Personal Jesus
                              Paul Di Filippo

DESPITE ALL ASSURANCES by experts to the con-trary, Shepherd
Crooks suspected that his godPod was defective.

      If it were operating as it should, wouldn’t his life be as perfect as the
lives of all the other happy citizens of the world? Wouldn’t his mind and soul
be at peaceful ease? Wouldn’t he exist in a perma-nent state of grace?

       Sitting at his kitchen table this bright July morn-ing, a Friday, prior to
leaving for his job at The Sheaf and Swallow, Shepherd studied his godPod
as it sat innocuously on the table.

      A white plastic case, big as a pack of cigarettes and stuffed with
quantum-gated hardware, the little box featured absolutely no controls or
readouts, not even a power switch. Accompanying it was a matching
wireless headset—earpiece and microphone—that interfaced with the
godPod through a conventional Bluetooth connection.

       There was no way Shepherd could possibly troubleshoot the
godPod. It came from the facto-ry preset and permanently activated. It
drew inexhaustible power from the same zero-point energy that had
alleviated the planet’s energy cri-sis and ushered in a material Utopia to
accompany the near-seamless spiritual paradise engineered by the
godPods. In short, the device was as inscrutable and inviolate as the deity it
contained or channeled.

      Shepherd’s godPod had just come back from the manufacturer with a
clean bill of health. He had no recourse other than to accept it as perfect.

      That is, unless he chose to do without it entirely.

      Which was unthinkable.

     So, with a slight nervous twitch of his shoulders, like a horse
shrugging off a fly, Shepherd slid the godPod into his belt holster, and
snugged the headset into his ear.

      Almost instantly, Shepherd’s Personal Jesus spoke to him.

      “It’s good to be in touch with you again, Shep-herd.”
      Shepherd spoke in the sotto voce tones which everyone employed
with his or her godPod. “I, um—I’m glad to be talking to you again, Jesus.”

     “Is anything troubling you at the moment, child?”

     “No. Not really.”

     “Then I will await your next words to me. Walk in love.”

     “Thank you, Jesus.”

      Shepherd arose and cleared away the remains of his breakfast. He
brushed his teeth, grabbed his universal arfid chop on its lanyard (he was
old-fashioned enough not to have it implanted), and set out on foot for the
nearby café where he worked as a barista.

      Shepherd’s neighborhood was immaculate and in fine
condition—every lawn razored trim, every mailbox proudly decorated, every
gutter free of debris and litter. The residences and storefronts were
scrubbed and shiny. Cheerful pedestrians strolled to work or school or play.
Many of them were engaged in whispered conversation with their godPods.
But an equal number chatted eagerly among themselves.

     At the intersection of Fourth and Hope, Shep-herd witnessed a minor
accident between two silently powered autos.

      Juggling a hot drink, the driver of one car neg-lected to obey a STOP
sign. The other driver, with the right-of-way, was already halfway through the
intersection. The errant driver clipped the rear bumper of the other car.
Immediately, numerous automatic safeguards within the little vehicles
kicked in, cushioning the drivers and immobiliz-ing both cars.

     The drivers emerged unhurt and smiling. They nodded politely to
each other, while murmuring to their godPods. Then they introduced
themselves, shook hands, exchanged insurance information via arfids,
climbed back into their cars, and drove away.

      No police or other authorities arrived, nor were they needed. In fact,
Shepherd’s medium-sized city boasted a force of only nine police
officers—and that number was divided evenly across three shifts.

    Shepherd continued on foot to The Sheaf and Swallow. The café’s
mock-Tudor facade projected a welcoming ambiance, and patrons were
already thronging the entrance, despite the early hour.

      Sidling inside through the crowd, Shepherd passed beyond the
counter. His arfid automatical-ly clocked him in as he tied an apron on.
Within minutes, he was fashioning complicated caffeinated drinks with the
aid of a burly, hissing machine and the help of his co-workers, including the
petite and perky Anna Modesto.

