The Race for God

by Brian Herbert

  “How is your successor to be determined?” McMurtrey asked.

  “I’ll leave that to you,” Tananius-Ofo said, with a wry smile.

  “Well,” McMurtrey said, “could we begin by asking you a few questions to sort our thoughts out? It’s been said that the only great truth is that life is meaningless. Is this true, Lord? What is the meaning of life?”

  “I can entertain only one more question from each of you,” God said. “You’ve asked yours, McMurtrey. Mmmm. Okay: That which is most important need not be spoken about; that which is most important cannot be spoken about. There are no lines when you reach the Place of Truth, for you can count on your fingers those who have truly been there.”

  When it became clear that this was Tananius-Ofo’s complete answer, McMurtrey thanked him, and without fully understanding the words, set to memorizing them.

  “May I go next?” Orbust asked, glancing around.

  They nodded and gestured him on.

  “Is God allowed to get angry sometimes and swear?” Orbust asked, smiling sheepishly. “Not the deepest question, I suppose, but it seems like we spend our lives watching what we say. I know I have. Is that question too trivial?”

  God laughed. “No question is too trivial, for every tiny piece in the universe fits together. As God I can do anything I want to do, for I make the rules. I curse occasionally when I’m angry, sometimes even when {‘m not angry, just to hear the words. Would you like to hear some of it?”

  “No, sir. I was just, uh—I wish I had asked something else.”

  “How would you like me to kill or maim your slimy little wimp ass?”

  The onlookers gasped.

  Orbust nearly fell off his pillow.

  McMurtrey caught his breath. This wasn’t God! He couldn’t use language like that!

  Cast out all preconceptions.

  Tananius-Ofo smiled. “You’re all thinking I wouldn’t say that if I were really God. But I say to you, what do you know for sure? You spend a few billion years in charge and see what you have to say.”

  Yakkai was next, asked, “Appy said you were critical of self-serving prayer, sir. I’d like to hear more from you about that.”

  “I overheard your comments about organized religion,” God said, “about priests using fear tactics to keep their flocks in line. Some may think it odd that I agree with an atheist, but I must tell you that all the human religions are like unauthorized or butchered biographies of me. . . . Here and there a few truths, but full of errors. There is, as I said, only one true church of God. I don’t believe in priests or artificial hierarchies, for such systems change my words to suit their own power games, their own purposes. Sometimes there are so many unauthorized religious tenets and rites that it’s nearly impossible to separate gold from mud.”

  “I can’t tell you how much it means to me to hear you say that,” Yakkai said.

  “To help you sort some of it out, remember this: If several religions agree on a particular doctrine, it is likely that the doctrine is true. Cast aside minor dogmatic differences, lay one major doctrine over another and find the commonality. Many faiths believe in God, for example, but disagree over trivial points, over picayune religious stories. Cast aside the trivial points, and what do you have?”

  “Truth,” Yakkai said grudgingly.

  “Quite often. Many religious disputes, even wars, are attributable to conflicting religious stories. Certain prophets are said to have done this or that, and an elaborate framework and power structure is hinged upon their words and deeds. I won’t say which prophets I actually contacted and which were frauds, for you didn’t ask that, did you?”

  “No, Your Reverence, I didn’t.” Yakkai bowed his head.

  “There should be an organized religion,” God said, “but only one.”

  “Is this the center of the universe?” Feek the Afsornian asked.

  “Mmmm. I sense that we are on the point of singularity, the place where the Big Bang originated. It’s not coincidental that I’m here where it all started. Oh, it’s different now than when I arrived . . . I shaped this planet to my wishes and tastes. I won’t go into all the clues that tell me everything must have started here, for that’s quite a complex matter. Everything in the universe is expanding outward from this planet’s center of mass, but not symmetrically, not identically sized pieces traveling at identical speeds at perfect angles. Yes, this is the ‘center,’ but one would have to know what he was looking for to find it. This is the point in the universe where all parallel lines intersect.”

