Analog SFF, December 2009

by Dell Magazine Authors

  Stone hoped that wouldn't happen soon. For it wouldn't take the public long to realize that a world in which miracles were routine might also be ripe for an apocalypse.

  * * * *

  "Not bad for somebody who barely passed college biology."

  Martin's voice had a taunting edge. “I didn't even have to know any fine details about human anatomy or physiology to do it. All I did was will all those cures and healings in general terms—and they happened!"

  "'Young man, I say to thee, arise.’ Are you enjoying playing God, Martin?"

  "I keep telling you, this isn't about me! It's about correcting the mistake the God you believe in made by allowing all this pain and suffering!"

  Martin folded his arms. “Of course, the aliens gave you the same power over matter, energy, gravity, and time that I have. You could reverse everything I just did. But if you make those children sick again or let people die, don't tell me it's for their own good!"

  "I don't deny that what you did is good—today. But what about tomorrow? You didn't cure every person in the world. How do you think those you didn't help will feel? Even as we're talking more people are getting sick and being injured. Are you going to prevent or treat every illness and accident from now on?"

  Martin scowled. “Even if I can't help everybody, helping some people is better than helping none at all! I intentionally didn't do some things I could've done, like making the elderly young again. I'm not sure yet that would be a good thing in the long run because of all the social and economic disruptions it could produce. So—responsible person that I am—I'll wait to do it until I figure out how to minimize any problems it might cause."

  "You may already have done more damage than you realize, Martin. Besides being grateful for them, how else do you think people will react to these ‘miracles’ you performed? Will they live more carelessly—expecting that any damage they do to themselves or others will be healed by another of your miracles? Will it discourage researchers and doctors to find new treatments that, though not as perfect as yours, rely on what's possible by human effort and don't depend on your godlike whim? Are you ready to let all of Earth's people transfer responsibility for their welfare from themselves and place it on your shoulders?"

  "No, I can't do everything. I won't be like the robots in ‘With Folded Hands.’ I'm going to leave people who can help themselves alone and let them succeed or fail on their own. But there are many others who through no fault of their own don't have the ability to help themselves. And I know how to start..."

  It was already hot as the Sun crept above the horizon. Far too little rain had fallen on this region of sub-Saharan Africa for months. Parched grasslands and cracked powdery soil baked beneath a cloudless sky as the inhabitants of the village stirred. In one of the mud huts thirty-three-year-old Nehanda was already awake and dressed. Though she didn't know why, she felt stronger than ever.

  In the dim sunshine filtering through the shack's sole doorless entrance, even her four surviving children, ages two through seven, looked better than they had for days. Last night Nehanda feared the youngest child, her bloated belly and wasted limbs a stark reflection of how severe the drought and famine were, would be ready to be buried this morning next to her father and two siblings. But now the little girl looked healthy—as if the tiny ration of food she shared with the rest of her family really was enough to keep her alive.

  But it was useless to be thankful for even the rare good things in their lives. Maybe the soldiers would come back today and leave more death and tears behind. Perhaps the village's only well would run dry and add the pangs of thirst to the rumbling in their empty stomachs. The small plots of maize, wheat, and other crops worked and shared by her neighbors and her, now coming to final ripening, might've been picked clean by birds during the night.

  As Nehanda walked outside her hut several other women nodded to her. They all trod silently toward where they hoped their next meal still lay. Nehanda's face fell as she saw how little there was to gather. The shriveled stalks of grain lay flat and lifeless. Her family's share of this meager harvest, ground and baked into coarse bread, would be enough for only several mouthfuls apiece. But it would be enough to keep them alive one more day—and that was all she could hope for.

  As Nehanda bent over within one of those plots, a shadow fell across the land. She looked up—and the few dry stalks in her hands fluttered to the ground. Her voice joined the cries of amazement shouted by the other women.