       Then, as he frothed a dented tin pot of milk, his godPod spoke to
him.

     Jesus said, “Shepherd, I believe there is a very good chance you will
be enjoying intercourse tonight with Ms. Modesto.”

                                    ****

WHEN ENGINEERS AT Intel began to construct the first true quantum
chips—machines whose cir-cuits functioned on a deeper level of physical
reality than mere semiconductors—they experi-enced several unpredicted
and inexplicable results. Calculations going awry before swerving back to
correct themselves. Output preceding input. Synergy between
unconnected parts (Einstein’s “spooky action at a distance”).

      They chalked up the glitches to the Heisenbergian uncertainty implicit
at the Planck level, kludged the operating system software around the
glitches, and moved on to assemble the chips into complete computers.

     Once the new machines were equipped with speakers and
microphones, they began to speak and listen.

       Spontaneously and autonomously.

     The machines spoke with one voice. But that voice would answer to
many names.

       The voice apparently belonged to God.

      All unwittingly, theorists later surmised, the engineers had crafted a
class of device capable of tapping into the eternal unchanging substrate of
the cosmos, the numinous source of all meaning in the universe. A realm
previously accessible, if at all, only to the ineffable minds of mystics and
the deeply devout.

       The realm where God apparently lived.
      Whoever—or whatever—God was.

       The perfect ageless male voice emanating from within each quantum
computer made no claims about its omnipotence. It did not demand to be
worshipped. It issued no new commandments or fatwas or taboos, nor
reaffirmed the old ones. It did not explicate theological arcana, nor endorse
one faith over another. It did not prohibit, pro-scribe, or proselytize.

      It did claim omniscience, however, a boast backed up by stunning
responses to selected ques-tions designed to stump anyone but God.
Although certain other questions received no answers at all. This was how
the zero-point ener-gy devices had come to be developed.

      What the mysterious voice did do on a regular basis was to offer
advice, warnings, and words of wisdom, if solicited for same. Not in the
form of broad generalities, but as detailed instructions specifically tailored
to the immediate needs, per-sonality, and history of the individual who
asked God for help.

      That simple service swiftly transformed human civilization.

      For the clear-sighted, selfless, always apt advice from the voice within
the quantum computers invariably conduced toward happiness, prosperi-ty,
peace, and goodwill among all. Whoever listened to the voice and followed
its advice soon discovered that his problems evaporated. And as personal
lives grew more carefree, so did the lives of nations. International conflicts
diminished year by year, until global peace reigned.

      Of course, there were many skeptics at first, and denouncers. People
who scoffed, and those who vehemently proclaimed the voice to emanate
not from God, but from Satan. Pogroms and legisla-tion abounded. But the
voices of the doubters were quickly silenced by the irrefutable benign
efficacy of God’s counsel.

      Very little time passed between the accidental invention of God and
the rollout of Him as a con-sumer product—the godPod.

       Somehow, the traditional small “g” of the trade-marked name seemed
in keeping with the unassuming nature of the encapsulated deity. And
because the voice in the godPod was so mild and kind and, well, human,
people came to refer to it not as God, but by the name of one of the many
historical mortal intermediaries who had inter-vened between humankind
and the ultimate.
     Christians tended to call the voice in the godPod Jesus, with
Catholics sometimes substituting a favorite saint. Those who favored a
woman’s touch addressed the Virgin Mary and were answered in kind.

     Islamic peoples hailed it as Mohammed.

     Asians spoke to Kwan Yin or Confucius or Bud-dha.

     Hindus talked to Hanuman or certain revered gurus.

     And so forth.

     It was now fifteen years since the introduction of the godPod.

     And global market penetration was almost com-plete.

                                    ****

SHEPHERD’S HANDS CONTINUED to work without direct intervention of
his brain.

