 "Trials
and Tribulations of a First-Time God"
(Excerpt)
by David M. Fitzpatrick
“That wraps up my questions,” Detective
Simms said across the table to her. “Unless there’s anything else you can
tell us.”
She returned his steely gaze with
mournful eyes. “What else could there be?”
“Maybe nothing. We’ve reviewed all his
detailed scientific notes,” Simms said, gesturing to the haphazard pile of
record wafers, strewn about like an interrupted card game. “We understand
how he did it. We just don’t know why.”
She sighed and settled back in her chair,
licking her lips. The overhead light shined off her golden hair in the
concrete interrogation room. “Then since I’ve answered all of your
questions, am I free to go?”
He smiled. “I’m sure you realize it’s not
that easy, Sheila.”
“Miss Prescott, if you please,” she said
icily, grimacing and slumping in the chair. “You can’t keep me here
forever.”
“The law says I can.”
They traded hard stares for several
moments before she relented. Sadness ringed her eyes, and her face sank.
“All right, then. You’ve reviewed highlights from all his recordings
except one. It’s time you listened to it.”
“His personal journal,” Simms mused,
picking up one of the wafers. “My people will listen to that one soon
enough.”
“Oh, I think you should listen to it,” Sheila said, perking up. “You may
understand Charlie more from that than anything else.”
“From a few minutes of his personal
thoughts in audio only, compared to nearly five hundred hours of video?”
“You wanted to know the why,” Sheila
said, looking down her nose at him with serious eyes. “You need to know
what made him go from scientist to… to the thing he is now. You need to
know of his motivations and passions.”
Simms looked at her dubiously. “And this brief audio recording will
somehow clue me in?”
She gave him a broad, white-toothed
smile. “Oh, most definitely.”
He thought about it, and something in her
eyes told him she meant it—and looking into her eyes was somehow
unnerving.
“All right,” he said. “I’ll listen to it
personally, this evening. In the meantime, you’re going to have to spend
the night in—”
“Why not now?” she interrupted him with
pleading eyes. “It’s not that long.”
He raised his brow and allowed a slight
grin to turn up the corner of his mouth. “You’re some piece of work,
Sheila—sorry, Miss Prescott.”
“It’s just that I’d… like to…” She
trailed off, looking embarrassed.
“You want to listen to it, too?”
She hung her head, looking at him almost
in shame. “You can understand why I’d like to hear it.”
“I suppose so,” he said softly. “All
right, then.”
The wafer’s display screen said PERSONAL
JOURNAL. Simms leaned over and dropped it into the up-angled slot in the
table terminal. Almost immediately, a disembodied voice emanated from
hidden speakers.
“This is the personal journal of Dr.
Charles E. Prescott,” said Prescott’s own voice. A synthesized voice then
chimed in with, “Say ‘Play’ to continue.”
Simms looked up at Sheila’s nervous face.
“You sure?”
She nodded. “I’m ready.”
“Play,” he said, and the computer
continued.
* * *
January 29
No matter how much we love each other, my
wife is my greatest nemesis. What a bitter irony—yet how appropriate to
open this recording with that very point.
I’ve been working diligently on my latest
experiment, and I think I have it. All I need is more time. I’ve been so
wrapped up in it, and so robotic about recording every scientific step
along the way, that I’ve neglected the human factor. I think it’s
important to occasionally divorce myself from the science and try to
communicate my personal thoughts. But although when I chronicle an
experiment, I never leave out a single hypothesis, test, result,
conclusion, or single step along the way, I’m useless when it comes to
personal tasks like recording a letter or dictating my grocery list. But
I’ll try.
#
February 2
The groundhog saw his shadow today—you
know, Punxsutawney Phil, the one they haul out of the ground every year. I
look at this silly tradition as prophetic: what is now ridiculous will
have new meaning the next time Groundhog Day rolls around. By then, I’ll
have Phil intelligent enough to say, “My shadow has nothing to do with the
remaining length of winter; it has to do with whether or not it’s sunny
out, you morons.”
An amusing notion. I wish I could share
it with my wife, but I don’t yet dare. She’s oblivious to, and innocent
of, my crimes, loving me unconditionally. If she discovers what I’ve been
doing, I fear she will rethink that love—considering her religious stance.
She’ll just think I’m playing at being a god, and she won’t like it.
In the meantime, until recently, we’d
been very close. She’d tried to entice me sexually every night, but I’m
usually too exhausted. She doesn’t understand, and has begun questioning
why my long hours of work are more important than making love with her.
I tell her it isn’t, but maybe I’m lying
to her. I’m now far more involved in my experiments than I am with her.
How selfish of me to ignore my wife’s needs in favor of my work. I am
ashamed—but my work is important. When I succeed, she’ll understand.
