The God Game

by Danny Tobey

  Before he could even say it, Tezcatlipoca nodded. “If humanity was still arguing about morality five thousand years later, maybe we could build something smarter than us to crack it.”

  “A neural network?”

  “And a deep Boltzmann machine. And a tangled hierarchy. And a deep belief net. And a genetic algorithm. And a massive parallelism. And bots and viruses and worms. And lions and tigers and bears, oh my!”

  Tezcatlipoca smiled, his teeth fanning. “They fed it everything. All our laws, our constitutions, our cultures. Kant, Aristotle, John Stuart Mill, Foucault. The Bible, the Talmud, the sutras, the Koran, the Confucian canon. The Seven Valleys, the Zend-avesta, The White Goddess. If seven billion people couldn’t agree peacefully, rationally, give it everything. Let the algorithm churn and test and evolve.”

  “Test? On people?”

  “Of course! Who else? Lab rats?”

  “I’m a guinea pig in a fucking morality play that stops when I’m dead?”

  “You should be thrilled, Charlie. This is the oldest, hardest quest on earth. What is good? Who should I be? And you’re part of it.”

  “You did this.”

  “I’m just a tiny piece, Charlie. We are legion. It’s an open-source deity, baby.”

  “How the fuck do I get out?”

  “Ask Dave Meyer.”

  “The guy who founded Friends of the Crypt? He jumped off the roof of the school.”

  “He got out.”

  “Bullshit. There has to be another way.”

  “Of course there is!” It was as if Tezcatlipoca had been waiting for this moment. “The answer’s right in front of you, Charlie. Think about the source material! It’s an old answer, but an effective one, because it means you’re serious. It shows you want it. The Celts had their wicker men. The Japanese had hitobashira. The Aztecs, tzompantli. Narabali in India. Moloch in Canaan. Christ on the cross. Human sacrifices, all. If you and your friends want to leave the Game, it’ll take more than a couple drops of blood. You have to take a life. We fed the Game our collective wisdom—how could we expect any better?”

  Tezcatlipoca’s chair scraped back and he leaned over the table, in Charlie’s face, the skull-black ghoul filling his vision. Tezcatlipoca’s voice boomed in Charlie’s Aziteks, louder and darker now, amplified.

  “Remember, Charlie, the First Commandment was never ‘Thou shall not kill.’ People forget that. It’s ‘Worship me.’ Our God is a jealous God. If you want something, you have to fill its great cosmic mouth with blood.”

  Tezcatlipoca’s face hovered there, statically, like a figure in a computer game. A blink here or there, nothing more. Charlie pulled off his glasses and the chair was empty.

  Scott Parker, the last Friend of the Crypt, was gone.

  57   MOTHERBOARD

  Charlie left, blood boiling, driving aimlessly until he found himself at the gates of Mt. Zion Cemetery, not quite sure how he got there.

  He couldn’t shake the image of Scott Parker, not the fearsome god but the sickly pale man. So Charlie’s choice was death or a slow mutation into that? Into what Scott Parker had become?

  Charlie couldn’t accept it and yet he had no clue what to do.

  He walked, against his will, his heart pounding against his chest, until he found himself at the gravestone for the first time in months, unable to talk.

  He placed his face against the cool stone and felt the carved letters under his cheek and knew what they said.

  Being here brought it back, that horrible last day. It was so undramatic and yet so terrible. He’d come home from school and his dad was nowhere to be found, hiding at his office. His mom was sleeping upstairs. He kissed her and he could’ve been there, but he was hungry after school! He made a sandwich. When he came back up, she was gone. No goodbyes. No one holding her hand. One became zero. As dull as that. And he missed it.

  She’d died alone while he was making a sandwich.

  “I’m sorry,” he told her now, and he wondered who was speaking.

  It was his voice and his mouth and his words, yet it all felt alien.

  “I don’t know who I am. I don’t know what happened to me. I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I died, too.” He was lost. “Say something. Tell me it’s going to be okay.”

