Calvin said. The black bishop started forward again, aggressively. “Nineteen games.” Calvin's hands were flicking the pieces quickly now, and Alexander was struggling to follow.

Another white pawn. “Eleven games.”

The black bishop retreated again. “Still eleven games.”

The white bishop entered the middle of the field. “Ten games.”

The black bishop took the white bishop. “Five games.”

The white pawn took the black bishop in return. “Five games.”

Calvin castled the white rook and the white king. “Zero games.”

“Zero?” Alexander asked.

“Zero. There are no games in the history of tournament chess that have ever been in this configuration. And the balance of probability would suggest that there are no chess games in the history of the world that have been in this position either. And furthermore, it only took a depth of eighteen moves to reach that point. All games reach that point, some quicker than others. It is called being 'Out of Book.' ”

“Out of Book. I like that.”

“And as complex as chess is,” Calvin said. “Why would we not suspect the same thing for literature, for the art of human imagination?”

“We would,” Alexander said. “I'm not disagreeing with you. I think the modernists were alarmists.” But even as he said it, Alexander realized that he didn't really believe it. That was his problem with the programs that he had been watching; the problem that he had ran into while trying to create a completely new mystery. The good stories had all been told, and even if the particulars could be new, the main thrusts of the stories could not. There was no joy of revelation in the stories anymore, no surprise, at least none that Alexander could find. But he didn't want to talk about it now. “If you wouldn't mind, I have some things to get to,” Alexander said to Calvin.

“Of course, I'll be on my way. I'll continue thinking about the puzzle, we should view each other some time.”

“I agree. Thanks for helping.”

They shook hands, and Calvin stood up `and quickly strode out the door. As he did, Alexander looked down at the chess board still displayed on the surface. Part of him was suddenly very thirsty.

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