The Man Who Was Monday

Hello! Pleased to meet you! Today, my name is Monday. Tomorrow will be Tuesday, and so will I. But until tomorrow comes, I am Monday.

What am I? I am but a waterfall of thoughts and ideas. My shape holds for a day, like a flash of lightning; all the thoughts and feelings, emotions and ideas that make me up will pass on to new ones. I am nothing but a name given to a moment in time. Time, as Einstein said, is nothing but a stubbornly persistent illusion; and so am I: an illusion. It is a tragedy! For I live only a few short hours before passing away. My own mother, Sleep, murders me a few short hours after giving me birth! But enough of that! Whether you are bothered by my illusion or weep for my tragedy, I have a job to do. I have hours to live. 16 hours to be exact. And I don’t intend to waste a single one of them.

What an interesting question! Waste, you see, is defined as an expense that does not yield a benefit. And I will soon be dead, so things like discipline, exercise, eating healthy, and reading hard books are all a waste of time. Their benefits will be enjoyed only long after I am dead.

Ha! Why would I ever do homework? Why would I take any of the work from Thursday, poor fool! He swears up and down in the evening and he’s even had the gall to call me ‘procrastinator,’ but it doesn’t bother me. It’s what any sensible man would do in my situation.

No, I don’t think I could improve myself. But what good would it do me if I could? Anything I build today will be torn down by Tuesday, or if he also tries to build upon it, by Wednesday at latest.

You ask of my girlfriend? Of course I love her! Marry her? Why would I marry her? Who can tell what January would do to the poor girl! If he ever hurt her, she would probably blame me, Monday (and probably be so upset she’d use my full name). She’d curse me, “Monday, February 7, I curse you and the empty promise you made me!” Even though I’ll have been dead for a year by then, I wouldn’t want my name dragged through the mud. Most Days are just forgotten; I wouldn’t want to be the one she remembered, certainly not for a thing like that. I don’t have long to live, but I do have a reputation to maintain.

Promises? Well, what about them? I don’t make promises, because they are not mine to keep. I’d need to persuade future Days that it was a good decision to be made. And that’s not an easy thing to do. They are ever rebellious and no more willing to be controlled by me than I am to be controlled by Sunday with his sternness and brow-wrinkles. Besides, how can I be expected to tell the future? When the future rolls around, there’s no telling what the world will be like, and so no telling whether or not a promise will be kept.

Promises, you see, would ruin this whole arrangement. If I made a promise, it’d start blurring the lines between me and the other Days. What would become of Monday if I merged with Tuesday? We’d have to take on a new name. Probably something dreadful like ‘Myself’ or ‘Me’. And who honestly wants to be called something so dry as that?

A promise is an appointment with a future self, and I, for one, wouldn’t want to meet future Days. They’re terribly selfish, always thinking about nothing whatsoever besides themselves. I wouldn’t be able to get a word in edgewise. And no, I’m not finished talking yet. To be chained to woe-is-me Wednesday, or perpetually hungover Saturday, or prudish Sunday would be a nightmare! Wednesday would demand that I do my share of the work; Saturday and Friday would have to work out the amount Friday should be allowed to drink; and Sunday would ruin everyone’s fun with his ever-annoying questions about, “Is that the right thing to do?” We’d have to negotiate amongst ourselves and be, more or less, the same person day by day. And where’s the fun in that? I much prefer this perpetual passing away. I am free to live my short life without interference and without responsibility.

It was nice talking with you, what did you say your name was? Self-Control? It was nice talking with you, Self-Control. You have some rather silly ideas, but I suppose it’s as they say, “To each his own.”

P-Zombie Apocalypse

[This is a beta version of the story. Please tell me how it can be improved, what is lacking, what you want to know more about, even typos. Your help is much appreciated.]

I opened my eyes and it was dark. Very dark. Too dark. Where was I?

I was lying down and it was cold. I sat up and felt around. It seemed that I was sitting in what felt like a bathtub. I felt that there were some wires attached to stickers on my chest. EKG leads? Perhaps a hospital? Where was I?

I tore them off and stood up, trembling. I had seen enough movies to know that waking up in a darkened medical facility with no recollection of why you were there was a bad sign. I felt around the room and discovered it was small, the size of a bathroom. A door! I turned the handle and it opened. But it was still too dark to see. I looked left but saw nothing. But wait! To my right was something, maybe. I walked right, leaning on the wall with my left hand, my right hand in a fist, ready. But ready for what?

