The God Machine Read online

  THE GOD MACHINE

  BY

  MIKEY CAMPLING

  DREW AVERA

  JAMIE DODGE

  CHRIS GODSOE

  Published by The Collective SciFi

  THECOLLECTIVESCIFI.COM

  Table of Contents

  title page

  Get Your Free Starter Library

  Who Are The Collective SciFi?

  The Before-Time

  Time

  The After-Time

  Thank You for Reading The God Machine

  Meet the Authors

  Acknowledgements

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  WHO ARE THE COLLECTIVE SCIFI?

  This story is a work of collaborative fiction written by a group of writers exploring the boundaries of Science Fiction. Here at The Collective SciFi, we’re working together to bring you thrilling new worlds and new experiences. This short story is intended as an entertaining introduction to The Collective SciFi and we hope you enjoy it as such.

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  THE BEFORE-TIME

  “SYMBIOTIC ORGANISMS,” THE OLD MAN SAID. He looked up from the scroll of parchment that lay on his desk, and turned his gaze toward Reva, the young man who stood at his side. A shiver ran down Reva’s spine. The old man’s eyes were hideous: red-rimmed, rheumy, and obscured with the pearly-white of untreated cataracts. “It’s strange to look at humanity in such a light,” the old man went on, “but that is exactly what we are.” He paused to wipe a fleck of spittle from his chin with the back of his hand, then he turned his attention back to his scroll. “It only took me seven centuries to come to that conclusion,” he muttered. “Can you see why?”

  Reva looked down at the parchment and gazed at the scribbled lines of the old man’s inky scrawl; a new story in the making. Reva’s pulse quickened. As an Aspirant, it was his privilege to stand close to a Scribe and witness the act of creation. He glanced at the old man’s umbilical; the glistening cord that coiled from the back of the old man’s neck, connecting him to the God Machine. The Machine linked the Scribes together into the Collective. Every new tale became an interconnected thread, a tiny part of a much greater story that unfolded continuously as the Scribes did their work.

  Reva flexed his fingers. Perhaps today, he’ll let me help. But the old man was loathe to let the secrets of his craft slip from between his dry lips, and now, he looked up at Reva and frowned, waiting for an answer.

  Reva sighed. “No. That is...I don’t understand what you mean.”

  The old man grunted. “That’s because you’re young and blind.” The old man shifted in his chair. He gripped the edge of the desk with both hands, his knuckles white with the effort. “The story is the warp and weft of the Universe - it is the common thread that binds us to each other. It is life itself,” he cried. “Open your eyes, you fool!”

  Reva flinched. He’d never seen the old man so agitated, never heard him raise his voice. “I’m sorry,” he said. “My eyes are open, but...but humans are no longer symbiotic once they leave the mother’s womb. Each man and woman lives independently. I can’t see what you’re trying to say.” Reva stepped back and lowered his head. I’ve done it now. The old man did not tolerate dissent and his sharp tongue was legendary. Reva held his breath, but there were no harsh words, only the rattling wheeze of the old man’s breath.

  Reva raised his head. No! The old man sat still in his chair, his face a mask of pain and confusion, frozen except for the quivering of his sagging jowls. Reva reached out toward the old man, but he was already too late. The old man slumped in his chair then pitched forward. The light was gone from his eyes before his head hit the desk.

  “No,” Reva whispered. “Not yet.” But there was nothing he could do. He reached up to the back of his neck and touched the port, tracing its delicate edge with his fingertips. The port was a direct gateway to his cerebral cortex, and within moments, it would be his interface with the God Machine. A permanent connection. A tether, Reva thought bitterly.

  A voice rang out from behind him: “You need to connect.”

  Reva turned slowly and stared at the man who’d spoken; an Undesirable. Reva’s lip curled in contempt. Filthy Slag. Such men were not fit to write at the God Machine - their minds were too weak to bring the sacred tales to life. But this was not the time for personal feelings. He needed the Slag’s help.

