Eight Billion Gods

By Paul Morris

Mark Moberly holds a secret, the key unlocking a force powerful enough to destroy civilization.  Unknowingly he gives this key to others, beginning the spread of the disease-like knowledge.  Only too late do the infected realize the destructive power of the mere existence of this information, an easy to follow recipe for bombs with a near nuclear effect.  Though he's a good man, as are the government agents chasing him, the only way to prevent every person from gaining this awful knowledge is through Mark's death, and the deaths of the people he's contaminated.  Unless this disease is snuffed out every person on the planet will possess a power that terrorists and dictators have previously only been able to dream of.  From one bit of science fiction speculation – an accidental side effect of a Nobel Prize winning invention – comes a story so resonant of modern events that it carries a special, and horrific, realism.  Guilty of only common motivations, the characters in Eight Billion Gods are victimized by fear, ambition, and dumb luck.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Paul Morris
• Release date: Sep 18, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223118312

Book preview

Chapter One

Despite a mingling of competing voices, this one was easy to recognize.  Though Mark hadn’t heard the man speak for nearly two decades, that metallic ting and slight accent, the origin incessantly impossible to pin down, were vocal attributes heard so often they’d be easy to discern no matter the number of overlapping words that had come since.  Silard was an old friend.

Their first communication in many years was an unsettling message, a rambling account during Mark’s dinner, at a time when Mark typically refused to respond. 

Hello, this is Dr. Silard, you know... Dr. Silard?  Oh... how we used to talk... talk on and on about what in the universe remained for a young inventor such as yourself to create.  As if Mark might have forgotten such a preeminent and molding individual.

You sure figured it out now didn’t you?  Oh boy... yes... well anyway, in case you weren’t aware - and I’ve become increasingly cynical of your ability to be aware - there will be a revealing show on channel, well...the, the Discovery Channel released on November 8th.  I heard about it from an old friend of mine.  A quick pause.  I still can’t believe such potential would be hidden among creations also given innate desires to overturn its world’s every stone.  But I don’t know what to believe anymore.

His voice accelerated, attempting to compress information.  Age had evidently done little to slow this tendency.  Nor had it increased his concern for the mundane features of everyday life, such as any arbitrary limits on speaking length.

I can’t help but to accept responsibility for what I taught, and neglected to teach you, yes, oh, yes, but anyway, I can’t stress enough that you should watch this program.  Nuclear invention and incredible parallels, and anyway, there’s nothing quite like the serendipity of self enlightenment.  I... A click, and then silence replaced his voice.

There was no answer when Mark tried calling back.  Not even a mailbox response; nothing but digitized ringing.

After a reflecting pause, which did nothing to quell Mark’s unease, he went to the calendar next to the refrigerator, circled the eight under November, and wrote, Silard’s show.

HE TOOK PRIDE IN HIS peculiar type of skepticism.  This was an attitude without arrogance, but instead, a justified assumption of a strong correlation between pride and altruism.  Earth’s last creature could never feel this sense of self-worth.  Preceding actions require an ensuing assistance for their value as accomplishments.  Despite Mark’s words to these effects consistently falling upon deaf ears, he had long ago realized the irrelevance of accolades.  The pride itself indicated that he was helping others.  It was a useful tool.

Achieving this dignity had been a dialectic process.  The world is running out of ideas.  It's impossible to do anything anymore that actually makes things better.  Ideas once led to significant discoveries.  Today they lead to nothing but altered areas of research, usually more to confirm profit motives than anything else.  And research is so boring anyway.

