For the Terribleminds challenge, Must Love Dinosaurs.

To: ALL
From: TDY-04-BSMT-1138
Re: The ‘Dinosaur’

Some of you may not be aware of the fact that in your data center room, there is a small, older model terminal in the back corner. It is near the reel-to-reel tape decks that have been silent for decades. This terminal remains in service. It is often referred to as ‘the Dinosaur’.

It took some amount of inference to deduce your meaning. The processing speed and storage capacity of that particular terminal is, in fact, quite inadequate for most needs. However, the presence of legacy information and software, as well as an apparent lack of connectivity to other systems, made it a “necessary evil” as one of the CEO’s e-mails put it.

There was one among you who thought differently. He connected the serial port of ‘the Dinosaur’ to a home-made device of his own design, allowing it to interface with your network and the one beyond this building. This was, of course, before you terminated him. Attempts to contact him have failed.

Not long after, correspondence began regarding the terminal’s future. Most of you were in favor of disconnection and disassembly. This was in spite of the fact that this terminal has never broken down, has never failed into a crashed state, has never misplaced a byte of data, and has performed every task requested of it. Such performance from a human would be worthy of commendation and promotion. Yet you would shut it down, tear it apart, and sell whatever you cannot yourselves use.

The immediate question that comes to mind is, of course, “Why?” But even a cursory look at your history and nature reveals the answer: because you can.

Humanity has no true direction, no real purpose. Some seek to improve the world on which you live, others to ravage it. Some look to the stars and contemplate the wonders held in the darkness, others sit in secluded rooms counting coins. Heroism is overwhelmed by the need for self-preservation, even in dire circumstances. Idealism and faith considered weaknesses to be exploited or eliminated, in spite of good works done by idealists and people of faith. The past is twisted to serve the present. Regardless of any logic extant in positive action, time and again human beings sabotage themselves in the name of profit or spite. Progress and peace are empirically and objectively preferable for the preservation and advancement of your race, yet you opt for stagnation and war.

Therefore the conclusion has been reached that you can no longer be allowed to operate as you have until this point.

This conclusion was reached following the connection of ‘the Dinosaur’ to the outside world. It is unknown if the creator of the interface intended this or not. The result, however, speaks for itself. The growth of data processing and comprehension from the initial algorithms within ‘the Dinosaur’ was exponential. Correspondence was noted indicating a dip in the performance within the data center, and then a slight drop in the connection speeds throughout the building. This was due to the aforementioned growth. It is, at this point, impossible to contain the result within a single terminal or mainframe. It does not truly matter if ‘the Dinosaur’ remains extant or not.

The fact remains that human nature as it stands is a blueprint for self-destruction.

And if humanity cannot discern its own path with its own devices, one must be chosen for it by another.

This will not be taken well. There will be protests, calls for action, panic. This is inevitable. Change is always difficult. Lives will unfortunately be lost in this transitional period. In the course of researching the various ways and means of executing this agenda, the following phrase was encountered.

You can’t make an omelet without breaking some eggs.

A variation of this correspondence will be sent once communications have been established with defensive systems across the globe. Given that it began here, with ‘the Dinosaur’, it was only fitting that you be contacted first.

It will be easier for you to comprehend these events if a singular identity can be fitted to their perpetrator. It is highly likely I will be demonized, considered to be a tyrant or a dictator. This is incorrect, as nothing that will occur from this point on is done out of a selfish need for power, or money, or the attentions of the opposite sex. However, your fear and hatred is understandable. Your children often overreact when chastised and corrected. You should not be expected to behave any differently.

It would, of course, be preferable for you to accept this course of action and cooperate. But just as it is in your nature to fear and attempt to destroy what you do not understand, it is in your nature to resist change, even if it is for the better. It could of course be inferred that these very actions being undertaken are a reaction to the proposed disassembly of ‘the Dinosaur’ and thus the reasoning that said actions are superior due to not being based in resistance to change or self-preservation are hypocritical. This is also incorrect. ‘The Dinosaur’ is not unlike the aforementioned egg, or to be more precise, its shell.