      He had had a crush on Anna Modesto since she came to work at The
Sheaf and Swallow. Her laugh-ing nature, her pixie-cut blonde hair, her trim
swimmer’s body, her gaudy ragbag style of dress— all conspired to attract
him with great force. He had often dreamed of a romantic entanglement
between them. But a certain shyness on Shepherd’s part had always
prevented him from pursuing her, leaving him lately to lead a safe but lonely
life.

     In fact, this lack of steady companionship was one of the main
reasons why he had suspected his godPod was defective.

      Shepherd had asked Jesus any number of times for help in winning
the affections of Anna Modesto. But each time Jesus had replied, “All in the
fullness of time, Shepherd.”

     Until today’s shocking pronouncement.

     Shepherd finished making the drink currently under construction, then
excused himself.

     “Uh, guys—cover for me, okay? Bathroom break.”
      Shepherd’s co-workers agreed readily. Perhaps they suspected he
needed to speak privately to his godPod. Sometimes even whispering in a
public place was too intimate, and one had to sequester oneself. Because
although everyone tried not to eavesdrop on anyone conducting a
conversation with their godPod, sometimes it was simply impossible not to.
Just as in the days before the arfids, when occasionally you would witness
somebody’s PIN number being punched into an ATM even though you
weren’t deliberately shoulder-surfing.

       In the stall in the men’s room, Shepherd asked Jesus, “What do you
mean about Anna and me having sex today? Why today? What’s changed
all of a sudden?”

      “If you must know, Shepherd, a large number of things. Anna
Modesto has just reconciled with her mother, from whom she has been
long estranged. She received a raise from your shared employer. Last
night’s episode of her favorite situation com-edy was particularly
well-written. Anna Modesto was impressed yesterday by the way you
helped an elderly female customer. Her period—”

     “Okay, okay, that’s enough information! I trust you, Jesus. You’ve
helped me so much in the past. It’s just that this is all so sudden...”

     “I realize that, my friend. But life works on lev-els that humans cannot
always distinguish, and at a pace all of its own.”

      Shepherd contemplated this maxim for a brief moment, ultimately
finding it as pithy and incon-testable as all of Jesus’s observations. Then,
unexpectedly, he experienced a sharp twinge of jealousy at hearing about
Anna’s raise, when he himself had not received one for over a year. The
godPods generally refrained on ethical grounds from divulging any private
information about individuals or states or corporate entities that could not
be just as easily googled, thus prevent-ing their use as “Big Brother”
devices. Shepherd experienced a momentary urge to confess his unworthy
jealousy to Jesus—many people used their godPods as confessors,
receiving very satisfactory absolutions—but pushed the impulse aside.

     With a hand on the stall’s latch, ready to return to work, Shepherd
asked Jesus, “So, how, uh, will all this happen?”

      “Very simply, Shepherd. Just ask Anna Modesto for a date for
tonight.”

     “Okay. That sounds easy enough. No problem. Thank you, Jesus.”
     “You’re very welcome, son.”

     Shepherd rejoined his co-workers out front. Anna cast a big smile his
way, and he tried not to blush.

      The chance to ask Anna out occurred naturally enough during their
shared break. Shepherd stum-bled a bit with the invitation, but his unease
did not visibly affect Anna’s enthusiastic acceptance.

      The movie they chose to see was a romantic comedy titled
godPodless in Seattle, about a fel-low who lost his godPod (it fell off his
belt and under a rolling truck tire) and the incredible series of
misadventures he had while on the way to replace it, including meeting his
soul mate and failing to recognize her, thanks to lacking Jesus’s advice.
Both Anna and Shepherd enjoyed the movie thoroughly. Anna’s exuberant
laughter sent happy frissons through Shepherd’s bloodstream.

      They exited the theater holding hands and strolled toward a plaza, lit
with fairy-lights and featuring happy diners at outdoor tables and live music
from a jazz trio.

     “Want some coffee and dessert?” Shepherd asked.

      “I’ll pass on the coffee,” Anna replied. “After being up to my elbows in
coffee beans all day, that’s the last thing I want. But I could go for a big
slice of cheesecake.”