  “Thank you,” the black man said.

  “Can a female god do as good a job as a male god?” Corona asked. “Can a female god do a better job?”

  “Tsk, tsk,” God said. “Two questions! This universe has had female gods, somewhat as described in ancient human mythology. You could have this job, Corona, and so could you, Zatima—if that is determined. And I’m sure either of you would do a better job than I’ve done.”

  Very diplomatic, McMurtrey thought.

  “My religion has long scoffed at the Wessornian deity concept of an old man in the sky,” Makanji said. “Thankfully you do not have a beard, and do not reside in the Wessornian concept of Heaven. My question has been answered, sir, for I wondered what you looked like. As you suggested, you don’t have to look like this; it was a choice you made.”

  “I trust my appearance does not displease you?”

  “Oh, no,” Makanji said. He and God exchanged excellent smiles.

  “Here’s a little secret,” Tananius-Ofo said. “In appearance I have two principal differences from D’Urth humans. My skin is gray, and there’s a little something about my tongue.”

  A slender white thread emerged from God’s mouth, and this thread expanded into a net that spun in the air and ensnared Corona. Quickly the net slipped off the startled woman, became a thread once more and returned to God’s mouth.

  “My angels used to call me ‘Netman,’” Tananius-Ofo said, with a smile. “Just a little something I set up for amusement. Great fun at parties. Think I’ll use it to catch a little lady at my last wingding.”

  “Very impressive,” Corona said.

  “A few men and women in history have had tongues like mine,” God said, “but not for centuries, I discontinued the accessory, as people were constantly tripping over their own tongues.”

  “Seriously?” McMurtrey asked.

  God’s eyes twinkled.

  Now Taam the Hoddhist priest spoke, to ask, “I’ve been wondering lately if we were brought here to remove the religious battles from D’Urth, if we were supposed to fight it out in deep space and get it over with once and for all. I didn’t bring any weapons for such an occasion, but I couldn’t help noticing that others did.”

  God shook his head. “I did consider a Great Debate, one without Orbustian Snapcards! The winner would have become God. That might have worked if all the ships had made it, and I suppose you could debate it out now anyway and I could judge the proceeding. But that would be time-and energy-consuming, so I’d prefer another way. Why don’t you all draw lots?”

  “To become God?” McMurtrey said incredulously. From the expressions of others in the room, he saw that they shared his disbelief.

  “Sure, why not?” Tananius-Ofo said. “How do you think I got here?”

  “That explains a lot,” Yakkai said.

  God heard this, and looked at Yakkai ferociously, causing the atheist to tremble.

  “You’re referring to certain. . . . glitches?” God said.

  “Why lie?” Yakkai said. “Yes, I was. Primarily to the ‘glitches’ that allow human and animal suffering to continue. Those communication breakdowns you’ve had are unfortunate, too, where your messages are either lost in translation or changed intentionally after you have passed them on to prophets.”

  “You’re either a brave man or a foolish one,” Tananius-Ofo said.

  Yakkai couldn’t control his muscles, became a mass of trembling flesh. Curiou
sly, his face did not betray fear. It was angry, defiant.

  “You know I’m doing that to you, don’t you?” God said.

  “Yes!” Yakkai shouted. “I’m not afraid of you!”

  The Lord’s stern face broke into a wide, gummy smile, and Yakkai’s trembling went away. “I was just kidding,” God said. “We didn’t draw lots. We drew laser pistols! Naw, none of that happened. Without regard to the past—for this a different situation—what do you think should be done here to select a new God? It’s up to you to decide.”

  “I didn’t get my question,” Zatima said timidly.

  “And so you didn’t!” God said, with surprising cheer. “Well, let’s have it!”

  “Why does Appy laugh like that? I mean, he sounds insane, and it’s been very disquieting on the journey here.”

  “Appy laughs at the utter folly of humankind. Every once in a while it just strikes his funnycircuits and he has to let fly a good one. That’s all there is to it.”