  Enormous dark clouds gathered above their heads at a speed so fast they seemed like racing animals. Seconds later a gentle sheet of rain bathed the village in a soothing shower. For the first time in ages Nehanda laughed. She let the cool droplets dance on her tongue, then cupped her hands and rubbed the tiny pools of moisture across her chest.

  Something tickled her bare legs. She peered down—and gasped. All around her and throughout the other small fields, wheat and other crops were springing up from the ground at an impossible pace. What normally took months of slow germination and growth was happening in moments. Soon she was surrounded by a lush harvest that would keep her children and everyone else fed for months.

  There was no explanation for this miracle. There was no need for one. It was enough that it was.

  * * * *

  "If I heal the sick, I also need to keep them healthy."

  Martin walked under a noontime Sun into the nearby garden. He fingered a cornstalk's leaf approvingly. “I grew up on a farm and know what crops need. And it sure helps to be able now to accelerate their growth by a factor of thousands. No one needs to go hungry anymore!"

  Katerina said nothing. Inside Martin's mind she saw millions of people—suffering through no fault of their own—rescued from the brink of starvation and death. They laughed and rejoiced—grateful to be spared the agony of watching their loved ones sicken and perish, then dying themselves.

  For the first time since she and Martin had been transformed into something more than human, she doubted herself. She wondered if the role she'd assumed as devil's advocate to Martin's plans might be literally true. Perhaps great power didn't corrupt all the time. Katerina thought of the kings and queens, emperors and czars, dictators and presidents she'd read about. Some were sadistic butchers. Many were mixtures of good and evil. Others had honestly tried to help people but lacked the wisdom to do lasting good.

  But she wondered if even the rare paragons of self-control and service to their citizens like Marcus Aurelius or George Washington would've been corrupted too if they'd acquired as much power as she and Martin now possessed. There was probably a good reason no actual saints she could think of had possessed any personal power except their own words and example. Even Tomas de Torquemada was said to be honest and pious in his private life. Yet when given absolute power, he saw no contradiction to defending the Gospel's message of love and forgiveness with torture and murder as fifteenth-century Spain's first Grand Inquisitor.

  Katerina scanned her memories of all the great works of philosophy, religion, and literature she'd read—seeking guidance on what she should do. As ideas percolated through her brain, passages in Plato's Republic converged with plots from science fiction movies Martin showed her on the flight here. There was a way to persuade him to stop using his power—but it meant she had to use hers.

  She wrestled with her conscience before deciding there was no other choice. Besides, Martin told her she could do whatever she wanted inside his mind....

  "Remember, Martin—'Man does not live by bread alone.’ Those people you fed today will be hungry again tomorrow. What will you do then?"

  Martin exited the garden and walked close to her. “I don't need to help people who can already help themselves. I'll confine my miracles to areas where they can't grow enough food to live."

  "What if the problem isn't caused by Nature? What will you do if someone comes to steal that food you gave them—or uses violence against them?"

  "That's a job for governments and police. An
d yes, I know those systems sometimes fail or can be part of the problem. But if no one else can stop violence, I'll help the innocent."

  "And are you willing to use force, Martin—even kill—to prevent killing? With your power you could be judge, jury, and executioner for every criminal or anyone you deem ‘evil'—and no one could stop you. They wouldn't even know you were the one who did it!"

  "You know me better than that! I'd never use my power to deliberately hurt anyone!"

  "But you could do it unintentionally. What if you lost your temper—or even just dreamed about hurting people?"

  Martin grinned. “I've seen and read enough SF to anticipate anything that could go wrong. I'll be a well-behaved Star Child—and I've watched Forbidden Planet umpteen times. I'll will my power to not work while I'm asleep. That way there'll be no Monster from the Id—and I won't inadvertently change someone who wants to fly into a seagull like in an old Green Lantern story!"

  "You're underestimating the danger. Even if you control yourself, you'll still be like one of Plato's guardians—the ultimate arbiter of what people can do or not do. But who will guard you?"

