The God Machine
By Lee Ferguson
The man awoke to a familiar sound of ringing—long, short, long, short—and found himself in a state of half dreaming consciousness, scrambling for the alarm. If everything went as planned, this scramble was one of the few motions required of the man throughout the day. The room was shrouded in a jet black hue, save for the computer screen which featured fish so life-like that their features were more prominent than live fish. Throughout the night these fish, red, blue and yellow would float aimlessly, staring, waiting for the moment when the man would wake, go to his computer and temporarily end their existence. As the screen continued its role as preserver of light, the man clapped his hands, two times, rapidly and with that, another minute motion, the small room exploded with the welcoming glow of artificial light.
The man, now in his hover chair (think of a wheel chair without wheels) directed himself to a tiny cabinet, from which he pulled out a tray of pre-packaged preservatives, just another minimal movement. They were inserted into the top of a bag and then injected into the large purple vein of the man’s left forearm where they were released progressively into his blood stream throughout the twelve working hours of his day; a convenient way to fit breakfast, lunch and supper into one simple action. Through this action the man received all of the essential nutrients and was permitted to extend life another day. This of course eliminated all tastes and textures from his life, but taste after all was a distraction and distractions were not tolerated in a world that required constant adherence to the regulations.
After the preservation ritual the man began his participation in the project, which the Higher Power (HP) had termed, long ago, “the life circle”. The man moved across the room to the computer, “good bye fish”. The man inserted his brain capacitator onto his skull (think of a medieval helm with wires), another encumbrance of a motion and allowed his thoughts to travel to an elaborate machine. Perhaps elaborate merits an understatement, for it was this machine, which the man worked on among others, that kept the world in motion. The man was part of the thousands who worked the day shift, transferring brain waves into effective, balancing labors. Without these day-shifters the machine would flail like a fish without water until its collapse, which would then create the largest possible chain reaction of failure. Therefore, in order to be a maintainer of the machine, perfect concentration and mental ease was required.
If, for example, one individual was to have a nervous break down, it took the collective effort of thousands to re-establish balance. The mentally unstable individual would then have to be executed, that was the rule. The HP preferred to call it a sacrifice. The Mentally Unstable One (MUO) would be directed to the HP, the final motion of his life, where he would be removed from his hover chair (remember, wheel chair without wheels) and set down to await his death. The HP would soon enter and proceed to peel off the MUO’s skin, layer by layer, until his soft brain was exposed (think of a hard boiled egg without its shell). By doing this the HP removed all of the MUO’s humanity. Only at this point would a lethal poison be inserted into the brain, quite like the preservation ritual, through a syringe. In performing such a harsh, torturous sacrifice, the HP was able to instill severe fear into the heads of those who worked as maintainers of the machine. Because such an event was rare, its occurrence caused an uproarious sense of urgency within the public; people would gossip, consult, reprimand, gossip, blame, contort, gossip, yell, argue, gossip but most importantly, take solace in the fact that it was not them who had collapsed while upholding the machine.
It is on this note that we return to our friend, the man (sure we can call him our friend, he’s closer to us than we might imagine), who on this particular day found himself involved in a situation that involved the machine, a MUO and the HP. At 2:45 and 47 seconds into the p.m. of the day shift, a man of similar stature and demeanor to our friend fell into a frenzy of hysterics while upholding the machine. Within seconds, thousands of day shifters rushed to balance the machine and keep the world in motion, our friend was one of them. The MUO had clearly exerted himself to the limit and whether it was a glitch in the machine or a lack of perfection within the self, he would now be sacrificed in order to re-establish perfection.
The HP entered, shrouded in a dark shadow, (for this is how all HP’s like to be perceived) and took hold of the MUO. Our friend, so hectic in maintaining balance, did not witness the sacrifice of the MUO. Should he have had a spare moment to witness the sacrifice, he would have seen an act of absolute brutality, utter grotesqueness, severe pain, relentless agony and intense defacement. But he did not. Instead, our friend continued maintaining the machine until 7:00, full of sympathy, inquiries and relief that it was not he who had collapsed during the maintaining of the machine.
Off with the brain capacitator, back in the small room, still overwhelmingly bright, the man sat in silence until the tiny fish re-appeared on his computer. It was as if they were celebrating, “We’re alive! Look at our bright colours! Look at us swim!” And the man continued to think of the MUO. He clapped twice rapidly, and the room was returned to darkness, except, of course, for the fish. In the final minute action of the day, the man directed himself to his bed, out from his hover chair and into the welcoming warmth. As he dozed off, now in a state of half-dreaming consciousness, he caught a glimpse of the fish, red, blue, and yellow, swimming along the screen of his computer with animate, deeply penetrating eyes.