  Reva nodded. “I understand. I...I just need a moment.”

  But the Slag, shook his head. “You need to connect, now.” He raised his arm, showing Reva the hypodermic syringe he held between his chubby fingers. The Slag had already filled the syringe with Embrosis, the dark purple bio-organic fluid that would aid his connection to the God Machine, and now he advanced on Reva. “I’m warning you,” he said. “If you fight it, it will go badly for you.”

  Reva stared at the long hypodermic needle. It seemed to grow larger with every step the Slag took toward him. Reva winced and shook his head. What was that? A scuffling sound behind him. He glanced over his shoulder. A silent group of Slags surrounded the old man. Reva stared as they lifted the frail and wasted body from the chair. It’s too soon. I’m not ready.

  But the slag had seen his opportunity. He lunged toward Reva and grabbed him by the arm, pushing him back toward the chair.

  “No!” Reva shouted. “Not like this.”

  The Slag smiled cruelly and swung Reva around. “This is the only way there is,” he sneered. Reva struggled to free himself, but then the backs of his legs came up against the chair, and he sat down heavily. The moment he made contact with the chair, the umbilical snaked through the air, homing in on Reva’s head. He raised a hand to protect himself, but the umbilical whipped past his face and, for a heartbeat, Reva felt cold metal pressing hard against the back of his neck. He gasped, and then the Slag was on him, pinning him down, ramming the syringe against Reva’s neck.

  “Wait! Give me one sec-” Reva started, but then the hypodermic needle punctured his skin, and a jolt of pain shot down his spine. He arched his back, but the Slag held him tight, pressing him into the chair. Reva’s body was wracked with agony, every muscle taut, every nerve aflame as the purple fluid flooded through his veins. The Slag pulled the empty syringe from Reva’s neck and then stood back, a smile of grim satisfaction on his lips.

  Reva’s mind was cast adrift from his body. His consciousness slipped away as he thrashed his head from side to side, screaming through gritted teeth. Then, in one last paroxysm of pain, his desperate desire for freedom burned itself out, and he slouched in the chair, defeated. He closed his eyes.

  Connection.

  The single word echoed in mind and he held onto it. It was the only light in the darkness. It was everything.

  Reva’s eyes flickered open.

  “I am connected,” he whispered. And in that moment, he tumbled through time, like a fallen leaf embraced by a hurricane. Time roared through him; the future, the present, the past - he saw it all. He understood it all. Every action, every thought, every event - they were all his to control. He was the God Machine, and the God Machine was him.

  A faint smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. The Embrosis allowed him a little thrill of pleasure at his newfound power. But all emotions were fleeting; the foolish distractions of ordinary men and women. He was above such things now.

  He looked down at the desk - his desk. The parchment was blank, its tangle of tales erased from existence as the old man’s life had ebbed away. Reva nodded to himself. It was time to begin.

  TIME

  THE OLD MAN HAD GOT IT RIGHT. Symbiosis. There really wasn’t a better wor
d for it. With every moment, every passing thought, Reva felt the God Machine taking hold in his mind, reordering his connectome - the neural map of his brain. The man he’d once been was slipping away; his past rewritten, his future altered beyond all recognition as the God Machine’s tendrils of logic snaked through his mind, erasing old memories, making new connections. And it hurt like hell.

  The old man had once warned him that the change would not be easy, but Reva had never imagined it could be such agony. The old man must’ve been tougher than he looked. If he could endure this, then so can I. He was strong enough. He had to be, otherwise he would never have been chosen to join The Collective. Unless they made a mistake. No. Reva pushed the thought away. He was a Scribe now. He had taken his place in The Collective, and he would not dishonor it. He would get through this. He had to find a way.

  Reva took a breath. Perhaps the Slag’s advice had been correct - this would go better for him if he didn’t try to fight the process. He closed his eyes and let the God Machine’s consciousness wash over him.