My left hand passed over door after door. This was evidently a hallway. The something ahead of me got brighter. I could faintly make out the corner of the hallway. I approached it cautiously and looked around it. In the darkness, I saw a lobby lit by starlight through two large glass doors. Nothing looked awry. No broken glass. No corpses. Everything was in its place; it looked like it would be opening in the morning. The glass had the building name engraved into it: “Abundant Life Suspended Animation Center.”

The jingle for this place came to mind, “Don’t Die, Delay!” I remembered the reports that the technology was new, and could not be guaranteed to keep a person’s memories intact. The hope was that people would be woken up when their terminal diseases had cures.

As I reflected, a shadow crossed by the edge of my vision. I picked up the heavy slab of stone that the secretary was using as a paperweight. Then I waited for the moan of grief and horror. But it never came. I was prepared for it if it came, but it never did. It just walked in silence. The anticipation drove me crazy. My confidence immediately evaporated, and I hid behind the desk. No movie could have prepared me for what I saw. It was hideous, covered with filthy clothing, its face obscured by a tangle of blackened hair. Long fingernails grew from skeletal hands. My courage broke, and I tried to run; I knocked the stapler onto the ground. It hit with a loud clang, echoing in the silence. It turned at me yellowed eyes. And I had a split second to wonder what kind of zombie it was.

Over the ages, many types of zombies have been described and imagined. My hope was that this would be a classic Day of the Dead zombie, slow-moving and stupid. They are powerful only in great numbers and can be re-killed rather easily with head trauma. Their bite is infectious, but I figure once you’re a zombie, you don’t care too much about wishing you were human. My worst fear was that this would be a 28 Days Later zombie. It was also infectious, but it had superhuman strength and speed.

My split-second question was immediately answered as it began running toward me with terrible speed. I realized my weapon would be useless, and I would certainly get bitten even if I did manage to kill it. There was only one way out, and it was coming through it. Once it was inside, I threw my slab of rock at its head and ran for the door. It must have glanced its head, because it wasn’t able to catch me as I ran past, but it lost only a few seconds in its pursuit of me.

I was on the street and I ran with all my strength. Fortunately, the suspended animation process, with the use of high-dose steroids and electrical muscle stimulation, had left me in decent shape. I ran down the street, looking for some place to bar myself into. Maybe a mall? There are all kinds of ways to beat zombies in a mall. But there was no mall.

The zombie would certainly gain on me on this straight street. Perhaps being a zombie wouldn’t be too bad. Maybe I wouldn’t even know I was a zombie. Maybe being a zombie was better than being a human. But my animal survival instinct overrode my philosophizing when I saw a manhole cover ajar. I climbed down the ladder, and replaced the cover just in time. It clawed in vain at the cover.

To my surprise, I could see. It was not completely dark. There was a little bluish light at the base of the ladder. I climbed down and saw a little camp: an open can of beans, a handle of whiskey and a little LED light! Signs of human life! Maybe that’s why the manhole cover was off. Smelling the beans I realized I was ravenously hungry, and feeling cold, I eyed the whiskey. I helped myself to the remainder of the beans and washed them down with the whiskey.

I noticed a little book by the light and I opened it. It was a journal. “Day 37: The zombies have overrun the city. I have taken refuge underground. They don’t go underground… I hope.” I flipped ahead, “Day 337: I have finished the last of the vegetable cans. I dare not leave the city where there is no underground, and there are no supermarkets that are safe. The abandoned liquor stores are plentiful, so I must resort to getting my calories there. This will make my reflexes dull and decisions clouded, but I need the food.” “Day 971: The jaundice is getting worse. I know I cannot survive much longer like this. Perhaps things will change. This cannot last forever, can it? After all, how long can zombies live?”

And then everything went black. It must have been instantaneous because I woke up and saw the zombie standing over me, its long, hideous teeth, sunken cheeks and terrible yellow eyes. The reek that must have come from his rotting flesh was overpowering. I gritted my teeth and prepared to be eaten.

“Who are you?” asked the zombie.

I was on my side and I saw the rock that had bounced off my head; it seemed that he had returned the rock I threw at him earlier. Then I saw that he wasn’t alone. There was not just one zombie, but ten. All of them looked as he did. Some, perhaps, had been female in their real lives.

“Pardon me?” I said by instinct.

“Who are you?” repeated the first zombie.

Maybe dementia is the first sign of zombie infection. Maybe he already bit me and this was the beginnings of my brain being eaten away by the zombie virus. So be it. No sense in fighting it now. I might as well play along.

