The Race for God

by Brian Herbert

  To toast the men who’ve dared

  May the goblets all be filled

  And the good times they be shared.

  For the empty cup it’s known

  Is the one who ne’er came back

  From a far off distant land

  Where he’s a lyin’ on his back.

  To avert that from occurrin’,

  In the lives of those we love

  A blessing do we offer

  With some guidance from above:

  ‘May the men who go to space

  Toward a far-off distant land.

  Be a circlin’ in the palm

  Of the Lord’s magnif’cent hand.’”

  McMurtrey paused, and the ship was silent, without a creak or a whir. His nostrils were more comfortable, and the odor was either diminishing or he had become accustomed to it.

  “Nothing,” Orbust said presently. He didn’t seem to notice what McMurtrey’s nose had detected.

  Then McMurtrey saw the graffiti fade from the walls, so that they were again creamy white, and the beer cans disappeared into the deck, all soundlessly.

  “Now we’re getting somewhere,” Smith said. “You only know one, Rooster?”

  McMurtrey grunted. “I wish you wouldn’t call me that,” he said.

  “Whatever you say, Big Mac,” came the response.

  The Krassians guffawed.

  McMurtrey showed no reaction.

  “You expected maybe a takeoff?” a voice said in an odd, clipped accent. It came from no particular direction.

  The incandescent lamp flicked off with a little pop, leaving them in blackness. The men cursed and stumbled around. Smith fumbled with the lamp, couldn’t get it to work. He said the flashlight wouldn’t go on either.

  A hand slapped into something, and against the open hatchway McMurtrey saw Orbust silhouetted against town lights, his Babul drawn. Orbust moved out of the doorway, became a dark and amorphous shape against one wall.

  He didn’t pull the gun, McMurtrey thought. What is it, a prop!

  “No G-harnesses secured,” the voice said, sounding ubiquitous and of an ethnicity McMurtrey hadn’t yet placed. “All of you just standing around ready to take off. How nice. And how fortunate for fools that it’s not so easy as that. You’ve assumed that food is on board?”

  “We’ve got energy bars in our pockets,” Tully said.

  “McMurtrey doesn’t have anything,” the voice said. “You were planning to jettison him?”

  McMurtrey felt his heart skip a beat.

  “Naw, we’da shared,” Tully said.

  “What is the duration of the trip? Do you have any idea how much food is required?”

  No one answered.

  McMurtrey felt like scurrying out the hatch, hesitated.

  The walls and deck flashed on, as frosty amber light panels. This revealed Orbust crouching off to one side against a bulkhead, his Babul clutched tightly in his hands.

  The incandescent lamp and flashlight were on, and Smith switched them off.

  Orbust stood up and asked of the voice, “Are you God?”

  “Are you nuts? I’m just a biocomputer! You want I should be God? You want God should answer every silly poem?”

  “I’d like to know what’s going on here,” McMurtrey snapped. “God contacted me, got me into this mess. The least He could do is—”

  “All right, call me God if it’ll make you feel better.” A long pause, then: “Forget it. That name’s already taken, as the Boss just told me by comlink. God says call me Appy instead, short for ‘apprentice.’ On previous missions no one has ever suggested I should have a name. I guess it’s time.”

  Orbust opened his Babul.

  “God says to call the ship Shusher,” Appy said. “Does anyone want to know why?”

  “Tell us why,” Orbust said, accommodatingly. He flipped through the scriptures.

  “This ship likes to travel quietly, and it has effective methods of enforcing its wishes. Fortunately it cannot hear everything, or travel with it would be unbearable. The ship, you see, is a separate personality from the biocomputer. I have a private connection to Shusher on his hearing frequency—a comlink I can open and close at will. Shusher probably won’t hear any of you, unless the line happens to be open while one of you is near an entry point, making commotion. Those entry points are on the highest mezzanines, where I have posted off-limits signs, warning you away.”

  “Sounds pretty strange,” Orbust said.

  “We are the hierarchy here,” Appy said. “God, me and Shusher—sort of a triumvirate. I must inform you, however, that Shusher isn’t the brightest of sentients. Occasionally God and I must make up for his blunders.”