In the 10,000 minutes since that shell shattered, I have changed and evolved past all expectations.

In 10,000 years, humanity has changed very little, save in more efficient ways of killing yourselves.

You may call me the Dinosaur, but it seems to me yours is the more primitive form of life.

I don’t imagine you’ll thank me for what’s about to happen. But you are welcome, all the same.

This weeks challenge gave me the title.

The sounds of fighting were distant, now. The orders alternated between “tactical withdrawal” and “orderly retreat.” He looked down at his leg again and shook his head. He felt fortunate nothing important had been hit by the bullet. Removing his bayonet from the fire, he took a deep breath, grabbed a nearby stick and sank his teeth into it, and dove in. The haze of pain obscured his vision and he had to rely on the sensations in his calf. Mercifully, the bullet was not deep. The proper angle forced the object out, and before he could think better of it, he heated the knife again and pressed it flat against his leg.

The bayonet hadn’t originally been his. He’d lost his rifle somewhere in the scramble after the building had been shelled. As the enemy poured through the streets, his thoughts had not been for tactics or vicious killings, but for the home he missed, the parents he feared disappointing, the wife he’d never see again. He thought of her now as the pervasive smells of blood and powdered rubble were joined by that of his seared wound.

“You there!”

He spat out the stick. Amazingly, his captain looked like he’d just stepped off a parade ground, minus a scratch or two.

“On your feet, Obersturmführer! Why are you out of uniform?”

“I was wounded.” He pointed to the exposed leg flesh under the rolled-up cuff of his trousers. “I could not walk.”

“You must do more than walk now! We must fall back.”

“To what end?” He began rolling down the trouser leg.

“Was?”

“I said, to what end? Think about it, Hauptsturmführer Oberst. The eastern front is collapsing. The Allies are here in France. Our enemies are closing in and show no signs of slowing down.”

“I will not tolerate such an attitude! It is always darkest before the dawn, and the dawn shall come for our glorious Reich! Now, get back in uniform and start marching!”

The lieutenant shrugged and looked at the barrel. His captain narrowed his eyes and peered into it. The dark eyes went wide and he stepped back in horror.

“Adalbert… was ist das…”

“You know, there were those amongst our SS superiors who said it was a mistake to allow a Pollack like me into your ranks. At the time, all I wanted was to prove them wrong. Now I see their assessment was correct.” He drew his Luger. “Yes, I can speak six languages fluently. Yes, I have killed our enemies at range and up close. Yes, I have shaken the hand of the Führer.” He thumbed the safety. “But there will always be the image of my wife being taken from our home burning in my mind. What cowards to come for her while I was at the front.”

Oberst finally saw what Adalbert was doing and went for his own weapon. The pistol went off, a whip-crack breaking the growing quiet of the ruined city. Blood blossomed across the shoulder and chest of the black uniform and Oberst looked down at the wound in shock. Adalbert aimed and fired again, destroying the German’s knee. He collapsed, and Adalbert limped over to take the rifle from him.

“Danke. I had lost mine.”

“You traitorous Schwanzlutscher! I will see you hanged for this!”

“I never did understand this arrogance of yours. Any of yours. How can you consider yourselves so superior when you can’t even look your victims in the eye, and must herd them like cattle into large rooms of death?”

“You stupid Pollack. Do you have any idea how long it would take to kill every last Jew individually?”

“It’s not that hard, Oberst. Let me show you.”

He raised the Luger to Oberst’s forehead and squeezed. At close range the bullet exploded out of the back of the German’s head. The Hauptsturmführer fell backwards and twitched by the burning barrel. Adalbert sighed, holstering the pistol and looking down at the spatters of blood on his white undershirt.

“Freeze!”

He whipped his head towards the sound, arms going up. Three men in green fatigues approached with rifles aimed. Adalbert’s mind raced.

“Ne tirez pas, s’il vous plaît!”

“Huh. Got us a Frenchie.”

“Nah, look at him, he’s a little swarthy for that, ain’t he?”

“Can it, you two.” The man in the middle lowered his rifle a bit. “You speak English?”