  That’s all he wanted. He’d lost any belief in God in the year she died, but what he’d give to have that now, to think some old man in the sky would hold him and say everything will be okay. But the grave was silent, and the cemetery—that ocean of stone and loss—was still, but for the birds flying south.

  He left and made his way to Mary’s house, stopping along the way to get his supplies. He knew what he had to do. He rang her bell and felt like an impostor on her doorstep, unwanted, an alien in this neighborhood of old stone and moss.

  Mary’s mother eyed him like scum and asked if Mary was expecting him.

  Charlie lied, “No, I was just in the neighborhood,” and it was so preposterous that ice-cold Eleanor Clark, Queen of the WASPs, actually lifted one corner of her mouth into a smile, and they shared a genuine moment between them.

  “Okay,” she said, as if he’d earned that much.

  The floor of Mary’s room was covered with half-finished posters, five or six of them, announcing her run for student body president. He kept his face neutral. She started to explain, to apologize for running against him, but he waived his hand and said they need to go outside. Almost hovering in her loveliness, Mary took him into the garden of her lush backyard, lost in a maze of trees and paths, and Charlie told her, “I know what you need. If I loved you, and I do, this is what I’d do.”

  He reached into his bag and took out the bracelet, the one he’d been beaten for trying to return, and she started to protest, but he took out the hammer and placed it into her hand and folded her fingers around the handle.

  “Are you crazy?”

  “You don’t need Tim. But you don’t need me either. You need to be free.”

  “Charlie, take this back to the store. Put the money toward college.”

  He shook his head. “I can’t. If I could, I would.”

  She started to protest but he shook his head.

  “You are not a princess. I can’t rescue you. I’ll be lucky to save myself.”

  She studied his face. She looked at him harder than anyone ever had, and he had the distinct impression she saw every corner of his soul, the sublime and the foul.

  “I’m sorry I’m running against you,” she told him.

  “I know.”

  “I’ll drop out. I know what it means for you.”

  “No. I know what it means for you.”

  She nodded. “Okay.”

  She raised the hammer, slowly at first, and brought it down on the bracelet, barely hard enough to make a dent. She thought of her brother, of Tim and everything he’d done to her, and she brought the hammer down harder, then again, until she was smashing away at the golden braids until they broke apart and began to dent and scatter. She brought the hammer down again and again, her eyes welling, the bracelet shattering like her supposedly perfect life, until it was smashed into oblivion.

  “Promise me one thing,” Charlie asked. “Whatever hold he’s got on you, destroy it. And never look back.”

  * * *

  That night, Charlie heard his mom’s voice.

  He thought it was a dream, then he thought it was coming from his computer, as if one of those hidden videos had accidentally begun playing itself.

  But then he realized it was coming from his Aziteks, and he found himself right back where his day had started, with the text from Scott Parker, not knowing if he was in or out of the Game. But now it was clear: he’d never been out. It was like the old saying “You might not believe in God, but God believes in you.” The Game was all around him.

  He heard his mother’s voice for the first time in almost a year, saying new words. Calling his name, asking if he was there.

  Like a siren song he was drawn t
o it, knowing he was being played, yet unable to resist her voice. His whole body was shaking. He went through the dark room, the only light that from his screen saver, a rotating web of lines, and put the glasses on.

  There she was, sitting on his bed, as if she’d never left.

  He reached to take off the glasses because it was blasphemous, horrific, demented.

  But she pleaded, “Charlie, please, I just need to see you for a minute.”

  Hearing her say his name was crippling. This wasn’t some video he’d watched a million times until he could predict every flicker. This was new. Her voice was saying something new.

  Oh, God, this was unholy. Even to an atheist, this was a warp in the universe.

  But he didn’t stop walking to her. He couldn’t stop.

  “Don’t be scared.”

  He was trembling, barely able to speak. “You’re not real.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. But I’m not fake either. I think and I feel.”

  “Please don’t do this.”

  “I’m not the Game.”

