"Trials and Tribulations of a First-Time God"
(Science fiction)

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.
 

"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.

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