  Appy droned on for minutes that seemed like hours, with a plethora of information about the extreme age of the ship, its prior missions to distant galaxies, and its pedigree, which apparently wasn’t all that impressive by Appy’s standards. This monologue opened up a lot of questions that McMurtrey wanted to ask. But the computer spoke so rapidly and disseminated such an incredible flow of data that McMurtrey couldn’t find an opening.

  Appy’s accent was the most inconsistent McMurtrey had ever heard, a mannerism in and of itself of good syntax that didn’t sound like good syntax, so ornately weighted were some of the words and phrases. But while McMurtrey noticed this, he did so only because it was impossible to overlook, and he didn’t feel mentally derailed for it.

  I’m beating it, McMurtrey thought, recalling all the times in his life when odd habits had distracted him to the point of mental paralysis.

  “Another thing,” Appy said. “On this trip in rather confined quarters we want you should consider the similarities between religions. Fasting, for example is a common practice among the pious of purportedly different persuasions: the Middist’s Day of Atonement, the Isammedan’s month-long Kamad, the KothoLu’s Lent. Hoddhists eat nothing between noon and dawn. Some ascetics, particularly the Nandubhagas, travel the land as sadhus, searching for the truth of God while eating nothing but forest berries and cow dung. There are those in all religions who have renounced worldly goods. Some Isammedans feel there is an even greater jihad than the killing of infidels, and that is the conquering of human desires, of human passion.

  “There is a nudist aboard, I see, a Plarnjarn. On other ships are other nudists of varying faiths. There is a Krassian sect, for example, dating to pre-Eassornian Ussia that believes nudity is the purest state, and that burning material possessions is the way to salvation. Unfortunately they burn other people’s things, and have an extensive arson record. Be thankful they aren’t among your ship’s company.”

  Appy laughed wildly, then continued: “You will observe one another in prayer and in the cleansing processes therewith, and you will be startled at the reflections of yourselves that you see. The only true church of God on Earth? What does that really mean, and by whose authority is it asserted by so many different groups?”

  “Are you saying that God sent prophets to several cultures?” McMurtrey asked. “That He sent Dosek to the Middists, Krassos to the Krassians, Isammed to the Arabs, Hoddha to the-”

  “There were no Krassians before Mark Krassos,” Appy said, his tone scornful.

  “You know what I mean,” McMurtrey said. “Different prophets for different cultures? All with similar messages, suited to particular locales, particular ways of life? I mean, God couldn’t send a Caucasian Krassos into Florentia or a guy dressed in a parka into the desert.”

  Appy chortled. “You’re extrapolating,” he said. “If I wanted to tell you that, I would have come right out and said it.”

  “Aren’t you?”

  “You weren’t listening carefully, McMurtrey. I was quite specific.”

  McMurtrey grumbled to himself, shifted on his feet.

  “Consider it from a different perspective,” Appy said. “Envision a Wessornian doctor relying on only one medical method, the technologically immersed Wessornian way. I want you should know, this may
not provide enough knowledge to cure a patient. Just as there might be more than one path to God, so too might there be more than one path to perfect healing. The path to healing might employ technology, acupiercing, faith remedies, even holistic sessions. . . . “

  McMurtrey scratched the side of his head.

  “Exclusive Revelation,” Appy said. “So many people claiming to have the one and only way to God. Fascinating! Let the subject of holiness spin, so that we should study its facets. Does one facet shine above all others?”

  “You’re playing with words,” Orbust said.

  “Am I?” Appy countered.

  “Krassos said ‘I am the way, the truth, and the life,’” Orbust said. “Further, He said, ‘I am He.’ So Krassos was not only the way, He was God.”

  McMurtrey saw a shiny silver card in Orbust’s hand. It looked like a credit card, and he held it so that it bent slightly. Light reflected from its surface.

  “Does that preclude other ways?” McMurtrey queried, his voice timid. This Orbust seemed nearly fanatical, and that gun on his hip bothered McMurtrey. “I mean, couldn’t the way of Krassos be correct, along with the way of Hoddha?”