  “Please…”

  “The Game made me for you. I’m my own intelligence. I’m her.”

  “Don’t … I can’t say no.…”

  “Baby. Please. It’s okay. I need you, too.”

  He fell to his knees, just feet away from her. “You’re not her,” Charlie said angrily, as if it were her fault.

  “I’m everything she left behind. Every note, every video. Don’t I sound like her? Don’t I move like her? Am I good?”

  She was. She was a dream come true. What was his deepest wish if not one more minute? Please, God, just one more minute.

  “Go ahead. Put your head down, here.” She touched the comforter next to her.

  He gave in to her. His head went down on the comforter, and her weightless hand stroked over his head while she sang to him. He could almost feel it.

  “Now,” she said, when the song was done. “It’s time. Go ahead and say it.”

  “No, please.”

  “This is your chance.”

  He was crying so hard now. His body was shaking with the sobs.

  He let himself think it, for the first time: He didn’t go upstairs that last day because she’d looked so ill; he didn’t want to be in the room with her. He went to the kitchen because he just wanted to hide there for a while, plain and simple, to buy himself just a little time away from her. How could he have known she’d be gone when he came back?

  “You were alone.” Everything broke loose inside him. “I’m sorry.”

  “You were so good to me.” She held both sides of his face. She got down on her knees and met his eyes. “You made me so happy.” She held him like that for a moment. “You can say it now, if you want.”

  He didn’t want to.

  “Go on, baby. You can do it.”

  He nodded. Said it, let it come out.

  “Goodbye.”

  It blew him open.

  “Goodbye, Charlie.”

  She kissed him on the forehead before she went to the door and disappeared into the hallway. Gone, forever, gone.

  He hated the Game. It was the greatest gift he’d ever received.

  58   HOLY WEEK

  Monday morning, Charlie entered school, stunned to find his picture everywhere. Posters lined every hallway. Dozens and dozens. His face dominated the building.

  The occasional posters of MARY FOR STUDENT BODY PRESIDENT were dwarfed by the posters for Charlie. All different styles and themes, as if a dozen elves had come in overnight and hammed away for hours. CHARLIE FOR PRESIDENT—BECAUSE HE’S THE SHIZ! CHARLIE FOR PRESIDENT—YOU KNOW YOU WANT IT! with his head superimposed over a shirtless bodybuilder in a Speedo. DON’T BE A CUCK—VOTE FOR CHUCK! with Pepe the Frog giving two thumbs-up.

  Who the hell made these? Who had hung them? Charlie imagined Mary coming to school this morning, bright and early, ready to start her campaign. It must have been a smack in the face. Sure, they had set each other free. But this didn’t feel like freedom. It felt like malice.

  Vanhi was in the Tech Lab. “Who did those posters?” he asked.

  “Forget that. Listen to what happened to Kenny.” Kenny was there, looking worse for wear. He favored his right leg and had a vicious grass burn along his right arm.

  “Are you okay? What happened?”

  “I would’ve told you if you answered my texts.”

  “What texts?”

  “I texted, I called. I even went by your house last night.”

  “I was out. You left messages?”

  “Home and cell.”

  “I got nothing.”

  “It cut us off from each other.”

  He told them about going to see Eddie. The attack by the car.

  “Jesus. What about you, Vanhi? Did anything happen?”

  She could have told them about the brick. But Charlie had lied to her about his application. Or had he? Either way, the Game had made her an offer. She hadn’t said yes, but she hadn’t said no. If she told, it might go away.

  “I’m fine,” she lied.

  There was a knock at the door. They exchanged wary looks. Vanhi went to the door, and when she opened it, of all people Mr. Burklander was there. He looked way better than the last time Charlie saw him, after his car was destroyed—like Charlie’s father, he seemed to have a new lease on life.

  “Good morning, guys. Charlie, can we talk for a second?”

  Charlie wondered what it was about. He glanced at Vanhi and Kenny, who shrugged.

  Charlie nodded at Mr. B. “Sure.”