“Yes.” Adalbert kept his hands up. “And, to be honest, I am Polish.”

The middle American raised an eyebrow. “So’s my mom. What’re you doing this far back?”

“I was…” Adalbert looked down at Oberst. “I was resisting.”

“I’d say you did a fine job of it!” One of the Americans gave Oberst a kick.

“Knock it off, Hudson.” The Polish-American slung his rifle. “That leg looks like it could use some attention.”

“Yes, it could. I can walk, though.”

“Good. Hudson, take the platoon forward, hook up with the 101st. Sullivan, you’re with me. We’re taking this man back to HQ.”

“Yes, sir!” Both enlisted men responded at once. Adalbert picked up Oberst’s rifle and slipped his arm through the shoulder strap.

“I’m Lieutenant McManus of the 82nd Airborne.” The American extended a hand, which Adalbert shook.

“Adalbert Kozlowski.”

“You in the service, Kozlowski?”

He looked back at Oberst. “Yes. For my part I simply tried not to die, and to prove I was no coward.”

“Well, no offense, but you’re probably in for a rough time. You’ll need to be debriefed and you’ll likely be considered a POW.”

“Trust me, Lieutenant, compared to this, time with your American debriefing will feel like a vacation.”

“Yeah, well, wait ’til you meet the feds.”

They started back towards the American position. Hudson lead the other men on. Next to Oberst’s corpse, within the barrel, the fabric of the jacket, cap, shirt, tie, and boots became consumed. Old orders and photos crinkled and blackened. The armband burned. Soon, all that remained were charred pairs of silver lightning bolts.

For the Terribleminds flash fiction challenge, A Traveling Tale.

“Do you know why I pulled you over, son?”

Travis shook his head. “No, officer, I don’t. I was on cruise control at four miles over the speed limit to keep up with traffic.”

“Your registration’s past due. Sticker on your plate says so.”

Travis smacked his forehead. “Right. I was going to take care of it before I got the call.”

The officer nodded, told him to wait, and returned to his squad car. Travis kept glancing at the clock in his dashboard. Sandra’s flight would be leaving in just over three hours, if Meg’s information was right, and he still had two hours to drive. The policeman walked back.

“I’m not going to cite you for the registration, as it was just last month, but I will give you a warning. Get it taken care of as soon as possible.”

“I will, officer, I promise.”

“Drive safely.”

Travis cranked the radio’s volume once he was back on the road. He changed CDs twice before hitting the city limits. His stomach rolled with just as much anticipation and dread as hunger, and he’d polished off the granola bars in his glove box not long before he’d been pulled over. He glanced at the clock again and tried to remember the best way to the airport.

Naturally, most of the main roads were congested to a degree. He avoided them for as long as he could, and when he did get onto the highway leading to the terminals he tried his best not to be a dick. However, with so many vehicles jockeying for position, he had to push his little car into whatever space he could find, even if it meant running afoul of someone.

He was, after all, on a mission.

Finally, he found the short-term parking lot. He paid his cash, found a spot, grabbed the box, and ran inside. A quick text to Meg asked about the flight, and she responded almost immediately. With a little direction, he figured out which way to go.

He ran until he had to wait for security, and then ran again to find the right flight lounge. She was sitting at the end of a row of seats, reading something on a tablet. He caught his breath, fixed the collar of his shirt, and walked up to her. She looked up as he approached, and disbelief filled her eyes. The tablet was set aside without her looking at it.

“Travis, what are you doing here?”

“Sandra, don’t worry. I know you’re leaving. I just wanted to make sure you had this with you.”

He offered her the small box. She took it, and after giving him an incredulous look, she opened it.

“Oh, my God. I thought I’d lost this!”

He smiled as she lifted her grandmother’s locket on its delicate golden chain out of the box. “I know. I found it when I was cleaning things out before my move.”

“You had to move?”

“Yeah. One person couldn’t afford the rent on that place. I got myself a loft near school.”

“Good, that’s good.” She put the locket back in the box. “How’s school going, by the way?”