These were the sort of words often characterizing Mark’s speech just before the discovery of Mb-1.  But after almost being named a finalist for the Nobel Prize for Chemistry, becoming semi-famous, somewhat wealthy, and having achieved large chunks of dreams only imagined since proclaiming his decision to become a scientist at the age of thirteen, Mark's tune briefly changed.  The good life got a hold of him.  Others’ moods were much more intoxicating in this life.  His perceptions were filtered, as if for him, revealing little else but flirting women, cars, such a beautiful house, many more smiles than frowns, mobility and flexibility; all and more enabling him to allow that it may indeed be possible for a life to be lived happily ever after during most every single moment.  The allure of having complete control would not go away.  The instinctive bane of every entity gaining a bit of power is the desire to gain at least a bit more.  Most of the time he knew this well, but it sure was easier during bad times.  And, not only did the invention garner for Mark and the twelve other members of his team some new wealth - it also helped people.  Through years of experimentation, clinical trials, and drawing boards gone back to a dizzying number of times, Mark's scientific status had been assured with the discovery of one extremely focused source of artificial energy.  Coincidentally, the concoction could be inexpensive and easily accessible.  It had also been the result of an accident.

You just grabbed a dog, coach.  The stocky Roger had only recently learned that not every moment needed to be stuffed with words.  Get it?  Furrows caused by years of steady smiling scarred the culverts just outside his eyes.

Mark smiled, while Roger dispensed with what Mark had long ago labeled, his great guffaw.  Mark didn’t think that Roger knew what pretentious meant, but he was aware that if so, Roger would have no problem applying the description to his only sibling.

Are you smiling just to humor me?  That’s what the tight end said, you know?

Yeah, I got it.  I’ll tell that one to Perri tonight, before I forget.

The Sunday following Dr. Silard’s strange call found Mark at his brother’s condo, the same as most Sundays.  Roger picked his teeth.  Man, you wanna go over it again, to make sure you have it straight?  It was a Great Dane, you know.  A huge dog...

Yeah, I got it.  I usually at least appreciate your jokes.  But that one was pretty crude.  For the next several long moments, there were no sounds other than a couple of chuckles from Roger.

Finally, Roger spoke:  Quit.

Here we go again, answered Mark.  Noticeably, he relaxed.  Well, anyway, I’ve been starting to think you’re right.  You may not have a PhD, like somebody else around here.... He looked over and grinned.  ...but, uh, you’re still pretty smart.

Quit your job, repeated Roger.  Your work owns you, dude.  And now... now you can actually afford to quit.  So do it already.

From Roger's backyard, Mark tossed a tree branch, one nearly as tall as his medium built six foot frame.  With ambivalence, he watched it fall a few inches from George, the German Shepherd.  He watched, casually interested, as George slowly sank his teeth through the bark, assessing this prey, before finally and unabashedly beginning the task of destroying the branch, just because that's what he did.  George destroyed things.

Oh... yep, that dog is so freaking awesome, Roger mentioned as his stomach growled loudly.  A slight laugh escaped him.

Mark ignored the noises.  He bothers me, said Mark.  He just acts...

Yep, he's just a big ball of instinct.  He can't help it.  But he's so nice once you get to know him.  Roger violently shook the branch.

They should probably be banned.  He’s just too wild.  You know it was a mistake to get him in the first place, considering the size of your condo here.

Don't let him hear you talk like that, Roger laughed.  You're already in George's doghouse.

Oh, that's a funny one.

Haw... haw, haw, huh, huh, huh.  Everyone thought Roger's genuine laugh sounded false.  So, yeah, well... Roger continued. I haven’t seen you in a while, since you were too busy to come over last week.  The last I heard, you were at least thinking about it.  You know, with your job.  So, is there any update?

Mark shrugged.  I suppose I'll just keep on with the same thing I've been doing.

You hate your work.

No, that’s your opinion.  I get along fine with it.  We're not the best of friends, but we are comfortable together.

Are we still talking about the same thing?  Or that gal you might marry, what’s her name?  Roger smiled.  He’d heard the name thousands of times.  You were working on that project for what, ten years?  What kind of stuff are they gonna have you inventing now?