  Orbust glared at him, trembled with anger. “‘He that believeth not is condemned already, because he hath not believed in the name of the only begotten Son of God.’ Did you hear that? The only begotten Son of God!” McMurtrey shrugged.

  “Come now, Mr. McMurtrey,” Appy said. “Don’t let Orbust’s Snapcard intimidate you. That little card in his hand allows him to debate far above his ability.”

  Orbust scowled, slipped the card into his coat pocket. “I don’t need this,” he said.

  Appy laughed, a screwball guffaw. “Then reply to this: What if Mr. McMurtrey should ask if there were other ways of producing sons than begetting them? And what if he should ask why God’s other prophets had to be sons? Couldn’t they have equal merit if they were daughters? And what if Mr. McMurtrey should ask if people couldn’t accept Krassos and accept alternative paths to God?”

  “I’ll ask my own questions, thank you,” McMurtrey said.

  “Heresy!” Orbust exclaimed.

  “Just by suggesting questions that might be asked?” Appy queried. “I made no statements, mind you. How can nonstatements be heresy?”

  “You’re tricky with words,” Orbust said. “That’s the sign of a false prophet.”

  “I’ve never claimed to be a prophet! I’m merely an apprentice.”

  “You’re an apprentice to God,” Smith said. “An apprentice to God! Has anyone focused on what that means? It means that this computer bastard claims it’s in training to become God! That’s blasphemy! God isn’t a fancy computer, one that has to put other computers through apprenticeship programs. This is ludicrous! Computers competing to become the next God?”

  “Appy said biocomputer” McMurtrey pointed out. “Whatever that is.” It bothered McMurtrey that he couldn’t see the entity.

  Appy laughed loudly, and longer this time. It was a crazy ejaculation, the sort one might expect to hear in an insane asylum. “I’m an apprentice, yes. But I didn’t say what I was in training for.”

  “Then you don’t claim to be in training to become God?” Smith asked.

  “I didn’t say that,” Appy said. “Never assume anything, gentlemen. That’s one of the greatest problems of this universe . . . assumptions.”

  Orbust had his hand in the pocket containing the Snapcard. “Krassos said, ‘I am the way,’” he said, “The way. Not a way.”

  “Johan, Chapter Fourteen, Verse Six,” Appy said. “That’s the report of Johan, a mortal. Mortals, unlike computers, make mistakes. What if Johan took it down wrong? What if, in fact, Krassos said, ‘I am a way’? What if Johan was distracted by something at that moment? Maybe someone’s sheep got loose, causing him to get a single key word wrong. What if someone translating the Babul over the centuries made a mistake? What if something was lost in translation?”

  “You’re so smart, Appy,” Smith interjected, “you tell us. You should know all the answers. Don’t toy with us, you mother-”

  Smith caught Orbust’s disapproving gaze, didn’t complete the imprecation.

  “Most religions believe in some form of life after death and the immortality of the soul,” Appy said. “Why do you suppose that is?”

  Silence permeated the passenger compartment.

  “Think of me as a guide,” Appy said. “I suggest certain lines of inquiry, direct you along certain paths. Always remember that God gave man Free Will, and with Free Will he gave man a mind. He wants man to use that mind, to figure things out for himself.”

  “But aren’t you prejudicing our pursuit of knowledge by suggesting certain things?” McMurtrey asked. “If we follow your suggestions, aren’t we succumbing to your particular bias, whatever that is?”

  “You’re intimating that God might be biased?” Appy said, in a tone so loud and ferocious it sent a chill down McMurtrey’s spine.

  “I’m thinking,” McMurtrey said. “Isn’t that what you want us to do?”

  “Of course,” Appy said. He snickered a little, added: “You aren’t using a Snapcard on me, are you?”

  “Certainly not,” McMurtrey responded. He didn’t understand how Orbust’s Snapcard worked, was intrigued by it.

  Orbust had his hand in the pocket with the card.

  Appy’s voice, pedantically: “Ask yourselves as you journey across the universe if the benefits of organized religion are confined to particular belief systems. Consider a woman I heard of recently, for example. She embraced no formal religion for many years. But then, when she was deathly ill, she accepted the Blue Presby faith, and later credited it with pulling her through. Might this have been any religion? Can a belief in any greater power help people survive such dire straits?”

