Terrence sat at the desk, drumming his fingers across the glossed wood that had been etched into, countless papers and publications written on this ancient desk. Someone had told him it was made from ebony. He doubted it. The space behind him was filled with overflowing filing cabinets and tossed papers. Inscribed upon each was a very specific sequence of characters and numbers. Most held variations of the same sequence. Open on the desk in front of Terrence was a thick, wrinkled book overflowing with note-cards, all placed in specific sections and covered in nearly illegible handwriting that was not unlike the incoherent doodles of a toddler. An empty mug of coffee sat on top of it, a slight amount of the mahogany colored liquid dripping down the side, staining the wrinkled paper it sat on. A standard office.
Behind Terrence, it did not represent a standard office. A thick double-pane window revealed a complicated working of gears, reels, a clockwork machine with no apparent purpose. The machine extended past the window, and it's distant portions were working, clicking and whirring menacingly in the distance. Terrance thought it was plotting. He knew the machine wasn't sentient yet, but all the same, the constant clicking infuriated him. On the wall bordering the glass window were multiple metal protrusions. Control panels, marked by hundreds of lights, switches, buttons, one for every possible function of the machine. Beside it was a simple punch-card slot. Instructions were fed in there, and results were printed elsewhere. Or they could be stored in the machine's memory. Their glossy-black paint reflected almost nothing, save for the light that occasionally flickered above him, and this angered him as well.
Terrance sighed and sat up, nudging the coffee mug and sending it tumbling off the desk. It gleaned in the air for the second, caught by the light, before inevitably obeying gravity and plummeting to it's doom. A smash of ceramic and a puff of dust marked it's demise. "God dammit," Terrance cursed under his breath, and he pushed off the desk and stood up. The wooden chair creaked, now that it no longer bore weight. Terrance envied the chair. It didn't have to solve the greatest problem present to mankind. All it had to do was sit there, supporting weight for eternity. Terrance grabbed a small brush and knelt down in front of his desk, momentarily resting his hands on the hard, minimalist grey-splotched carpeting before he swept up the fragments into a small pile. A shadow came up to him.
"Terrance." He looked up and saw the usual black uniform, the adornment of shiny medals with their fancy colors and symbols. Given the number, this was a general. Shit. Terrance put the brush down and stood up, facing the general.
"To what do I owe the pleasure?" Terrance asked, almost mockingly. He wasn't military. He could screw around with these generals all day.
"An explanation," replied the general. He looked past Terrance, folding his weathered hands behind his back. "Run two-eight-seven-one." He said this very deliberately, and slowly.
"Fucking run 2871," Terrance exclaimed, turning around and dropping himself into his chair. "You and I both know we cannot use run 2871."
"We may not have a choice." The general walked over to one of the filing cabinets and pulled out one of the papers. He studied it. "Manhattan is running into issues."
"My machine is not a military asset. It will not be used for the development or deployment of a nuclear..."
"This conversation is not about your beliefs, it is about 2871."
"2871 is not viable and will never be viable."
"It is the only one that has displayed sentience." Terrance stood up and clenched his fists for a second, and then relaxed. He turned from the general and looked at the machine. It had begun to hum into life. Test run 2872 had begun.
"2871 is murderous. A killer. If we put him in the project, in control over a very dangerous weapon, it will destroy us all."
"You don't know that-"
"Look at the god damn PERSONALITY tests!" Terrance rebutted as he grabbed a few papers off of his desk. He shoved them into the general, who took them, hesitatingly. "This thing has no sense of morality. To achieve a goal, it will sacrifice anything."
"I'm not sure if that's a problem-"
"I gave it the Mein Kampf. It agrees with Hitler." The general looked at him, stunned, silent for a minute. Then he sighed, putting the papers down on the desk.
"We've dealt with him enough, I guess. Very well, keep experimenting. Find another viable program." The general turned and began to walk out. "If no results are produced in 3 weeks, your project will be shut down and you will be relieved." The general disappeared out the doorway. Terrance watched him go, a slight amount of displeasure etched on his face, before he sat back down on his ancient wooden chair and slouched down, playing with his pen.
3000 more runs were completed in those 3 weeks with no results. The project was shut down, the machine destroyed, and Terrance was left without a job, just as the U.S dropped the Little Boy on the Japanese city of Hiroshima.
Creative Commons License:
Iteration by Fenway Ash is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0 International License.
(I was recommended to license this so that it wasn't stolen.)