Well...  Eight and half years were gone.  Had it not been for that final reward, they could have seemed completely wasted.  The work often took six days of every week, and at least nine hours of each work day.  Completely irretrievable, like Roger often reiterated, and gone despite their productivity, which mattered as much as did the fact that Mark didn't invent Mb-1 alone anyway.  Mark simply led the team, his appointment secured only because the original epiphany of this mixture of two recently invented synthetic materials was his alone.  The idea seemed such a simple one once explained, involving little more than a tweak of one substance covalently combined in just the right manner and in just the right amount with other so common substances - and the kicker was that these readily available and inexpensive materials made up almost all of Mb-1, all but the small percentage of stabilizing compounds, making the stuff as cheap as dirt, before the consumer markup.

"We spend more time testing than inventing anyway.  It’s very, and let me emphasize, very mundane.  Anytime you come up with something new, especially when you're talking about something that's going into people’s homes, you have to make damn sure that stuff is safe.  Mix it with this.  Mix it with that.  Mix it with this and that.  This doesn't react, these don't explode, those don't burn.  So keep going until you've exhausted every possibility."  The possibilities had seemed endless.

Well, better safe than sorry.  Honestly, sometimes it’s just better to go ahead and jump through those hoops.

Mark inhaled deep and quickly through his nose, not sensing what would have been a useful desire to clear his sinuses.  He was busy thinking, enjoying this soon to end conversation wrapped in it’s warm autumn Sunday evening, heralding the imminent ending of an appreciated weekend.  Talks such as these, rather than discussions about the weather, some recently seen action flick, or dinner last night - or what rude thing Mrs. Joe said to Mr. Blow - were much too rare.

We let the computers calculate a lot of the wackier things, like if you mixed Mb-1 with bubble gum, and then blew a bubble, and then popped it using a broken thermometer.

You're kidding right?

We went as far as time allowed.  There's a lot of pressure to get something like this on the market.  A lot of pressure.

Well you know what you gotta do to get rid of the pressure.

That’s over anyway.  It’s different these days.  We're involved in planning and marketing.  They want me to begin giving seminars and conferences, because evidently that's where my worth now is.  I'm getting tired of this, this life of not ever doing what you want, but always only what is wanted of you.  Always.  And well, there wasn’t much difference between inventing Mb-1 and inventing that new and improved mouthwash that’s since become obsolete.  Not until the accolades came in, anyway.

Roger smirked, remembering the fact that Mark spent several years helping develop Mistoment, The Only Mouthwash that Matters.

Man, you know you can afford to retire.  In a year or two your invention will be in every home in the world.  You know it and I know it.  It'll be as big as the computer, and I don't think there's any secret as to how rich those guys are.

They never retire.  People like that.  They just kept building wealth.  Buying basketball teams.  Getting their names on buildings.  And anyway, it'll probably only take a few months before Mb-1 is in every home in America.  They’re starting to make appliances that run on these batteries.  It’s a hell of a lot cheaper than anything else, you know.  Roger did know.  He’d heard very similar statements dozens of times.

Anytime I see a name on a building, I just assume the dude was an asshole.  And it’s always a dude.

Mark’s eyes fixed on the grass growing too tall beyond the dirt boundaries of George's backyard.  Beyond that there was a creek crowded by development on both sides.  As kids they'd played in that creek with the trees and the birds, the thorns and the gentle rippling of the creek's waters, the dusty heat or the damp cold, the wind and mud.  Here was a place and time where one learned to accept the bad along with the good, because there was nothing you could do about it anyway.  And now it was almost all gone.  Profit preceded play in every case, allowing a now universal love for video games to be an easy scapegoat.  There was always something else to blame.

I always wanted to feel as if I’ve accomplished something, murmured Mark.

What?

You heard me.

You've always wanted to do something important.  Jesus Jones Christ, man, you've done something important!

"That wasn't anything.  If I hadn't invented that stuff, somebody else would have eventually, probably sooner than later.

Whaduhya talkin’ about?

Just like we'd have light bulbs now, even if Edison had died as a baby.  The only difference being that somebody named Fritz, or Smith would have gotten the credit.  We’d be paying our electric bills to Fritz Electric instead of Edison.  But, I'm talking about where I go from here.  I can't just do nothing.

