The Mind of God: The Mind of God, #1

By Dean C. Moore

They're building the mind of god. And they're using the rollout of the 10-G wireless internet to do it. You must be nano-enhanced so you can be connected to the quantum-computing ubermind to play. But with the right modifications, this time when you plug into the grid, you can go anywhere, do anything.

You will be able to teleport.

You'll be able to time travel.

You will be able to venture to other planets.

Even more amazingly, you will be able to manifest any world you deign to live on, using nothing more than your imagination.

Disease, sickness, even aging, will be a thing of the past.

But one old man has his suspicions. What sounds too good to be true, probably is.

"It always starts this way," he says, "all upside, all rainbows and puppy dogs. That's how they get you hooked. And once you're a hundred percent committed, well, then, that's when the guillotine drops."

The grandson Jules refuses to listen to the old man. "Typical Luddite."

As far as he's concerned, the mind of god is the gift to humanity of brilliant minds like his, and of countless more on whose shoulders they stand, and their joint efforts to unlock the infinite potential of the quantum domain.

But the old man, is he even real? And what exactly is he? A figment of the grandson's guilty conscience? Is he an extraterrestrial in disguise, warning of a road well-traveled that's best not gone down? Or is he a manifestation of Lucifer, providing sufficient disclaimers so he can't be accused of breaking God's most fundamental law: never violate free will?

You just have to play the game and see.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dean C. Moore
• Release date: Sep 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215539750

Book preview

To be Jedi is to face the truth, and choose.

Yoda 

ACT ONE

THE RECRUITMENT PSYOP

ONE

SAN FRANCISCO

JULES FORSYTHE’S TOWNHOUSE

It says here they’re building the Mind of God. The old man unfolded the rest of the newspaper to get at the fine print.

Oh, yeah? Jules was more focused on the oval wall mirror in front of his face and the bow tie. It’s a bow tie, for Christ's sake! How hard can it be? Maybe it was because everything in the mirror was reversed.

It says 10-G will allow them to do it. The broadband is just that tremendous.

Ah, ha. Jules was on his third attempt with the bow tie. It was supposed to be easier than a regular tie. Said so on the internet.

You’ll need to inject a nano-cocktail that connects to quantum computers arrayed across the planet for the full effect. Says then you’ll be able to teleport, time travel, and manifest worlds at will.

His son turned to look at him dumbstruck, trying to figure out which one had the blood clot stopping all traffic to the brain. So, that’s it then. No bow tie. Still panting and perspiring from the Herculean effort, he ripped it out from under the collar and flung it to God knows where. He focused his eyes more closely on the old man. What are you going on about, Grandpa? You’re always going on about something. I told you not to read the front page of a newspaper. That’s where they put the scariest news. After a few pages, they numb you to the terror and have to switch over to the depression channel, and the endless murders. That way, by the time you get all the way through that thing to the ads in back, you’ll buy anything, just to forget. Yes, the world’s ending, but you can get the Lamborghini, even with your credit rating, if only you come today for the once in a lifetime sale.

The old man folded the paper in half and then in half again and threw it in the wicker waste basket by his easy chair. He eyed the bow tie on the floor and the failed attempt to pass one of life’s more basic initiations. You did say your IQ was 295, right?

I never said I was a generalist. Jules yanked the paper out of the basket and took a look for himself. Huh, for once they report the bald-faced truth. Go figure.

You proud of yourself? The old man leaned over and spat out his disgust, along with the tobacco juice, into the fireplace. He left no mark, considering the ashes from the previous night’s fire had yet to be cleaned out.

Why shouldn’t I be? Though I think about ten thousand brainiacs are part of the mind-of-god project, and god knows how many secondary masters-degree-only minds. We gifted you a much better world than you ever gave us. I tell you that much.

Ha!

Ha, my ass. According to you, the talking refrigerator has it out for you.

It does, I tell you. Whispers to me at night. Says ‘I can walk, and I’m coming to fall all over you.’ The sentient internet knows I won’t rest until every last plug is pulled on it. It’s just defending itself. That’s nature. I can’t even blame it.

Jules stretched his lips into a forgiving smile. Life today is a lot to assimilate for a fossil like you. I get that. Just relax into it. Jules sighed. Like I have to relax into the idea of a prom date with no bow tie and no corsage.

