Deus Zero

By William Bowden

At times it feels like the world is delivering a steady stream of crazies Henry's way, an unrelenting conveyor belt of the paranoid and delusional, each with their own angle on how the Book of Revelation is playing out right before them.

They're all bonkers, of course, though it does seem like there's been more than usual of late.

But while most of Henry's patients express their suspicions in a somewhat predictable manner, one has taken matters to a whole new level, building a machine to root out the real from the not real.

Henry's patient believes that if you turn over enough rocks, you just might find God's name written there.

Unfortunately, that's exactly what happens.

• Language: English
• Publisher: William Bowden
• Release date: Jun 14, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201197773

William Bowden

William Bowden is a British Science Fiction author. He lives near the city of Bristol and when not writing rules over his unruly garden.

Book preview

Self-published by William Bowden in 2020

Text Copyright © 2020 William Bowden

All Rights Reserved

The right of William Bowden to be identified as the author has been asserted by him in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

This is a work of fiction. All characters in this work are fictitious and any resemblance to any real person, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Cover art by GrandeDuc/shutterstock.com

Latin translations supplied by Quintus at www.thelatintranslator.com

END OF DAYS

They are calling her the Child Prophet, though given what is likely a carefully managed androgyne appearance, Henry considers the gender to be debatable. Said to be always on the move, from one secret location to another, no two ever the same, there is little evidence as to her true nature—her innermost thoughts, what she really believes in, and why she has chosen this path.

Understand that we are ruled, she says. Ruled by those who care not when it comes to what their actions are doing to the earth.

Her stock opening repeated in one form or another with each manifestation. Not that Henry is analyzing her pronouncements. It’s difficult to avoid them, appearing as they do in every corner of what passes for informative media these days, gobbled up by a mesmerized congregation of the otherwise sane, the undeterred millions flocking to her cause, the ecowarrior group called Anima Mundi. A connection of souls, united behind their leader, in pursuit of a singular outcome—to save the planet from mankind.

All they do is perpetuate this madness, she continues. And now they have outdone themselves. Yet another means for humanity to destroy itself and take all with it.

She is perhaps just thirteen. A picture of innocence, yet a symbol for all that is wrong in this world, her reasoned arguments set against the retorts of the political establishment, exposing their blindness to a crisis that has already engulfed them.

That’s probably why her detractors call her the Prophet of Doom and a false prophet.

She does actually have a name, though—just a single word, as is the fashion of celebrity culture these days, which is one of the reasons Henry would normally pay little heed to her professions of supposed profundities.

Moraika is still a child, yet she has managed to captivate the world with her message—and divide it.

It is a cynical Henry who notes the rising popularity of her name among those for newborn girls. For it is a name whose sound appeals across humanity’s cultural, religious, and political spectrum, both disarming and fascinating, just as is her androgyne appearance—and not unlike any other marketing placement, all of it is cleverly designed for the global economy.

* * *

Moraika’s face is replaced by a video sequence, clearly taken with a phone camera, now played back in real time.

A great dome of glowing blue plasma, expanding at the speed of sound, so vast in size as to seem graceful. Apparently, it had reached some ten thousand feet, destroying the military base at its epicenter.

"Look and you shall see," says Patrick.

The video sequence Patrick has spliced together cuts to a montage of public figures. Among them is one known to Henry—Cydian Bryce, the self-professed maverick behind Cych, an upstart sci-tech company that has surged in popularity in recent years. The sequence freeze-frames just as Cydian raises his hand. Patrick has overlaid a graphic circling Cydian’s palm, the image zooming in to reveal a brown spot at the base of his index finger.

The montage flicks from one figure to the next—financiers, industrialists, politicians, each freeze-framed and zoomed in to reveal a similar mole. The last is more than familiar, but not as a personal acquaintance—Robert Cantor, a subject of interest because of his manifest psychosis, a bipolar condition that has as much built the emergent aerospace giant Cantor Satori Incorporated as plagued the man behind it.

The Mark of the Beast, Patrick says.

Clickbait, thinks Henry. Doctored images designed to titillate and tease, luring the bored masses to a barrage of exploitative advertising campaigns.

But Henry can’t quite see where Patrick is going with all of this. Especially now that his carefully edited video sequence is flicking from one juxtaposed topic to the next—

They will destroy this world, says the Child Prophet. "Unless you act—"

She is interrupted by a series of quick-fire images gleaned from social media posts of questionable provenance. The subject matter Henry recognizes—nanogenetics, the engineering of artificial viruses capable of gene sequence editing, a means to correct a host’s genetic makeup, banned as quickly as it emerged by governments the world over for fear of some deadly plague sweeping across the globe.