  His childhood faded. Every cherished memory was whisked away to become fodder for new tales, building blocks for new realities. He could already see the new stories as they formed. They rushed in on him in dizzying waves, crashing through his mind. It was as though he was recovering from long-term amnesia. Images sprang forth from the depths, unbidden, but undeniable.

  These things had happened, even if they’d never happened to him. He could not deny them any more than he could force himself to lose consciousness simply by willing it.

  It’s too much. The new memories came thick and fast. They crowded in on him, a blur of half-forgotten faces, gabbling, struggling against each other, screaming for his attention. No more! But he was powerless to prevent the onslaught of images. The Embrosis had done its work in Reva’s cerebral cortex, seeping into every cell, and now the connection was complete. His umbilical pulsed, faster and faster, thrumming to a deranged rhythm, and the Port on Reva’s neck grew hot. The stench of singed flesh and ozone filled his senses. Reva hung his head. It was over. He’d been tested and found wanting. He’d end his days as a gibbering wreck, confined to a cell below ground, fed and watered by a lowly Slag. He’d never know the company of The Collective, never share the glory of the one true creation.

  And that was when he heard it. A lone voice. A whisper in the chaos. Just one word: Write!

  Yes. Reva opened his eyes and turned his head slowly. A Slag stood by, shuffling in the shadows, his beady eyes glittering with greed. He wanted me to fail. Well he’d be disappointed. Reva extended his hand. “Quill,” he demanded.

  The Slag nodded then fetched the quill from the glass case on the wall. He hurried to Reva’s side and bowed his head as he handed the quill over. Reva took it without acknowledgement and the Slag backed away, keeping his gaze on the ground. Good. This was the respect a Scribe deserved.

  Reva took one short breath, and then he began to write. A new Universe was born. The entire genesis of its creation, just four simple words:

  Once upon a time.

  In an instant, Reva’s hand took to its new purpose; his fingers knew what words to write. The quill’s tip scratched across the parchment, leaving a trail of indelible of ink. The lines of text flowed in quick succession, unloading the stories from Reva’s mind in a continuous stream. And it was good. He finally understood - to be a Scribe was to be a servant to the stories, a conduit.

  Reva wrote. How long has it been - a day? A year? His sense of time had simply disappeared, his circadian rhythms short-circuited in the instant of his connection to the Machine. It wasn’t important. Only the story mattered. He allowed the process to take control of his mind, and as he dedicated himself to his work, fragments of his early memories floated back to the surface: his father’s half-moon glasses, the twinkle in his eye; his mother’s smile, the bright patterns of a dress she wore one summer. Little by little, he gathered the traces of his former life. It seemed that the Machine would allow him to retain a small portion of his personality.

  Instinctively, he held on tight to every fleeting scrap of transient memory. Without them, he would soon be lost, his identity drowned amid the maelstrom of clamoring voices that called out across the vast echoing void of The Collective consciousness.

  Now, he tilted his head and listened for a moment to the thoughts and dreams of his fellow Scribes. There. A snippet of a promising tale: a story of woman so beautiful that men waged a long and bloody war to win her favor. He followed it for a while. But today, there was too much noise, too much that was distracting. So many stories - too many to comprehend. It was time for him to work, and he forced his mind to focus.

  His fingers moved the quill and the words flowed, but soon, his mind grew distant. It was as if he stood apart, and observed the stream of data as his brain translated it. The digital signals from the God Machine became analog thoughts in his mind, then were translated yet again as his hand transcribed them onto the parchment.

  Ink. Quill. Parchment. Why must he use such arcane tools? The magnificent God Machine could play puppeteer to the souls of men and women, surely there must be a better way to capture their creations?

  A pulse of pain crept over his skull, and a single stark instruction echoed in his mind: Have faith. Reva sighed. It did not pay to question the God Machine.