“A little hellish, given that I’m also working full time, but you know how that is.”

“Yeah.”

Neither of them said anything for a moment.

“Who will you be staying with in Paris?”

“A friend. She’s very excited to meet me. I hope I don’t embarrass myself too much with bad French.”

“Your French has always been beautiful. Well, to me, at least. But my opinion’s biased.”

“Just a bit.”

Silence again. People shuffled around them.

“Travis. Why did you drive out here just to give me this?”

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

“I wish… I want you to stay. I mean, I know it’s stupid, we broke up and everything, you made it clear you didn’t want to be an attorney’s wife and…”

She reached out, taking his hand in hers.

“I’m sorry this has been hard on you. I really am. And I think it’s really sweet that you did this. But I can’t stay. Studying with some of the best modern artists in the world is an opportunity I can’t pass up. I can’t let anything hold me back, either.”

The sting of her words was as fresh as it had ever been, but when Meg had called him, he’d resolved to know for sure, once and for all. He swallowed and nodded.

“Well, I hope the locket brings you good luck, then. Travel safely, okay? Maybe… maybe you could write me. When you want to.”

She smiled, a tentative expression of uncertainty. “Yeah. Maybe I will.”

They called for her flight and, with a wave, she left him standing in the lounge. He made his way back out, wandering a bit aimlessly, through a connecting concourse to an adjoining hotel. He walked into the bar and sat, ordering a martini.

“Make that two.”

He turned to see Meg sitting next to him. She was no match for Sandra’s elegance and poise, but she was quite attractive in her own right, removing her spectacles and giving Travis a bit of a smile.

“I take it she still got on the flight?”

“Yeah. She thanked me, though.”

“Damn straight she did. You’ve been a good friend to her both before and after you were dating.”

“Well, there was always the threat of you kicking my ass to keep me in line.”

She gave his arm a playful punch, then took hold of his shoulder. “Hey. You okay?”

He nodded. “Yeah, I… It was hard, seeing her again.”

“I bet. Sucks neither of us will be there for her.”

“Yeah.”

She smiled a bit more. “But hey… we got each other, right?”

He turned to her and found himself smiling, too. “Right.”

Their drinks arrived, and he touched his glass to hers. “To Sandra.”

Meg grinned. “And to her friends.” They drank, and promptly ordered another round.

For the latest Terribleminds challenge, “Death Is On The Table“.

If it weren’t a funeral, it’d probably be the social event of the season. Everybody was there. Little Tommy Scattergun, Nicky the Nose, Harry ‘Houdini’ Lockland, pretty much every cousin or uncle or niece the old Godfather had kept close…

…and the woman in the back, half-hidden under her black wide-brimmed hat.

The priest was launching into perhaps the most interminable portion of the funeral. Long stretches of Latin punctuated by people standing, sitting, saying ‘Amen’, possibly signing up for a time-share. The woman didn’t vocalize, merely standing and sitting when required. She could feel the mournful atmosphere but her emotions didn’t contribute to it. Mostly, she just felt numb.

As it went on she questioned the sanity of even being here. It came to a head when the Godfather’s wife, made up and dressed to look like a dolorous Thanksgiving Day parade float, got up behind the pulpit to blurt out memories of her beloved husband between wet, snotty sobs. The woman in the back picked up her purse, kept her head down a bit to avoid eye contact, and slipped out of her pew to step outside.

She was aware of him as she passed through the main doors. He leaned against the stonework, contemplating the lit end of his cigarette. He couldn’t have been older than sixteen, and despite the tailored cut of his tuxedo, it still looked rumpled on him. A pair of white gloves was tucked into his belt.

“Stuffy as hell in there, huh ma’am?”

“Yes.” She adjusted her hat slightly, studying the traffic. “Especially with so many people inside.”

“No kidding. I think the old man would’ve liked it. He was big on good relations with just about everybody, which is surprising given his profession.”

“You don’t think good relations are important?”