  “Not quite,” Yakkai said impertinently, “for humans are reflections of their God.”

  God scowled, but for only a moment before the gummy smile returned. “In my younger years, when I was hotheaded, I would have skewered you for that. I’ve mellowed out, luckily for you.”

  “No matter whom we select,” Yakkai said, “that person will likely continue much of the same foibles, for we have only humans in the running.”

  “Ah!” God said. “That is correct, but it is not correct! Remember I said I selected this form for humans and for myself? Without going into all the trade secrets involved with being God, I assure you there are options.”

  Yakkai rubbed his chin, said, “In the beginning, I presume this new God will be human. Other choices of form will be less familiar to him, and he’s likely to continue in the form he is most familiar with, the most comfortable form.”

  “Perhaps.” God looked at Gutan, who had not yet asked his question.

  Gutan appeared to be in some pain, was rubbing the knuckle above his severed finger. “I’ll pass,” he said.

  “Come now,” God said. “Surely there must be something you’d like to know, something to help you decide whether or not you want the Big Job? That pain in your missing finger, for example. Wouldn’t you like to know how to end it?”

  “I wouldn’t ask such a question. I deserve whatever pain I have.”

  “Penance, eh? Mmmm. As God, you could end your own pain.”

  “I wouldn’t want to, unless I could end everyone’s. If I were God, this pain would be my reminder.”

  “Bravo,” Yakkai said.

  “Sort of like a string around your finger,” Tananius-Ofo remarked.

  “When I entered Mnemo,” Gutan said, “I suppose I was searching for a purpose to my life. I felt terrible about what I was, wanted to recapture old events and make them right where they had been wrong. Silly thoughts, for the events had already occurred and couldn’t be changed—”

  “Do you want to ask that question?” God asked. “You don’t sound very certain.”

  “—No. I definitely wanted to go back, back, and back some more in memory, all the way to the beginning of everything, back to the Mother or Father of It All. Back to the primal memory of God, I suppose. I’ve always understood death more than life. It was like . . . ” He sighed. “I embalmed people at first, later executed them, and all the while I made love to the dead—I inseminated the dead! My whole life surrounded death. I didn’t want to die in the machine. I wanted to live, and live differently. It was a continuum I wanted to reverse, I suppose. From an emphasis on death and after-death, I wanted to find life. But I couldn’t go directly to life. I had to skip to birth, even to pre-birth, and that was available only through the machine. I’m not making a lot of sense, and there isn’t much time. I’m sorry.”

  “You wanted to find the Creator,” God said. “And the Creator was supposed to provide you with all the answers. I’m supposed to be your guru.”

  “Something like that.”

  “Man needs to learn by experience,” God said. “Primarily his own experience. That’s one of the great successes in the processes I set in motion: seeing a person advance through his own efforts, seeing him overcome adversity, often rising from his own bile . . . seeing him succeed when the odds were heavily against him. You’ve reached me, Gutan, through a somewhat circuitous route, but you’re here. And I don’t have all the answers you need. There is no pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, no crutch with a capital C for you to lean on. You’ve got to do it yourself. The few words of wisdom I could offer you aren’t going to turn things around. You’ve got to want to turn things around, and you’ve got to do it for yourself. No God could do it for you.”

  “I find myself able to think a long way back in time,” Gutan said. “For the first time I’m wondering how future generations will view me, what the judgment of history will be about Harley Gutan. Every instant of my life is a focal point, I suppose, where . I’m delicately balanced between my ancestors and my grandchildren. I pray for the wisdom of the ancients and the forgiveness of generations yet unborn. I don’t want to be God. I don’t qualify, for the things I need to do are on D’Urth. I need to go back and see if I can find some normalcy. I want to have grandchildren. I want normal relationships.”

  Gutan paused, smiled. “Sounds pretty dull, huh?”

  “Some of the best things are dull,” Tananius-Ofo said.