  Reva bent over his parchment. He had chosen his path long ago, it was not logical to resist his own progress. He wrote, and as he allowed the God Machine’s data-stream to flow unhindered into his mind, it flooded his consciousness, pushing away his frail grip on the present reality. The room blurred and faded away, and Reva imagined himself on an observation deck; a pleasant place, where he was free from the dead weight of his body. Here, he could contemplate the fables that his body served to the parchment.

  Such stories. Wonderful. Had he really conjured up these magical words himself, or had these amazing tales been spoon-fed to him by the Machine? The old man had spoken of symbiosis, and now, Reva rolled that thought over in his mind. Was he a node on a neural network, or merely a cog in an unnecessarily complicated printing press? The Machine harvested his memories, his thoughts, but what did it do with them? Did it farm the scraps of his existence out to the other Scribes? Yes. Surely his thoughts went out to the others, just as he received their thoughts in turn.

  Fragile thoughts became the threads of a story; each connection like a knot in the fabric of time. Taken together, the massive parallel processing power of the tethered Scribes could weave those threads into a new reality.

  The pain returned. It numbed his senses, clouded his vision. Enough.

  Reva pushed his questions aside and concentrated once more on his work. His fingers moved the quill and word by word, sentence by sentence, his story emerged. The pain faded away and, for the time being, Reva was at peace. This is my duty. Yes. He followed a sacred calling. He would never leave this place, but he had his work and he had his stories for company. It would have to be enough.

  THE AFTER-TIME

  TIME - A USELESS CONCEPT. There were no days or nights for Reva, only the endless tyranny of the written word. He looked down at his hands. His skin was sallow and creased, and there were calluses on his fingers from constant contact with the quill. They were the hands of an old man. Have they always been like that? Reva tutted under his breath. It didn’t matter. His body was of no consequence - it was simply one small component of the God Machine.

  He stretched his fingers and studied the way the tendons moved beneath the translucent skin on the backs of his hands. The broad veins bulged, stained purple by Embrosis and an old memory came back to him - the remnant of a conversation he’d had many years before. “You were wrong,” he murmured. “This isn’t symbiosis after all.” A parasite keeps its host alive.

  “Sir, if I may - it’s time to service your umbilical.”

  Reva raised his head slowly. After many years of looking only at his parchment, it took some effort to bring the room back into fo
cus. He blinked, and the dark shape at his side resolved into a Slag. “You may proceed.”

  “Thank you, Sir.”

  Reva sat back and stared up into the darkness. The umbilical was an indignity, but it provided him with nutrients and removed the toxins from his body. The Embrosis had honed his metabolism to the height of efficiency. He did not eat or drink, nor did he produce any bodily waste save for the spent air he exhaled.

  The Slag finished his tinkering and slunk back into the shadows. Reva did not thank his attendant. It had been many years since he’d stopped looking at their faces. It made no sense to form a relationship with men and women who would grow old and die in the blink of an eye. There would always be another Slag to take their place.

  Reva shifted in his chair and licked his dry lips. It was time to leave this room, this material existence behind. It was time for another story.

  A lively tale today, he decided. An epic story of walled cities and fierce battles, the ground bright red with blood, and the wealth of a mighty empire at stake. He picked up his quill and immediately, a scene came to mind: a brave young knight prepared to test himself on the field, while a weak young squire tended to his master’s armor. Reva hesitated, the tip of his quill poised above the parchment. That lowly squire - I think I’ll make him the hero. He allowed himself a wry smile. He always liked to add a rebellious character to a story, it reminded him of…of someone he’d once known, a long time ago.

  Reva pictured a young man’s face. He couldn’t quite recall the youth’s name, but he honored his memory every day, weaving his spirit into the fabric of many tales. First, he’d appeared as a nobleman who’d become a thief and stolen from the rich. Then he’d taken on the role of a wily rat catcher who’d taken revenge on the folk who’d cheated him by luring their children away. In Reva’s stories, the rich and powerful were brought low; victims of their vanity, their greed, their lust for power. Empires rose and fell. Love was lost and gained. Battles raged from one planet to the next.