And so it goes on, one distorted projection of life on earth after another.

Finally, the video settles on a live feed—an ongoing protest outside the Cych building in New York City, the headquarters of Cydian’s technological baby, cast as the villain by Anima Mundi for what they see as a counter-campaign against the Child Prophet, Cych accused of flooding social media with fake news and deepfake videos designed to undermine the credibility of Moraika and her message.

By the looks of it, the protest is bordering on the violent.

"Look and you shall see, Patrick hisses into Henry’s ear. A demon angel. The unholy trinity. Satan, the Antichrist, and the False Prophet. Babylon rebuilt. Man worshipping himself and forsaking God. A false religion. The kings of earth receive the power of the beast. God’s vengeance unleashed."

Henry has the insight he needs—or, rather, the only insight he is likely to obtain from this encounter.

That just leaves the small matter of the knife that Patrick has against Henry’s throat.

Fortunately, Patrick has managed to mesmerize himself with his own prophecy, allowing Henry to surreptitiously position his pocket-sized pneumatic injector within striking distance.

PHUT

Right over the carotid artery, Patrick instantly zapped into unconsciousness as it delivers a microjet infused with a cocktail of sedatives of Henry’s own devising.

Patrick collapses back onto the ward’s sofa, the orderlies rushing in to attend to him, a scowling figure strolling in behind them.

Dr. Moule, says Henry, to the cross-armed woman. So glad you could join us.

How profoundly stupid of you, Dr. Roche, she retorts.

"Might I remind you of who works for whom in this facility."

Patrick is far gone enough to have actually cut your head off, Henry.

We had to let it play out, Veronica, Henry says to the unimpressed intern.

The delusion?

Just another messiah fantasist, laments Henry, gazing down at the limp Patrick, now being hauled into a wheelchair. Patrick had been a talented digital artist; now his imagination has turned against him—the psychiatric equivalent of an autoimmune response. But a response to what? Two a penny these days. In thirty minutes, he’s going to be very awake. Move him over to olanzapine. Hourly searches. And remove his access to the internet.

The internet—Babylon rebuilt.

A conveyor of troubling times. What had already been a heady mix of ecological emergency, social unrest, and political upheaval, now the flames of an inferno fanned by fake news, with the apparent test of a superweapon in Nevada some months ago not helping one jot.

The Mark of the Beast.

Although he avoids doing so in the clinical setting, Henry has come to find it necessary to map the fantasies of his patients onto whatever conspiracy that they subscribe to. The Book of Revelation has become increasingly popular, yet, like Patrick’s, the mappings are often misaligned, resulting in patients frequently bending their evidence to make the shoe fit.

It’s simply all part of the underlying psychosis—paranoia fueling a belief that theirs is the truth, the actual manifestation of what is, after all, just a prophecy.

But Patrick’s case is a new one on Henry. The Mark of the Beast, the kings receiving the power of the beast, and the montage featuring what would appear to be illegal nanogenetic research—an artificial virus capable of wiping out all nonbelievers, with those to be taken carrying a mark on their hand—a mole at the base of the index finger.

God’s vengeance unleashed—Henry is less sure where that fits, though evidently it refers to that weapons test in Nevada some months back, a great bubble of blue plasma rising out of the desert. The Seven Seals? The Sixth Seal—God’s wrath?

It’s all bonkers, of course—as is Patrick, the orderlies wheeling him away.

Do you suppose, muses the young intern, at the sight of the vacant Patrick, that they are in fact just…elsewhere?

Sentiment has no place here, Dr. Moule, chides Henry.

A symptom of our times, Henry muses to himself—his own sentiment.

Babylon rebuilt—fake news, deepfake videos, conspiracy to be found wherever one might look, like some great blender making a smoothie out of fact, fiction, and mythology.

It’s a wonder the Illuminati haven’t made an appearance.

Oh, this tangled web we weave.

There are simply just too many outlets, the likes of Patrick in the firing line no matter what they do, society serving up an increasing number of crazies and sending them Henry’s way.

No denying the bomb they set off in the desert, though. Too many witnesses.

The government might be playing things down, but agencies the world over are said to be scrambling for intelligence—any scrap of intelligence, no matter how tenuous, that might relate to what is being dubbed The Destroyer of Worlds, albeit only by the more sensationalist among the world’s media.

They turn us to violence, says the Child Prophet, the video still streaming the protest in New York City, a mob attempting to bash its way into Cydian Bryce’s headquarters. And it will be our undoing.

The world gone mad, laments Henry.