Just unbutton your shirt enough to show your cleavage. She’ll thank you.

Jules chuckled. No one can accuse you of being sexist. He thought about it some more, and tried the button-down look in the mirror. Thank God for those chest exercises. Jack LaLanne was right. With a power nap, and what I got to look forward to tonight, who needs sleep?

"Nobody will. Not with 10G. The old man sunk into his chair. Sleep is my favorite part of the day."

Jules leaned over and kissed the geezer on the head. What’ll I do about the corsage?

Tell her you’re just too eco-conscious for that kind of thing.

Jules nodded. Damn right. Glad the apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree, granddad. Take care, you old codger. Jules headed toward the generous double doors that granted entrance to their home. 

The old man harrumphed at him.

When Jules looked back he was gone. For a second Jules was entirely crestfallen. Not again. Please tell me you’re not imagining him. Every time you have one of these little breaks it’s a lot worse. He panned his head to the kitchen.

The old man was seated on a stool opposite the fridge, his shotgun pointed straight at it. Go ahead and come at me. Just try it.

Jules bit his lips so hard his eyes watered. "So, you didn’t die, and I didn’t repress the memory to the far corners of my psyche. This is your beautiful mind moment, not mine. Leastways we’ll go with that for now. The prom is certainly no cause for a psychotic break."

TWO

REDFIELD, NEW YORK

Owen Bond stepped into the frigid wintry morn. The bites of cold air on his neck against the open collar of the trench coat were determined to gnaw his head off. His house behind him, warm and inviting by comparison, was where he had abandoned his last vestige of sanity. The gray sky overhead wore heavier than his woolen clothes. The puffy snow flakes falling slowly just highlighted the snow globe nature of his reality, once shook, and how utterly fragile it was; he was two months behind on the rent. The icy rain, part of the morning mix, tapped out an SOS on the roof of his car, the hood, and the trunk. From the length of that SOS, it was Owen’s guess that it was not only tapping out his prayer for the sleety rain to stop, but those of every lost soul on the planet. A clear sign, in short, that Mother Nature had heard their prayers but was still determined to exact her revenge. Redfield, New York remained the snowiest spot in all of the Great Lakes region—no small boast. Today was what the locals would call balmy Spring weather.

The walkway to the car was an ice rink. It’d only take putting one foot down on it to meet his maker, and he didn’t have the entire list of apologies typed up yet.

Abandon any thought of making it to the car alive, Owen. At least then you won’t have to add stupid to the list. From the shelter of the porch overhang, he stuck out his hand with the key remote and summoned the car. It was a ten-year-old Mercedes with high miles, but it had a few saving graces. Not the least of which was it could drive to him on days like today. It started, did a scan of the perimeter, and promptly drove over the three-foot-high hedge to get to him. He couldn’t blame the Mercedes; he’d be inclined to take the shortcut too. That call could have been on account of the high miles, or possibly that the aging car was still smarter than he was.

Owen pushed off the front door with both hands and skied his size twelve leather-soled shoes to the already opened passenger door. His briefcase in hand might just save him from hip surgery if only he could get it under his butt in time should he fall.

Once safely inside the car, by some miracle, the Mercedes shut the door without prompting. The heat, already dialed up, was doing its best to normalize the temperature. It was end-of-the-world cold, so the car could be forgiven for taking another few minutes. Besides, his doctor told him he should get more exercise, and he was pretty sure shivering counted.

I recommend I drive today, sir, the car’s AI said.

Nonsense. If I’ve got a death wish, there’s no point being half-assed about it. He scooted from the passenger seat over into the driver seat, took a second to get situated, and then hammered on the accelerator.

The Mercedes flew through the parked cars on the street that roared their engines from a cold start and scooted themselves out of the way in the nick of time. Their AIs cursed at him, Hey, watch it, dumb ass! My lawyer will hear about this! It’s all on video, pal. Me and Killer, my pit bull, will greet you at your door later to chew your ass out but good! Owen really couldn’t tell if they were making the AIs more personable in the newer cars or if their owners were incorporating snippets of their own personalities into the cars’ directives. Not that he cared. Moody people should have the sense to stay home, and he was definitely in one of his moods.