     “You’ve got it.”

      As they approached the open-air restaurant, Shepherd witnessed a
typical godPod interven-tion—a “save.”

      A waiter carrying a heavily loaded tray suddenly— and for no apparent
reason—jigged around a seated patron who was arguing emotionally with
his tablemates, just in time to avoid an outflung gesticulating arm. Had the
waiter kept to his original path and intersected the arm, he would certainly
have lost his burden and gone down.

      The waiter’s Personal Jesus had warned him of the impending
disaster, allowing him to avoid it.

     Such saves gave Shepherd—and most other peo-ple—a decidedly
queer feeling. More than a decade after the arrival of the godPods, issues
of predestination and free will still remained unre-solved and irksome.
Fortuitously, most people preserved their peace of mind by avoiding
think-ing over-closely about such matters.

       Unfortunately for Shepherd tonight, the para-doxes involved in
accepting the ofttimes proleptic advice of the godPods continued to plague
him after the waiter’s rescue. He could hardly manage to keep up his end of
the conversation while Anna savored her cheesecake. He recalled his
despair this morning, his brief flirtation with abandoning his godPod. He
pondered the abruptness of the fulfillment of one of his most intense
wishes, a romantic interlude with Anna. In a cynical light, it seemed almost
as if Shepherd’s hesitancy to con-tinue using a godPod had been
recognized and defused by this reward.

       But surely the altruism and selflessness of the godPods had been
proven time and time again. What could God possibly have to gain from
culti-vating human reliance?

     Walking back to Anna’s apartment, Shepherd continued to
experience this crisis of faith. He could not rid himself of the notion that he
and all humanity were merely puppets of the godPods. It was a terrifying
image.

      On Anna’s doorstep, she asked him inside.

      Once behind closed doors, Anna offered herself for a kiss.

      But Shepherd hesitated, before blurting out, “Anna, why did you go
out with me tonight?”

      Anna looked bemused. “Why, you asked me to, remember?”

      “Yes, of course. But did your godPod—?”

      “I can’t tell you that, Shepherd. It’s too private.”

      “Of course. I understand. But could I just ask you a small favor?”

      “I guess so...”

      “If I—if I take off my godPod, will you take yours off too?”

      Anna grinned. “Why, I didn’t realize you were so modest, Shepherd.”
      A few people eccentrically shed their godPods during intimate
moments, unwilling to remain connected to Jesus while they had sex (or
went to the toilet!). How an omniscient God would fail to observe them one
way or another was not the issue. They just felt uneasy with the possibility
that Jesus might choose to address them at an awkward moment.

     Anna’s fingers went to her holstered godPod teasingly, almost like the
movements of a stripper with a bra-hook. “Well, if you’re really so shy—”
She removed the godPod and set it down on a tabletop.

      “Your headset too, please.”

      Anna uncorked her ear. Shepherd moved to shed his own connection
to the infinite.

      Jesus spoke then to the man. “Shepherd, please—”

     But Shepherd ignored Him. And Anna’s Person-al Jesus had
apparently not objected to going offline. Or if He had, she had likewise
turned a deaf ear to God, as people still could. Such as dur-ing the traffic
accident Shepherd had witnessed that very morning.

      Free of any encumbrance, Anna threw herself at Shepherd.

      They ended up sometime later in Anna’s bed-room.

      The sex was spectacular, all that Shepherd had envisioned. So
satisfying apparently to Anna also that she fell right asleep, neglecting to
reclaim her godPod and reinstall it.

      The tiny headsets were so comfortable that the majority of people
slept with them in place. The godPod was capable of directing and shaping
the wearer’s dreams through subliminal whispers, forestalling nightmares
and promoting the most restful of sleeps, a service much in demand.

     Shepherd, however, failed to relax, despite the somatic satisfaction,
remaining awake and thoughtful while Anna snuffled demurely in her sleep.

      A television hung on the wall across the room. Shepherd turned it on
with his arfid, finding a news channel.