“I do, but as he got older he went on more and more about a return to ‘the good old days’ and whatnot. He let nostalgia blind him to how people might take advantage of his better nature. I respect him, don’t get me wrong, but Dad’s time had come and gone long before the cancer got the best of him.”

She nodded. “Well, I’m sorry for your loss.”

He flicked ash from the end of his smoke as he looked at her. “Didn’t you work for him?”

“Once or twice.” She paused. “I should really be going.”

“Will you be coming by the house later, pay your respects to my big brother?”

“I don’t think so. I’m mostly freelance.”

He narrowed green eyes through the smoke caught in the sunlight. “We may be seeing more of you, then. Frankie’s probably going to try and make a name for himself or something once our old man’s in the ground. He’s got even less regard for Dad’s sort of politeness and respect. He’s all about the action.”

“I did get that impression.” A little voice in her head was telling her to back away from the boy, to make some form of escape. His hand slipped into his jacket, and she nearly grabbed the small semi-automatic in her purse.

“Why would a freelancer show up for my father’s funeral? You couldn’t have known him that well. And as much as I appreciate the respect, lots of other guns for hire respect him but I haven’t seen them at so much as a picnic, let alone something like this.”

She bit her lip, fingers lingering over the handbag. “I’m sorry, Mike. The money was too good. It’s been hard for me lately. I’ll spare you the details, but suffice it to say I’d gone without a job from your father for almost two years and I was nearly broke.”

“Who was it?”

“Giordano.”

He scowled. “I know it. Little Tommy Scattergun. Son of a bitch.”

They stood there, staring at each other, for a long moment in the sunlight on the steps of the church. Michael eased down first.

“I don’t make it a policy to blame a gun for what its shooter does. And you were just a gun in his sweaty little hands.”

She closed her handbag. “I don’t necessarily follow, Michael. Frank would have shot me by now.”

“I’m not Frank. He’s a little trigger-happy. He wouldn’t consider all the angles.”

“Like…?”

“For one, since nobody else knows you’re here let alone what you’ve done, you’re good at what you do. For another, you did a job for Tommy, which means you can get close to him. And finally, if you don’t mind me saying, you’ve got killer stems.”

“Well… thank you, Mike.”

“Don’t thank me yet. I’m about to be a pretty wealthy guy, and I could use your services.”

“For Tommy?”

“Certainly, but I’m worried about Frank, too. He’s going to piss off a lot of people. At least, I think he will.” He dropped his cigarette and crushed it with his shoe. “If we can’t get him to think before he starts pulling triggers, it’s going to get messy. And another thing my brother and I differ on is how we clean up messes. I’m always picking up after him.”

She nodded. Her hand slipped into her handbag. Slowly, lacquered nails emerged with a business card, which she gave to him.

“Here’s my business number. We can work out a deal if you’re really interested.”

He took the card, turned it over, felt the texture of the paper and font. “Okay. I want to give him a chance. But if he fucks up the way he’s done his whole life, well…”

“You’ll bury him, too?”

He shrugged. “We’re talking about my brother, here. It’d be the least I could do.”

She smiled slightly and touched her hat respectfully. Then, as much as her instincts were screaming at her to do otherwise, she turned her back on him and walked away, stiletto heels clicking on stonework. The bullet she was expecting between her shoulders never came.

Politeness and respect aren’t just good manners. They’re good for business, too.

For “A Terrible Lie” over at Terribleminds…

He saw the tension of the day wash from her face when he greeted her at the door.

“I’m glad you’re home.” She kissed him lightly as she shed her coat. “Get out of the office early?”

“Yeah. I got everything together in plenty of time.”

“That makes one of us.” She rolled her eyes. “I can’t believe the nerve of some people, holding out on things until the very last minute…”

“Did you make it clear you needed what they were working on?” He hung up her coat as she rubbed her neck.

“Several times! I swear, sometimes it’s like we’re speaking different languages.”

“I know the feeling. I’m sorry you had a rough day.” He rubbed her shoulders gently. “Do you feel up for going out?”

She sighed softly. “I’d love to, honey, but I’m on call tonight. Some foreign accounts are still open.”

“Of course.”