  Martin frowned. “I'll guard myself. And I don't have to stop force with greater force. You've made me think of a better way to stop violence. Let me show you..."

  * * * *

  Rustam Shahidi's sweaty palms clutched the steering wheel of his pickup truck. Sitting alone in its cab, he tried to look inconspicuous as his vehicle moved cautiously through the streets of Tehran.

  Along the avenue vendors offered their wares to hundreds of shoppers in this large outdoor market on a sunny Sunday morning. Rustam's dilapidated truck, stuffed with lettuce and other produce along its metal bed and wooden sides, blended in well with similarly laden ones. But none of them carried the deadly cargo hidden within his vehicle.

  The young man tried not to think about what would happen to him in several minutes when he arrived at his target. There'd be a dozen soldiers around the checkpoint his truck was approaching. A simple calculation of the number of enemy lives lost compared to his meant his martyrdom would be worthwhile.

  He eased the truck behind a small green car that formed the end of a short queue of vehicles stopped at the checkpoint. As the line in front of him gradually shortened, he jerked—startled by the face staring back at him from outside the open driver's-side window.

  The boy smiling at him was about ten years old. Rustam nodded back—squelching an urge to whisper to the youngster to run away. The bomb in his vehicle would produce a blast radius of around a hundred meters. He prayed that the boy and other innocents would be far enough away to survive. But if they didn't, they would join him in paradise.

  At least he hoped there was such a place for all of them. As these last seconds of his life ticked away, doubts about the supernatural significance of what he was about to do crept back into his mind. But even if the sum of his sacrifice was only a blow against those who repressed his country's people, it was enough to justify his death.

  Rustam lost sight of the boy as his truck crept forward. There were only three more vehicles in front of where the soldiers checked a frightened driver's papers. He was close enough now that a press of the button near his hand would make his mission a success. Before any more doubts or regrets entered his brain he reached for the detonator—

  The uniformed man walked cautiously toward the stalled produce truck, slipping his rifle off his shoulder into a ready position. Instead of advancing when the vehicles in front of it had moved past the checkpoint, this one sat in the street frozen in place. In the tense atmosphere that now blanketed Tehran, anything that looked even remotely suspicious could be the harbinger of sudden explosive death.

  Heart pounding—terrified the next instant could be his last—the soldier crept close enough to the open window beside the driver to hear what the young man behind the wheel was muttering.

  "It's wrong to kill. I shouldn't detonate the bomb. It's wrong to kill. I shouldn't det—"

  That mantra was silenced by the sharp crack! of bullets from the sergeant's rifle tearing through Rustam's head. Gun smoke filled the soldier's nostrils as he lowered the rifle. He called back to the privates who'd started toward him to contact the bomb disposal team. Then—trying to exude nonchalance instead of the nervous relief he felt—he sauntered back to the checkpoint. By the time he reached it, he was already wondering if his deed might earn him a medal.

  In this fifth year of the bloody Iranian civil war, Sgt. Bahram Bayat of the Revolutionary Guards had single-handedly stopped a suicide bomber. The government whose nearly sixty-year-old grip on power was weakening from a violent homegrown rebellion needed every hero it could find.

  * * * *

  Though it'd been many hours since he'd slept, fear kept Stone alert and focused on the TV screen. Several of his colleagues had wandered from their posts to look over his shoulder or at other small television monitors scattered around Mission Control.

  Every screen showed nonplussed newscasters and reporters relating a burgeoning series of bizarre events around the world. Police stations were jammed with people turning themselves in for every violent crime and act they'd committed. Bank robbers laid down the pistols they were aiming at tellers and surrendered. Child molesters, individuals guilty of domestic violence, and rapists tearfully begged to be put in jail. Criminals ranging from street thugs to the top bosses of organized crime demanded punishment for the injuries and deaths they'd inflicted. Those ranks also included an alarming number of “respectable” citizens confessing to heinous deeds no one had ever suspected them of doing.