BABYLON

The NYPD have retreated one block on all sides, but Kara can see that it’s just a prelude—they are regrouping for a decisive assault, and she doesn’t blame them.

The situation is now completely out of control; what was supposed to be a peaceful protest with an angry message is now a raging mob, likely peppered with antagonists planted with the sole purpose of whipping the crowd into a frenzy and giving the authorities the excuse they need.

The mob occupies the entire area, some for their cause, some not, brawls breaking out all over, a cacophony of shouting, screaming, and yelling pervading the air, echoing off the surroundings.

Kara is at the front line—the trenches. A hot dog vendor’s street cart is being used as a battering ram against the Cych building’s main entrance. Within, there is no one in sight—the building appears to have been evacuated. If they can get inside, then they can occupy the building and search for evidence.

That was supposed to be the plan, minus the hot dog cart—stage a rush on the building with a huge flash mob. It would have triggered an immediate evacuation, allowing them to walk in and occupy. It would also have triggered a lockdown, but they had the white-hat hackers necessary to crack the network.

But no sooner had it started than had a counter-mob appeared out of nowhere, the building already locked down.

It hadn’t taken long to figure it out—an opposing rallying call had been posted all over social media, the chief suspect Cydian Bryce, raising an army against them.

Inside this building will be the evidence—the unrelenting fake-news campaign that had been waged against Moraika laid bare for all to see, enough to drag Cydian Bryce before the Supreme Court.

* * *

The building is not as empty as Kara might suppose. High up in the tower, two men gaze down, a thin man whose stature is cast into sharp relief by the older, taller, stocky fellow next to him. They might not be able to see the onslaught at the front doors, but they can see the mob stretching in all directions. It is CCTV that informs them of events unfolding at close quarters.

The thin man turns away from the windows to observe the activity within—two figures clad in safety gear, assembling a large industrial drill.

If they get in here… muses the thin man.

They won’t, says the older fellow, with a gruff British accent.

Both men return their attention to the scene on the streets below.

They are out there somewhere, muses the thin man. Why haven’t they made their move? Could we be wrong about this?

* * *

The Cych building’s doors are holding firm, the hot dog cart having proved to be of insufficient mass, the mob’s momentum now falling apart.

With a good view of the events now unfolding is something of a bubble in the crowd, a man and a woman standing within, their pristine business suits rendering a somewhat incongruous look, while all about seem oblivious to their presence.

Their gaze is held firmly Kara’s way.

But is she instigator or inquisitor? asks the young man of his companion, his accent quintessentially English.

Perhaps both, she responds, with a laboring European lilt. But it is not for us to ponder such things. We have our instructions.

It ends quickly, the already dispersing crowd making for an easy passage when it comes to the NYPD’s assault, two cops grabbing Kara from behind, forcing her to the ground, one holding her in a knee lock as the other cuffs her.

How unfortunate, observes the young man.

Very frustrating, affirms the young woman.

* * *

The city has made preparations beyond the policing of the protest, with special courts set up to ensure due process is swift. Kara is one of more than a hundred finding herself put before a judge within an hour of arrest, each individual hearing run like clockwork.

Each hearing, that is, save hers.

And Justice Alka Garr is not amused.

State your name for the court, an irritable Justice Garr asks of the teenage girl before her. Last, first, middle initial.

Vadra, Kara, M, replies a compliant Kara.

Quite the rebel, aren’t we, Miss Vadra, observes Justice Garr of the teenager—scruffy jeans, T-shirt with some kind of anarchist logo, wristbands, braided hair—

And you would be…? she asks of the two individuals that have gate-crashed her court.

Septem Legal, your honor, responds the female of the pair.

Justice Garr takes her time looking over the credentials passed to her by the court clerk, but she finds nothing to pick holes in. As for the two lawyers, well, there is a certain creepiness about them, despite their immaculate business suits and alluring accents—one seemingly European, the other somewhat aristocratic.

Okay, then, sighs Justice Garr. Let’s hear it.

It was a perfectly legitimate protest— Kara blurts out.

Not you, barks Justice Garr, her attention swiveling the way of the two lawyers, the male of whom stands. Mister…Ril, is it?

Miss Vadra was arrested within three feet of the building’s entrance, Your Honor, contends the lawyer. And, therefore, can be considered to have been on the property itself. As representatives for the property’s owners, we wish to press no charges.

"You have got to be kidding me," retorts Justice Garr.

Since this is only a preliminary hearing—

"Do not test me, young man, responds Justice Garr. If you have actually practiced law in the state of New York, and I doubt that very much, then