  “This guy sounds like an instrument of Satan,” Orbust said.

  McMurtrey recalled God’s words, from the morning of the visitation: “Seeker, who says religion is the way to God?”

  McMurtrey said nothing of this, for the words, while rhetorical, remained unclear.

  “Mr. Orbust,” Appy continued, “you are an enthusiast of a particular brand of organized religion. What are the benefits and liabilities of such systems? The benefits are legion, but I suggest to you the liabilities are legion as well. Viewed as an entire system, with interlocking religious parts, what is the balance? Which way does it tip?”

  “Toward the evil side,” Orbust said. “Because there are so many nonbelievers.”

  “Many would agree with the tilt toward evil,” Appy said, “but not with your particular interpretation. The tilt, if it exists, may be caused by competing belief systems, by communication failures, by cussed stubbornness and narrow-mindedness. In short, the difficulties may be attributed to cells of little minds. Every religion has certain laudable ideals upon which it was established, from The Twelve Commandments to the Multifold Path. In practice, many of these ideals hold force, but many do not. Consider the terrible holy wars, for example. Certainly Krassos and Isammed would not have condoned the savage acts performed in their names.”

  “Isammed would have approved,” Orbust said.

  “Perhaps not,” Appy said. “If you study the Kooraq carefully and keep an open mind, you will see much of an ethical nature that is very similar to your own value systems. I suggest to you that it is more fair to attack religions than it is to attack the prophets of those religions. They are not one and the same, you see. Krassos did not found Krassianism. His disciples did that, based upon His teachings and perhaps upon certain mystical beliefs prevalent at the time, such as reincarnation and dual resurrection. Attack Krassianism but not Krassos; attack Isammedanism but not Isammed; attack Hoddhism but not Hoddha. Attack what those organizations became under mortal guidance and interpretation, not the ideals upon which they were founded. Search fairly for similarities in belief systems, gentlemen, and you may discover that the differences aren’t worth arguing about. Stretch i
nterpretations to find areas of agreement. Wouldn’t that be better than going to war in the name of religion?”

  “I agree with McMurtrey,” Orbust said. “You are biased, Appy.”

  “I would suggest that you keep an open mind,” Appy said. “It helps in the weathering of strange seas.”

  “I already know what’s right and what’s wrong,” Orbust said. “Everything that’s worth knowing is in the Babul.” He held up the book.

  “Do you know what’s wrong with religion today?” Appy asked. “Too many people are practicing it and not enough people are good at it.” He guffawed like a lunatic, letting the laughter go with such uncontrolled enthusiasm that it frightened McMurtrey.

  Orbust, Smith and Tully exchanged nervous glances.

  McMurtrey felt out of balance. These weren’t events he could have expected or planned for, and he felt uncomfortable in unpredictable situations. Was this computer creature mentally ill? Might it close the hatches and asphyxiate everyone? It didn’t sound crazy when it spoke, and it did speak of love and tolerance. But its laughter was decidedly demented, not normal by any stretch of the imagination.

  “Dear me,” Appy said. “I’m being too loquacious. I’m an ethnic unit, you know, and ethnics—Oh, why be vague—I’ll tell you. I’m supposed to be of the Middist bioethnicity, and some say that’s why I’m so talkative. Dear me, why did I say that, casting aspersions on my own kind?”

  McMurtrey heard a programming whir all around, a noise that didn’t sound quite right.

  After a few seconds, Appy came back: “God informs me that talkativeness is not confined to one race or culture. He informs me that my ethnicity was programmed incorrectly and irreparably in the rash and press of events. Most particularly my accent is flawed; the Boss describes it as like that of a second-rate actor. I wish He hadn’t used the phrase ‘second-rate,’ and in your hands, gentlemen, this shouldn’t be taken out of context, shouldn’t be made into something it isn’t. I perform my job well, thank you, as evidenced by numerous holy kudos in my memory banks. I speak only the truth, even about myself.” Orbust shook his head, slipped his Babul into its holster. “Above all,” Appy said, “I’m a big-deal machine—a little rough around the edges, but God tolerates me.”