  Gutan spoke briskly, nervously: “Is it possible for me, with all the terrible things I’ve done in my life, to find God?”

  “You’re here, aren’t you?” God said.

  “What do you mean? Oh! But can’t you—”

  “Only one question per person,” God said. “Next!”

  “That’s everyone,” McMurtrey said.

  “When you asked your question about the meaning of life,” Tananius-Ofo said, looking at McMurtrey, “you didn’t know I would only allow one more question per person. Had you known, I sense you might have asked another. I’m not checking your thoughts now, just using rather normal senses. If this is the case, I should allow you another question. I mention this because I don’t want it said that in the end I wasn’t fair.”

  Surprised at this, McMurtrey thought for a moment. “I have many questions,” he said after a time. “I don’t know if I would have asked another first. I too wish to be fair. If I’m the one who becomes God, I don’t want it said about me that in the beginning I wasn’t fair.”

  Tananius-Ofo laughed.

  “It is laudable of you to say that,” God said. “But I insist, and I’m still the boss. Go ahead with one more, and that will be the last.”

  McMurtrey glanced at Corona, as if to ask her permission for this holy favor. Her expression urged him on.

  “What are the duties and obligations of God?” McMurtrey asked.

  Tananius-Ofo smiled. “Gods should behave in certain predictable ways, to avoid chaos. Periods of chaos occur when the wrong God or gods take power, or when humans do not understand the nature of these deities. I must reveal to you that my illness has been causing me to lose more and more ground in this universe. As I said, there is no Satan throwing his weight around, leading the forces of darkness. I wasn’t entirely candid, however. Other gods, good and bad—entities from within this universe and outside it—have been trying to extend their domains. Power is never a static thing. It increases, decreases and changes in scope all the time. This is an unchanging rule of the universe.

  “Each universe can have one or several gods. All of you or only one of you could do it. At various times in history there have been single gods and multiple gods. Look at ancient D’Urthian mythology and the multiple gods of some of your religions—most of those recorded events never occurred. But some of them did. The whole history has been confused pretty badly.”

  From a reservoir of McMurtrey’s soul, Tananius-Ofo’s words echoed through his brain.

  “Some of the god entities still live in varying degrees,” G
od said, “and a number of them want their old jobs back. I took power from a pantheon of gods. They asked me to take charge, transferred their powers to me. But not all of the gods agreed with this majority opinion. Some were tossed out.”

  “Fired?” Yakkai asked.

  God nodded. “Power, once achieved, is difficult to relinquish. I’ve wrestled with the subject for millennia, since realizing I wanted out. The gods who were forced out have been discovering methods of restoring their powers. Even now they are mounting an assault against me.”

  “A physical assault?” Corona asked.

  “I’ll put it this way. They would if they could.”

  “You haven’t made this sound very attractive,” Zatima said.

  “The truth rarely is,” God said. “Reality is a splash of cold water, a harsh awakening. Well, ladies and gentlemen, who’s it going to be?”

  A very long period of silence followed, lasting at least five D’Urth minutes.

  “What about your famous prophets?” Orbust asked. “Wouldn’t one of them have been a better choice?”

  “You’ve run out of questions,” Tananius-Ofo answered. “We really must move along. I’m sorry.”

  “You asked for volunteers,” McMurtrey said. “I’d like to volunteer.”

  “Are you sure?” Corona whispered to him.

  McMurtrey didn’t look at her, felt sad for not doing so. But he had made his decision, didn’t want to look back. There would be no temptations. But God spoke of women. Did that mean . . .

  God can set up anything, McMurtrey thought. I could have a harem here. Or just Kelly. But Kelly is strong, maybe too strong. It wouldn’t work out. . . .

  God smiled upon McMurtrey, asked, “Are there any others?”

  None spoke up.

  “Then it’s settled,” Tananius-Ofo said, looking at Corona. “You folks can drop me off at my party and that’ll be it.”

  “I’m—I’m God now?” McMurtrey asked. “I don’t feel any different.”