  Stone shuddered. It was as if millions of people with a sick or nonexistent conscience had suddenly been healed. But his career as a physician had taught him many uncomfortable truths. One was that a person's basic personality and actions weren't improved without great effort—and only then if the individual cooperated. Another was that no medicine or treatment was risk-free and worked all the time.

  He wondered what side effects this particular “cure” might have.

  * * * *

  Martin floated upright five meters above the ground and smiled. Waves of contentment rippled through his mind as he sensed images and thoughts from Mission Control and all across Earth.

  A voice from below interrupted his reverie. “So that's your solution to violence. You're going to control people like puppets and destroy their free will!"

  "No one has a right to ‘freely’ hurt another person, Katerina. All I'm doing is implanting feelings and ideas in peoples’ minds that should've been there all along. Things like empathy and remorse."

  "And love? Are you going to make people care about each other?"

  "No. I'm just giving them the chance to love others. Whether they choose to do that is still up to them."

  "But it's just as important that they choose not to hate or hurt others!"

  Katerina glared up at him. “You're not treating those people like human beings. To you they're just wild animals that need to be tamed. Even if it isn't the physical type, you're using force on them!"

  "But I'm using gentle force—in a good cause. The people I've changed deliberately threatened, injured, or murdered others. The only way police can deal with criminals and killers is with the same weapons the bad guys use.

  "What I'm doing is more benign. It's like a surgeon operating on someone with a brain tumor. My treatment causes less pain to sick patients and heals them better than a doctor could—"

  Martin flinched as an unexpected power seized his body and dragged it to the ground. As his boots settled back onto the paprika-colored soil he laughed. “Good. I finally got you riled enough to use your own power. Maybe now you'll understand how easy it is to use."

  "No. I just want you to look into my face when I talk to you."

  Katerina walked closer to him. “Don't compare yourself to a doctor, Martin. Unless someone is mentally incapable of making a decision, a physician can't treat a patient without that person's
consent. You didn't ask those people you changed if they wanted to be treated or not. And even if you did and they refused, you would've altered their minds anyway!"

  She scowled. “Have you ever read Dostoevsky's The Brothers Karamazov?"

  "Tried to read it. Never finished it. Long meandering novels make me fall asleep. Besides, what does that have to do with—"

  "If you'd read it, Martin, you'd know you should be comparing yourself to Grand Inquisitors. They thought they were doing good by protecting their flock from dangerous ideas. They thought they were being merciful to heretics and unbelievers by trying to save their victims’ immortal souls—even if it meant rending their bodies with the rack and wheel or burning them at the stake!

  "The method you're using is more subtle but ultimately just as corrupt. You're imposing your own orthodoxy of action—making people be ‘good’ instead of choosing to love and care for others. Yes, I know your intentions are good. But even the most caring, well-intentioned, and wise Grand Inquisitor is still a Grand Inquisitor. And you're infinitely more powerful and dangerous than any of them ever was!"

  Martin snapped, “You sound like the Jesuits who taught me at the university. I regurgitated enough of what they said on tests to pass the theology courses I had to take. But they couldn't make me believe what they said."

  Katerina took hold of the golden cross hanging from her neck. “Maybe those priests asked you this question. After being taunted, tortured, and crucified, why didn't the Savior come down from the cross and show the whole world who He really was?"

  "Well, we both know the obvious answer!"

  "Of course, Martin. If He were only a human being whose goodness inspired His followers to make Him into God, He didn't do it because He couldn't do it. But just assume for a moment that He really was both human and divine.

  "If so, why did He choose to ‘only’ die and rise again instead of stopping His execution and creating a paradise on Earth? Like you, He could heal the sick, feed the hungry, and inspire sinners to repent. I think the reason He didn't stay to miraculously eliminate all evil and suffering is that He wanted us—humanity itself—to do it! He became weak to show us how we could become strong!"