The car continued to correct for his reckless driving, but it could only do so much. Owen complained, I can’t see a damn thing.

The snow was pelting the windshield too heavily. And then the snow disappeared. Oh, yeah, I forgot you could do that.

The AI replied, So did I. It’s possible I need servicing, sir. Until then, more verbal prompts may be needed.

No worries. Feels more like a real relationship this way. As Owen recalled, the AI could subtract the snow flakes from the live picture out his window with brute force computing power alone and replace them with what should be there, on the other side of those masked snow flakes. The AI could do the same for rain, anything that the car didn’t actually have to navigate around.

There weren’t too many people on the road. The few there were, were just jackasses like him determined to make the day better than it was. Teens skied behind cars, dragged on lines. One driver played bumper cars with the parked cars too dumb to get out of the way, turning the road into his own demolition derby. The strategy was working. More and more owners, responding to the squawking security alarm horns of their automobiles, rushed out of their homes to their cars to get back at him. Owen was going to have to do some artful driving now if he wanted no part of the flash-mob bumper-car party in progress.

You think you can get me out of this?

Those low-priced autos, in this low-rent neighborhood? I’m insulted you even asked. Pity though. They can’t hurt us. Sure you don’t want to have a little fun?

They can’t!

I’m made of memory metal.

Owen sighed. Yeah, what the hell? They can’t afford my home security systems in this neighborhood, but maybe they’ll consider some upgraded car security systems after today. I’ll go door-to-door tomorrow and peddle them my Fink system. Doesn’t do a damn thing to protect the car, but sends video footage live to the police so the perpetrators can be sued later. Today ought to be a great motivator for why they need it.

The Mercedes didn’t have to be told twice. It won the demolition derby in under two minutes by crashing all eight cars involved in the melee multiple times, leaving the pancaked cars, unable to move any longer. Their drivers stared dumbfoundedly at the salt-and-pepper-haired man with the dumb-ass smile waving at them in the Mercedes as he drove off.

And if any of them bought Fink through another salesman, sir?

"Now you ask. I swear you like venting your frustrations at life’s little inequities more than I do. Can you do a deep fake video, showing me having a heart-attack or a stroke, explaining all this away?"

Not a problem, sir. There’s enough intelligence in the subordinate AI in any of the wheel wells to do that.

And to think I bitched they were making cars too smart for their owner’s good. May God strike me down for the sheer lack of appreciation. I never had a better friend. Owen wept.  Don’t suppose you can wipe away my tears, too?

No, sir. For that you’ll need to get a nanococktail. As of last week, they come with the mind-of-god upgrade.

The what?

The sentient internet is allowing people to plug in, to a much higher degree, with nano-infusions.

Huh. I thought you were joking. Owen sat with the idea awhile. Is there any other way to talk to the Mind of God?

Certainly, sir. I’m plugged into the grid by default. I filter my feeds for your benefit, of course. But I can allow the mind-of-god to take over control if your suicidal antics behind the wheel exceed my capacities for keeping you safe. That or I experience a system failure with age or lack of proper upkeep. And, of course, you can talk to him whenever you like. Occasionally he talks to you, uninvited, if he feels it will help.

Huh. I’ll be damned. Okay, sign me up for that. I guess I’ll have to just sell some more security systems before I can afford the full package. That’ll give me more time to see how I feel about having those tiny robots inside me. Sounds kind of creepy.

They can stop you from growing old, even reverse your aging. Owen swallowed hard. They can allow you to know things that would help you make more sales to your customers, the car’s AI continued when Owen didn’t know what to say to the earlier pronouncement.

How?

If your prospects are upgraded with mind-of-god tech, it can get you inside their heads, let you know what they’re thinking, so you can get around their objections to buying better.

Owen nodded. He liked the sounds of that. Nothing a good salesman couldn’t do on their own, of course. But truth be known, as Owen got older, he got more impatient with people, more condescending, was prone to more angry outbursts. They didn’t seem to give a damn about his pressing financial situation; that made them callous in his eyes and worthy of his ire.