#
February 10
Some god indeed. It’s been a week since
my last entry; it’s just that my work has required so much of my time. I
warned you I wasn’t good at this.
I’m close now. It’s only a matter of time
before I’m able to test the first animal trials. After four years of slow
progress and many setbacks, the past year has been nothing but surges
ahead. More to come soon.
#
February 17
Well, I’ve done it. I had to tell
someone, and I can’t discuss it with any of my colleagues; they’re too
afraid of the legal repercussions. My wife was totally aghast, but that
was to be expected. She means well, but her respect for science is greatly
eclipsed by her passion for God.
“Only God may give life,” she lectured,
as if I were creating living beings out of some lab-stewed primordial
soup. I’ve tried to explain that it isn’t about creating life. Ever since
Miller and Urey electrified their own laboratory soup in 1953 and made
organic compounds and amino acids, plenty of others have gone down the
road of creating life. From amino acids to protocells and beyond, living
cells were finally created from scratch in the laboratory. God was thus
unseated as life’s sole creator—and almost as quickly, laws were passed to
stop anyone else from trying.
“I’m not creating life,” I argued to my
wife. “I’m just making existing life sentient.”
But she doesn’t see the difference
between building a new life form from scratch and imbuing existing life
with intelligence and consciousness. She believes those things are all
aspects of life. It’s hard to argue with anyone that entrenched in her
faith, but I’m not playing God. I’m a scientist and an atheist; from my
perspective, there’s no God for me to play.
Tomorrow, I begin the final phase. It
might be awhile before I update this journal.
#
June 20
The past four months have been a flurry
of successes, as detailed in my scientific records. I’ve been on such a
roll, I’ve utterly neglected this personal record.
I’ve succeeded, mostly. I achieved
sentience and higher intelligence, but there are challenges, as indicated
in my experiment records. Meanwhile, my wife is inconsolable on the
subject. I haven’t even told her of my successes yet. I don’t dare.
“You can’t keep playing God!” she
screamed the other day. Then she burst into tears and wailed like a child.
I tried arguing the point, delicately and carefully, but it only made her
more upset. If her love for me weren’t so strong, she’d probably report me
to the authorities—and then the experiment would be over. I’m taking a
huge risk on her love. It’s strong, but can it transcend her faith?
For the first time in a while, my wife
wanted to make love that very night, after our argument. I was exhausted
and depressed, but maybe I should have accommodated her. Perhaps tending
to her physical needs will help quell any desire to turn against me.
But I work eighteen hours a day, and I’m
so tired at night.
Responsibilities, ambitions, choices.
#
June 23
Despite everything I’ve tried, Sheila
won’t leave me alone. She expresses her love for me every day and wants to
be at my side all the time. I’m concerned about her feelings. I’ve been
concerned about everyone else’s feelings far too much.
But despite everyone else, my wife’s
feelings are of primary importance. Not only is she the most important
person in my world, but she can make or break me. If she goes over the
edge, there’s no stopping her, and before I know it the investigators will
be on my doorstep.
#
July 18
My wife came into my laboratory today. It
was bizarre; she never comes into my lab. She uses the intercom in the
house to tell me when dinner is ready or to ask me if I want tea or just
to let me know that she loves me. But today, the door squeaked open and I
looked up in surprise… and there she was.
“Honey,” I said. “Good to see you.”
“I haven’t seen your lab in years,” she
said, and she didn’t look happy to have broken that tradition.
“I’m glad you came,” I said, but I was
nervous. Hopefully none of my test subjects—squirrel, rabbit, dog, cat, or
mouse—would decide to yak today. They’d been warned not to talk or exhibit
any signs of intelligence if anyone came into the lab. They were already
used to clamming up when she was on the intercom. Sometimes, though, it’s
hard for Winky, the squirrel, to keep from giggling.
“I really have a problem with what you’ve
been doing,” she said, her voice quiet but with firm resolve.
“I’m not playing God,” I said. I had to
show her I was a man who knew exactly what he was doing—not the mad
scientist for which she surely saw me.
“Even if there were no God, what you’re
doing just isn’t right,” she said.
I tried to reasoning, but it didn’t take
long for the discussion to collapse. She stormed out of the lab that
evening crying, wailing, “You don’t love me!”
But I do love her. More than
anything—more than I can say.
I just have to finish this...
* *
* * * * * *
*
But things are about to get out of
control: with his wife, with the animal experiments, with the law...
To read the whole story, order
Anthrolations at
Sofa Wolf. |
I couldn't interest anyone in this; most editors didn't like the "journal"
style of storytelling. But Anthrolations magazine, which focuses on
anthropomorphic animals (critters who behave like humans -- walk upright,
talk, think, etc.), loved it.