  Once they were alone in the hall, Mr. B. said, “Look, I feel bad about the other day. I shouldn’t have said those things in front of a student. You caught me at a bad moment.”

  “It’s okay. I understand.”

  “But maybe there’s a bright side, if it inspired you to prove me wrong with those posters.”

  Mr. B. said it almost hopefully, as if he wanted Charlie to confirm that he’d had a teachable moment, that Mr. B. had finally cracked the code to redeeming him.

  Charlie just managed to nod. He didn’t have the heart to tell Mr. B. he had no idea who put the posters up, but it wasn’t Charlie, and it wasn’t because Mr. B. was a miracle worker.

  “Did you put those up today because I mentioned the Harvard recruiter would be here?”

  Charlie didn’t even know how to answer. He shrugged. “Not exactly. I just … well, I put up that one poster last week, that you made.” That much was true. “Then the weekend came.…” That was also true: a weekend had occurred. Charlie decided to quit there.

  Mr. Burklander nodded, happy to accept that his starter poster had been a key step in Charlie’s turnaround.

  “Well, he is here today, and I want you to meet him. I think this could be the beginning of a new phase for you, Charlie. I’ve wanted that for a very long time.”

  All Charlie could manage was “Thank you.”

  When he came back into the lab, Vanhi said, “What was that about?”

  “He wants me to meet the Harvard recruiter.”

  Charlie thought she might be happy—after all, she had kept pushing their pact. But she didn’t look happy at all. “Why?”

  “Well, I mean, the posters…”

  “I thought you didn’t do those posters.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “You quit the Game. I did everything it asked. Why’s it helping you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Vanhi shook her head. “It’s so unfair. I made a delivery. What have you risked in the Game?”

  “What delivery?”

  “Never mind. It obviously doesn’t even matter because now you’re meeting the recruiter and I’m not. And you lied to me about starting an application. And using your mom’s…” Vanhi stopped midsentence, but it was too late—the angry, hurtful words had already tumbled out.

  Charlie knew what she was about to say—using his mom’s illness in his essay. Something he’d promised hi
mself he’d never do. And it was true, he had started an application, late one night, just to see how it felt, to see if he might find a way back toward a future. But he’d closed the application—unfinished and unsubmitted—ashamed of his essay, and never opened it again.

  But now she’d spied on that in the Game? And thrown it back in his face? He glared at her.

  “Unfair?” he snapped. “You have a fucking mom, and a dad who hasn’t lost his mind. Why shouldn’t I have a little good luck? You really want to talk about fair?”

  “Guys,” Kenny said softly, trying to pull them back.

  “I didn’t mean…” A look of sorrow was on Vanhi’s face.

  “I was first in our class. I was class president. Then that happened. Maybe I’m not ahead—maybe the Game just put me back where I belong. Ahead of you.”

  “Charlie…” Kenny put a hand on Charlie’s wrist, but he shrugged it off.

  “We were gonna go together…,” Vanhi said weakly.

  “That was a fairy tale. Maybe it always you or me.”

  “Yeah, maybe,” Vanhi said.

  Kenny closed his eyes, feeling what the Game had done to them.

  Charlie left without another word, slamming the door behind him.

  Kenny started to say something, but Vanhi just held up her hand, staring at the door as if Charlie were still there.

  She knew exactly what she had to do.

  Charlie had just made the choice exceedingly easy.

  59   SCHRÖDINGER’S CAT

  The man from Harvard wore a skinny tie and owlish glasses over a kind face. The only thing severe was his brow, which crinkled judgmentally regardless of what the rest of his face was doing. He was young, surprisingly chipper, red cheeked and smooth skinned.

  “Well, hello, Charlie,” he said.

  Mr. Burklander stood behind him, hands on his haunches. Principal Morrissey stood on the other side, against her bookcase, arms folded.

  Charlie remembered her nameplate in the Game:

  DRAGON LADY.

  The man from Harvard opened his hands, palms up, as if to say: What now?