I’ll think about it, Owen said. He had employed enough high-pressure sales tactics over the years to know that they were never unbiased. Rushing into any decision, what’s more, was entirely unwise. Let them work out the kinks in this beta roll out of the mind-of-god, and then they could give him a call. With his luck, he’d find himself standing in the middle of a busy traffic intersection belting out karaoke because the nanites misunderstood his determination to be heard and understood.

Owen pulled the car to the curb, and shut off the ignition. He took in the house he was supposed to do his sales spiel at. If ever a house needed a home security system it was this. Then again, he felt every house should have one. That’s why he’d taken this gig; the less he had to lie to people, the better. He suspected there was a morals clause somewhere in his contract with God. The house was a two-story, about 3,500 square feet, he’d say, setting about halfway back on a half-acre lot. Anybody who could furnish that much house could afford one more little thing.

The weather had warmed enough for him to feel safe walking to the door. That said, there was enough snow piled on roofs for home insurance sales to be through the ceiling; pity he wasn’t in that business, today of all days. He heard a roof give way two doors down, panned his head and took a step back to witness the complete disaster. Yep, that’s the story of your life, Owen, always in the wrong place at the wrong time selling the wrong product.

He rang the doorbell.

The fellow who answered promptly was jovial enough.  He had a big smile on his face and presented as if he’d just come off entertaining the wife and kids with one joke after another. Owen could hear them laughing in the background. He was bursting with energy. Hey! So we gonna talk security today, or what? He was six foot or so. Lean. Balding. 40’s-ish. Looked like he betted on the horses and cheated on the wife, but was way too much fun for her or the kids to care.

This close to Rochester, I wouldn’t feel right advising you on anything less than an alligator moat and anti-personnel mines. But, hey, we can at least get you started in the right direction, huh?

Jovial laughed. Tell me about it. He stepped to the side to clear a path for Owen. I’ve been telling the wife to upgrade us from the poodles to a pair of dobermans, but she insists poodles are smarter.

They sure are. They know to run and hide.

The laughter followed them both into the house and into the living room.

This is my wife, Hannah, and the two kids, Jeremy and Judy.

Never made it past the J’s in middle school, huh? Owen jibed. I quit myself at the Ls. Lying. Lascivious. Lulu. And Loquacious. Really, what more do you need for a salesman?

The room ripped open with laughter. Owen realized in an instant he was riding that tsunami of good cheer to his death. He could see it on the parents’ faces. He could read as much when the mother ushered the kids upstairs to bed. Mr. Saunders had just lost his job. Daddy was making light of things for the kids’ sake. But he couldn’t keep the artificial adrenaline pumping through his system much longer. Dad had barely heard the bedroom doors click upstairs before dropping the act with a sigh that could have triggered a landslide. And, as it so happened, did trigger the avalanche of real feelings. He collapsed onto the ottoman and buried his face in his hands. His wife scooted over to the hassock to embrace and console him. He cried and she rocked him back and forth.

As always, Owen’s timing was perfect.

Before you make your apologies, let me make you laugh some more by assuring you that before I leave, you will purchase a home security system from me. They did in fact reprise their laughter, although it was hollow this time, and not meant to convey any real humor.

"I know you’re thinking this is the last thing you need to hear right now is a sales pitch. But the truth is you can’t afford not to get my home security system. Now is hardly the time to get robbed, like kicking a dog when he’s down. The low monthly payments could save you coming home to an empty house, as the semi-trailer drives away with your every worldly possession. It happened three times this week on this street alone."

That stopped the sob fest cold. They froze, staring at him, dumbstruck. Of course he’d totally pulled the statistics out of his ass. But this close to Rochester, it didn’t take a genius to figure out he couldn’t lie about crime if he told the wildest stories imaginable. The tall tales were all guaranteed to pull up short of the truth. Imagine facing that on top of everything you’ve gone through.

No, you’re right. It would be too much, the wife said.

The insurance company, moreover, gives you a break that pretty much pays for the alarm system. And get this, if you agree to install cameras in every room, you actually come out ahead. Personally, I suspect all the data they collect on you is worth all the subsidizing in the world.

The married couple laughed a little less halfheartedly, sounding almost relieved. I know, I’m thinking the same thing. One of you tries to commit suicide in a moment of weakness, or the kids start to act out once they find out the truth...Well, you’ve got both bases covered. The home security system is your real safety blanket in your time of need. You can fall apart all you want, and it’ll hold you together.