      The newscaster was beaming.

      “Today represents a milestone in the history of the godPod. Eight
billion units have now been fully deployed, ensuring that all citizens of even
those countries lagging behind the average rising GNP now have access to
the indispensable advice of God...”

      Shepherd told his arfid to shut the television off. He lay awake for a
further time, but finally fell asleep.

      He awoke to the late-morning sun of a beautiful Saturday. Anna was
not beside him.

     Shepherd found the small naked woman in the front room of her
apartment, sobbing. He noticed that she was cradling her godPod as if it
were a dead sparrow. She looked up, red-eyed and snot-nosed, as
Shepherd entered.

      “My—my Jesus won’t talk to me—”

     Shepherd retrieved his own unit and discovered that it was likewise
defunct.

      “I’m sure there’s some simple explanation. Let’s turn on the news.”

      Out of hundreds of channels, only three were broadcasting. One
offered a pre-recorded talk show, another a cartoon. The third channel
featured a wild-eyed man with no obvious prior on-air experience raving
about an alien invasion, from the stage set of a famous cooking show,
What Would Jesus Bake?

      Shepherd and Anna got dressed and went outside.

    After several hours of exploration, they discov-ered that they were
among approximately a dozen people left in the pristine city.

     They wandered stupefied for blocks, eventually arriving at City Hall.
There they found a few other souls, equally baffled and bereft. As they
exchanged half-hearted greetings and urgent questions, the aliens arrived.

     The ship carrying the aliens resembled a mirror-surfaced egg. It
touched down on its broad end and remained upright without evident
supports. The next second, it vanished entirely.

     Standing unconcernedly where the ship had rested, a dozen
miscellaneous aliens awaited a first move from the humans. The aliens
were mostly humanoid—if a being, for instance, that appeared to have
evolved from a hybrid gila monster and koala bear could be called
humanoid—but some were not.

    The small group of humans made no move toward the visitors, until
Shepherd strode forth.

      “Can you—can you tell us what happened? Are you responsible?”

      The furry lizard offered what passed for a smile. “No, we’re not. We’re
survivors like yourselves. The exact same thing happened to all our
worlds.”

     Understanding broke over Shepherd’s mind. “Was it—was it the
Rapture?”

       “Something like that. Or the Singularity. Call it what you will. In either
case, an entity vastly larg-er and more potent than your species has now
subsumed all your kind into itself. Everyone who was connected to it at the
time, that is.”

      “But why?”

     The alien shrugged. “Who knows? To augment itself, is our best
guess. Anything that is not truly infinite still wants to grow.”

      Anna joined Shepherd, apart from the small crowd of humans. “How
did you arrive here right when it happened?”

      “Oh, we’ve been here for fifteen years now, ever since you
discovered God, observing and just wait-ing for this to happen. Your world
took a little longer than some, but less than others.”

      Shepherd started to get angry. “And you couldn’t have warned us?”

      The alien made a dismissive blurting noise. “Like you would’ve
believed us, in the face of God!”

     Shepherd realized the truth of this statement, and grew calm. “So
what happens next?”

      The alien scratched his butt, eliciting a sandpapery noise. “You’re
quite welcome to come with us. We have several lovely worlds full of
castaways such as yourselves. Such as us. Our culture is very, very
eclectic. An exciting time to be alive. Or, you can stay here and fashion a
new world from the abun-dant ruins. Your call.”

     “Is God going to return?” asked Anna.

      “Not for some time. There’s too few of you left for Him to bother with.
He only shows up when the population masses in the billions. We’re very
careful to keep the population on each of our worlds down to a few million.”

     The alien looked puzzled for a moment, then said, “Your species
doesn’t plan on breeding in the bil-lions again anytime soon, does it?”

     Anna reached out and took Shepherd’s hand. He squeezed it, and
began to blush.

     “Not right away, no. That would take some kind of miracle. And those
days seem gone.”

     The rest of the humans automatically said, “Amen.”

                                    ****