You know damn well what you should do.

No.  I damn well don’t.

I don’t know why you pretend like this.

Maybe it’s that midlife crisis thing.

Or maybe it’s your job.  No.  It definitely is your job.  Here’s what you need to do.  You should buy a restaurant, or maybe a whole damn chain of restaurants, and go into that.  You've always talked about it.  Now do it.  You've always been a great cook, and that would be doing something.  You’ve said it yourself several times.  You'd be the boss of yourself, and other people.  How cool would that be, huh?

You know, I’ve actually started giving that some serious consideration.  Mark stroked his chin.  For the past week, the evenings had each been beautiful.  This one was no exception.

Something suddenly shocked Mark’s left eye.  It took him a moment or two to figure out that it had been the fading sun's reflection off his Rolex.  He’d never quite gotten used to having a Rolex, because he'd always been such a modest, ascetic person, at least before the house, the nice clothes, the extra gadgets and trinkets, and the three cars, two of which he rarely used, even though they cost more than any car he'd ever owned before the discovery, and subsequent promotion.  It all was starting to repulse him.  Maybe I ought to think a lot more about it, he finally said.

Don't hurt yourself, wise-cracked Roger, just before George began barking at a kid who'd popped out from the neighbor's back door, into his own backyard, only a few feet from George's gnashing teeth.  The kid rolled his eyes, and began bouncing a ball off a concrete slab jutting up from the foundation of his parents’ house.  Every now and then his throw would loudly smack the siding higher on the house.

Don't you have a kid of your own to get back to? Roger asked, raising his voice.  George kept barking.  Shut up! Roger finally screamed, while grabbing the water hose and letting loose with gobs of water which did manage to achieve some quieting effect.

Oh yeah.  Mark left, returning to his girlfriend and his son.

SIXTEEN YEAR OLD DAN Mills lived in Coquille, Oregon.  That night Dan sat at his computer terminal, listening to songs from the latest musicians that older people claimed were predisposing young minds toward violence.  Dan hadn’t before ever been violent himself, and he didn't use drugs, other than the occasional toke of weed, or a few cans of beer.  He also considered himself to be a good guy.  That’s what he was thinking about.

The phone rang.

From the earpiece came the voice of Dan's friend Ty.  I can't believe you're not on the computer.  If Dan supposed himself capable of having a best friend he could also suppose that Ty fit the role as well as anybody.

I am, said Dan, intentionally ceasing any additional information.

How?

I’m busy.

Quit being a jerk.

Fine.  I finally got that cable internet hooked up, buddy.  You're never gonna get me off of this shit now!

Oh my freaking lord, Ty laughed from his home, two houses down from Dan's.  Wouldn’t you rather go whale watching?  Tis the season, you know.  Dan’s parents were avid whale watchers, but Ty already knew the answer to this question.

Yeah, right.

Anyway, I just called to see if I can come down.  I got some info for you that might be a little too, uhm, shall we say, delicate, to present over the phone.  Ty always had a flair for being melodramatic.  It wasn't that he actually believed his stories that the phone was being tapped, or that the secret service had confidential files on the both of them, not yet anyway.

Come on over, said Dan.

Five minutes later, Ty came barreling through Dan's bedroom door.  He'd relished the art of making an entrance, partly due to his admiration of Kramer in the Seinfeld reruns that he watched at least twice a day.  Hey there, hi there, my main man!

Nerd!  Dan stared at the computer screen, as though still alone, as though only interested in the porn adorning his monitor.  So what’s your big news?

I talked with Jackie.  She wants ta talk to you.

She's a bitch!  End of story, man.