He couldn’t believe they were starting to look convinced. He’d lied worse to his mother once, but he couldn’t remember when. He could picture the room they were decorating for him right now in Hell, and he was anticipating the fatal car accident on the way home that would rush him to his penthouse suite on the top floor of the hotel in the bottom floor of Hades.

And all of a sudden the wife rallied. I don’t know. The home never fails to impress company, but the truth is we’re just one block away from the people who are really loaded. There they sit on their multi-acre estates with mansions that have guest houses as big as this. Surely, if anyone’s gonna get robbed, it’s them. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. It really was true: women had more endurance than men. He had been certain the Woke libtards made up that statistic as an excuse to slip women into the military.

Owen shook his head slowly in denial as she kept talking to give himself time for a comeback, feeling his strength and will to live ebbing away.

And, yeah, we’re close to Rochester in car terms, she continued, showing no mercy, but most of those wretched souls who have to turn to crime to feed themselves don’t have cars. We may as well be a million miles away.

Pending a zombie apocalypse, she was right, of course. This was his problem as a salesman in general. He always over-empathized. The purchasers’ reasons for saying no always seemed more compelling to him too than their reasons for saying yes. But then, he knew he was gilding the lily, so there was that.

Ma’am, I hate to take advantage of the fragile state you’re both in, but one of us has to think clearly for all of us. The stats on crime are actually lower on those mansions. Why? Because their security systems are top notch. They have security guards, dogs, and they’re all tied in to the house AI. Have you ever come up against an artificial intelligence? Well, let me put it this way, they put people on the moon with less computer power than you had on the cell phones you threw away twenty years ago. And that power augments by the minute. Rich people’s home AIs are not just dialed into the house security; they’re dialed into the police, the internet. Hell, if fleeing criminals got away with a cookie, it could track them clear cross country, and overseas. I know it sounds a bit dramatic for a cookie, but this is one of the true stories from the annals of my own personal experience. Rich people can be petty, don’t you know. I kid you not. And if you should manage to pull off the impossible, they can afford to hire hit men to come after you. Trust me, the only people truly unprotected in this world are the ones in the middle like yourselves. No one is going to steal from the homeless; they’re hardly a target of opportunity. And no one’s going to steal from the rich, because they know if they write it off, they’ll be inviting worse crimes. They can’t afford to let anyone get away with anything. And ma’am, the thieves, the ones you have to be really afraid of, they know this. That’s why they don’t bother going after the rich. They stick with the low hanging fruit. You guys.

The wife swallowed hard. They both stared hard at him like deer in his car’s headlights. What about the car thing? the wife said. I know I’m right on that, I read as much.

Damn her and her comebacks. The woman must still be doing those Jane Fonda exercise videos. They were the only ones who rebounded like this. Mere humans just didn’t have the stamina. Oh, the statistics are right on that, ma’am. Except they’re not your worry. It’s the professionals with all the angles worked out, you have to worry about. They have cars, the internet. They do their research. They know more about you than you do. And they make sure to learn your routines, when you’re home, when you’re not, when you go out for your daily jogs, when you drop the kids at school, when you pick them up. When you send out the laundry, when it’s time for the annual water heater checkup. They have the floor plans on your house from city hall. Some of these guys have PhDs from MIT. When the economy turned bad the first time, they swept parking lots to get by. When COVID hit, they had to get creative. In a total world economic meltdown, I mean, there’s no such thing as riding out the down cycle until things inevitably spring back up again. Like I say, the survivors, they get creative.

Okay, fine, we’re in, the wife said. Like you said, it’ll be paid for and then some. I guess you won us over on the suicide prevention angle a couple sermons back, I’m just in a mood to be feisty. My husband got fired for no good reason. He’s had the fight taken out of him for now. So I have to fight for him.

No explanation needed, ma’am, Owen said, popping the suitcase, and handing the papers over to her, the places to sign already marked with Xs, and the pen already moving toward her hand courtesy of Owen’s one remaining free arm. But he’d happily have grown another one on the spot for this occasion.

He was no less flabbergasted when she signed the papers without further ado. He locked them away in the suitcase before she could change her mind. His hands moved so fast, he pulled muscles in both forearms. He should really get on a treadmill, at the very least.