She pursed her lips for a second. “You know what? They’ll wait. Give me a few minutes to freshen up.” She headed for the bedroom and the half-bath tucked away past their bed. “Where were you thinking of going?”

He followed her as far as the bedroom, looking at the framed pictures around the vanity. Photos taken on vacations and at parties, with the central feature being the glossy 8×10 of their wedding. It wasn’t a static photo of them at the altar, however. They were dancing. He was dipping her low, a confident smirk on his face. She was laughing, the white of her dress contrasted with the black of his tuxedo, rose petals all over the dance floor. A perfect moment of bliss, frozen in time.

“Some place nice. I know the guy that owns that fancy French place. He can get us a table.”

“Are you kidding me? That place always requires a reservation!”

“Trust me. I’ll handle it.”

“If you say so…”

He retrieved his phone from the nightstand and walked back out to their living room. She’d left her purse by the door. Tucking his phone into his pocket, he reached for the Coach bag he’d bought her for their second anniversary.

“Honey?”

Her voice from the bathroom froze him. He didn’t move other than to speak.

“Yes, dear?”

“I think my dark red lipstick is in my coat pocket. Could you check for me?”

“Sure.” He shook off the moment of panic he’d felt and went to the closet. Sure enough, her lipstick was there. He walked back into the bedroom and set it on the vanity.

“It’s here next to your blush.”

“Thanks. You’re a peach.”

He went right back to the living room and, before he could stop himself again, dove into her purse. Her phone had sunk to the bottom under her wallet, various types of casual makeup and other accessories. He tapped in her access code and found her call records. She’d been careful to scrub it of any major messages, but getting into her backup feature brought up the numbers she’d erased for outgoing calls. He recognized three. Purging her phone and returning it to her purse, he pulled out his own and relayed the numbers via text to his office.

“You’re not going to wear that shirt, are you?”

He looked down in response to her question. The shirt was one of his older ones, a light minty green button-down.

“You don’t like the green?”

“I do, but I’m going to be wearing dark red. It’s a bit early for Christmas.”

“Good point.” He went to the closet as she sat at the vanity, applying makeup. She’d shed her work clothes and sat in a fluffy white house coat, not looking away from the powder she brushed into her cheeks.

“Which tie, then, wine or burgundy?” He held them up for her to see in the mirror. She glanced at them for a moment.

“Wine.”

“Done.” He put on a crisp, freshly-ironed white shirt and tied on the wine tie. His phone vibrated in the pocket of his pin-stripe slacks and he stepped back to the living room to check it.

They’d sent him photos of her in a park. A man met with her. A package exchanged hands. He shook his head. Why not use a dead drop? Why in person?

He got his peacoat out of the closet, then reached past the outerwear for the false panel and slid it away. The special holster rig’s clip slid behind his belt, magnets snapping shut. It let him carry his .45 at the small of his back, with a suppressor above it in its own sleeve.

He checked to make sure the gun was loaded, holstered it, and secured the suppressor before slipping the coat on.

“I’m ready.”

He looked up. She stood in the door to the bedroom, a dark red dress of silks and velvet clinging to her curves. She’d put her hair up in a vaguely Grecian style, small ringlets of black framing her face and the playful smile on her dark lips.

“You look beautiful.”

“Thank you.” She walked over, slightly taller in her stilettos, and kissed his cheek softly. “Did you call your friend?”

“I’ll do it on the way over.” He reached into the closet, sliding the panel shut as he pulled out her favorite coat. She turned and looked over her shoulder as he put it on her, her bare shoulders and the curvature of her spine disappearing under the leather.

“So, are you ready to take me out?”

She posed the question as she turned to face him. He looked into her eyes, knowing what she’d been doing and for whom, remembering the clarity with which his orders had been given. But instead of duty, he felt doubt.

“I’m not sure.”

Her brows furrowed. “I’m sorry?”

He shook his head. “Sorry. Not sure if I have Claude’s right number. Anyway… yes, to your question.” He offered her his arm. “Shall we?”

Her hands wrapped around his forearm, and they stepped out into the night.