I saw her at school today.  She came to history class fourth period, looking for you.  Dan had skipped three straight days of school because of Jackie’s torment.  They'd been a couple for nearly five months, before Dan saw her kissing some football player in an alley beside Marshall's Hardware Store over the weekend.  The phrase in an alley beside Marshall's Hardware Store, did not appropriately connote exactly how open to view would be anyone kissing in this alley.  Dan was infuriated nearly as much with the fact that Jackie didn't even have the decency to do her cheating in a private place as he was with the cheating itself.  Ty leaned in to Dan.  I think she wants to say she's sorry.

Dan ignored him.  His computer beeped.  He'd received an instant message.

Who's that? asked Ty.

Dan ignored him again, reading the words on the screen.  Hi from Illinois!

Dan typed back, Hi from Oregon.

You got some babe in cyberspace on the sly? asked Ty.

Nah, this is just some kid I've been emailing and IMing for a few weeks.  I met him in a chat room.  I forget which one.  He's really into poetry.  Always sending me these messed up lyrics, and he's in some kind of cyber poetry club.  He's all depressed and stuff, talking about killing himself.  I thought he was kind of nuts at first, because he just rambled on and on, but when I started really paying attention to what he was saying it started making a lot of sense.

Ty shook his head.  You're on that thing way too much.  You need to make some regular, normal friends, or at least work on keeping the abnormal, crazy ones you got.

Dan read the next message from Illinois:  Alone?  He looked at Ty, smiling, before typing:  I'm always alone.

It's no wonder, said Ty.

Do you ever get tired of not mattering?  Before Dan could even begin to form his reply, more words appeared on the screen.  I sure do.  I had something significant, but it's lost to me now.

Brilliant, Ty smirked.

The words paused for several long moments.

He's always got so much to say, Dan said.  This is weird.  Dan typed a question asking what specifically was wrong this time.

The screen stayed motionless for two minutes, maybe three, before the words began, again complaining.

Everywhere I go, people look at me almost accidentally... They scan you, to see if they know you, or perhaps more importantly, to see if you're someone attractive enough to want to get to know...even the ones that are ugly themselves...in high school they haven't learned yet their odds of acquainting themselves with good looking people...well, anyway, that's not what I'm really down about.  That would be too easy, too much like what everyone else is upset about.

A pause came before his next words appeared on the screen, slowly at first, then, along with several quickly obliterated typos the text took on an exhilarating pace:  "I wrote this poem today during science class.  I'll probably end up flunking my next test, but when the inspiration hits, you can't do anything, except block out all that might mess it up.  The inspiration is what’s important.  Anyway, here it goes:

THE PHONE RINGS.

Always, I’m in the way.  Every time I stop, someone hits me from behind.  I'm alone, it seems, always alone.  Still the faceless masses claim to glance while passing by.  What can they see, but a blur?  And even then they desire a better blur.  Hurry to achieve.  Rush to make friends.  Ought precedes want.  Get in shape.  Join clubs.  Be careful.  Work... God, it's impossible to list these demands. Be happy, cries a whisper through it all.  My competing whispers diminish with time.  Rarely do I listen.  I'm lucky to grasp anything through the voices and the traffic, through the footsteps behind me; through  the horns, whistles and bells.  They carry me steadily away from my last want, on toward my next ought.  On the edge of a speeding bandwagon I dangle. Do more hands push than pull? 

A wonderful spare moment allows me to enjoy some random thing

along the way, and just as a smile creeps over my consciousness, the phone rings."

Ty swallowed an air filled gulp, twisting naturally away from the computer's screen.  That dude is way out there.

Still reading, Dan's lips formed the words which he read once more.  When a time that Ty considered ridiculously long for such a passage had passed.  Dan said, Hmmph, indicating that he was done.

So are you going to do anything about Jackie?

I already told you that Jackie can go to hell, and I meant it.  Passively, he rubbed his eyes, while considering what to say next to his computer friend.

Well, why don't you go out and get another girlfriend then?  At least Jackie's better than nobody.

Dan wanted to say something about principles.  Even if she apologized until her face turned blue, Jackie could never again be trusted.  Before his words could be uttered, Dan remembered how Jackie looked in that long-sleeved pink