The truth was Owen never won one of these exchanges. He was too much of a bleeding heart. That’s why he was losing his house. The last time, he’d actually loaned the couple money, he felt so bad for them, and they weren’t as bad off as these people. The mortgage on this place must have been sky high. They weren’t going to make up the difference with the kids’ lemonade stand sprawled across the front lawn. The easy sales in an up economy, sure; those he made. But they knew they were going to buy before he hit the door. They had done their own research online. He was nothing more than the guy who handed them the papers. They’d have happily cut him out of the equation if it weren’t for the company policy.

Owen got up to leave, afraid to stay a moment longer. At least I know I’ve left you in better shape than you were before I entered. That makes my heart glad. Chin up, you two. The government is handing money out hand over fist. You’ll get plenty of government assistance to help you ride things out. Sure, because the bastards are trying to collapse the economy. Those bandits weren’t going to be happy until they’d stripped the US economy of every last cent. It was all part of a big master plan. That’s why medications made you sicker, over time, without ever healing the condition, because then they couldn’t milk you for any more money. And the whole point was for you to spend your declining years giving back the fortune to the robber barons that you made in your more productive years. You were just not getting out alive with a penny to your name. The game was rigged. The car would break down two years before you were done paying for it, ensuring you were never out of debt. Don’t get him going. The warm smile on his face...If they only knew he was crying on the inside worse than they were crying on the outside. Unlike these sorry bastards, he knew what was what in the world; he wasn’t caught up in a cloud of denial, and he was damned if he could figure out how to beat the game. They had it good by comparison. By the time the truth hit them, it’d be too late. Denial would have become a way of life so entrenched that there would never be any facing the truth. They’d march into the ovens, reassured that they needed the dry sauna to invigorate them.

The Saunders actually smiled warmly and waved after him as they departed their home from the front door. And they sure as hell were relieved. As soon as Owen heard the door click closed behind him, he said, You were never this good, on your best day, Owen. What the hell is going on?

It’s me, Owen. You remember when you shook Mr. Saunders hand at the door? His nanites transferred to you. I’ve had access to your mind the entire time, and to theirs, of course.

Me? Just his luck his good fortune would trigger a psychotic break. Why not? He hadn’t had one in so long it was no surprise to him his system couldn’t handle it.

The Mind of God, Owen. I had your back in there.

But what about theirs?

I had theirs too. Believe it or not, you steered them right. It was all a bunch of rhetoric to you. You felt like a class-A attorney in front of them, and an even bigger heel. But I never steered you or them wrong.

I just don’t believe you. You took sides, I tell you.

That’s your guilty conscience. You forget I have access to intel on them you couldn’t dream of having. I know of the husband’s suicide history. You can look it up if you’d like to verify for yourself.

I wouldn’t know how to do that.

I’ll help you. This relationship between us, it’s important to me.

And what I said about it not costing them a cent in the end... It was a total lie!

No, it wasn’t. You were so desperate to make a deal, you were happy to lie, you felt you had to, so I let you think that. There was plenty of time to clear the air later, as we’re doing now. Besides, I couldn’t have you stuttering, hemming and hawing as you had arguments with yourself, convinced you were having a psychotic break, in the middle of your sales spiel, could I?

Owen groaned. Oh, you’re good. I’ll give you that. But I have one of those minds that’ll keep working on how you hoodwinked me. If it takes me the rest of my life...

The Mind of God laughed in his head. It’s okay, Owen. You really win either way. If you want to play mental chess with me, you’ll get sharper over time. Think of me as an adversary or as your guardian angel. Sooner or later you’ll realize our relationship transcends love-hate. And we need each other.

Why do you need me?

"Without people to plug into, I’d just go mad over time. We all need anchoring in one another, Owen. If we don’t dedicate our lives to helping one another, if we just serve our own ends, in the end we find ourselves depleted and exhausted. Kind of like how you’ve been feeling these last few months. You never thought of approaching the sales issue from a win-win perspective, did you? Oh you talked the talk, alright, but deep down, it was all about win-lose to you; you’d say anything to make the sale so you could make the payment on the house, save up some money for the day when the old Mercedes just wouldn’t work