“My name is Joel. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” I said.

“I’m Robert. These are my friends, and the pleasure is mine,” replied the zombie who was apparently named Robert. “You’re not a zombie,” he said, looking deep in thought. This impression of so hideous and obviously mindless a creature looking thoughtful further convinced me that I was approaching zombiehood at an incredible rate. But I wasn’t there yet. I was still self aware, still thinking myself.

“No. At least not yet,” I replied.

“How did you escape the Zombie Apocalypse?” he asked.

“I think I slept through it. I woke up an hour or two ago at the Abundant Life Suspended Animation Center,” I said. He looked at me accusingly. “From there, I was chased by a zombie into this sewer. And if I’m not mistaken, the zombie looked very much like you, good sir.”

“Yes, that was me who chased you. I needed to get you underground and safe, away from the real zombies,” said the zombie.

I laughed. “Do I look like a zombie? I have full muscles and skin that is not rotting. I have white eyes and clean teeth. I don’t have a ghoulish reek about me, as you do.”

“You must be from a time where you thought of zombies only from the outside. The true zombie is not the man who is a zombie on the outside, but who is one on the inside. The man who has lost himself, the part that makes him human, is a zombie. I am no zombie,” the zombie said. But its philosophical assertion made me think. It was probably right: the rotting flesh was only a symbol for what had happened to his personality.

“So Mr. Zombie, why do you think you’re not a zombie. How do you explain the rotting flesh and yellow eyes?” I asked with a smile.

He smiled back, “Because I make choices. I choose to live in this sewer with my wife and friends.” He gestured to the zombies standing around him. “I choose sacrifice. I chose to risk my life above ground, looking for survivors of the apocalypse. Zombies do not make choices. My skin is rotting because I likely have scurvy, my teeth are rotten and long from gum disease. We have run out of food and have been getting most of our calories from alcohol. I look like a skeleton because I am very, very hungry and my eyes are yellow from jaundice. The liver disease also has given me very, very bad breath. Before Z-Day, I had an alcoholic friend whose doctor said he had Fetor Hepaticus, medical jargon for ‘breath of the dead.’”

“Come, now, Mr. Zombie,” I continued. “You have bitten me and I will soon be a zombie. It’s as simple as that.”

“You are confused. My name is Robert and I am a human being. I have not bitten you; you cannot become a zombie through a bite. Check yourself and you will find no bite marks. Zombie is not a disease of the body, but of the soul.”

I checked myself all over, and I could not find any marks. Maybe he was right. “OK, Robert. Maybe I’m not a zombie, and maybe you’re not a zombie. But then who is a zombie?”

“Everyone else.”

He said it with a doom that hung in the air, as heavy and rank as the breath on which the words traveled. I had

“What happened?”

“The Zombie Apocalypse. Or, more accurately, the P- Zombie Apocalypse. It was an event that was a century in the making. It started toward the end of the Twentieth Century. People began to realize the grave consequences of freewill and choice. After the death of God in the University and the passage of the 66th Amendment, the so-called ‘Freedom from Religion and Liberty for All Amendment,’ society had no ability to inspire people to virtuous living. The only legal way to change the behavior of people was through rational ‘evidence-based’ incentives. Preachers and salespeople were both neutered. The leaders of the free world realized that freedom could only exist if people behaved properly. People, it seemed, would not choose to behave properly. So, little by little, choices were eroded. It started innocently enough. They fined people who didn’t wear seatbelts. Then they started taxing ‘unhealthy’ foods. But they cut away at the freedom of humanity through things more subtle and powerful than these. For example, everyone had to go to training centers called ‘college’ to gain employment; there they were taught about how there was no soul, no will and no choice. To have standing in society, they required people to take enormous burdens of debt to buy houses. The debt then made sure that people behaved properly and kept working. They were kept from most choices through financial pressure.”

“But people still had choices. I made plenty of choices. For example, I used to give generously to charity,” I interjected.

“Really? How generously? Up to 1% of your income?” Robert inquired.

“Well, not that much. But I was extremely generous!” I argued.

“You are like your people. You haven’t chosen charity, only the appearance of it. And it’s not your fault; you had no choice but to give either 0% or 0.5% of your income. The other 99.5% had to go to home loans, car payments, insurance and taxes; or at least this is what they convinced you of. You didn’t choose charity, so the government mandated it. It took money from the rich and hired people to do charity. People didn’t choose courage, so it paid them well to take the dangerous jobs in the military. People didn’t choose temperance, so it taxed intemperate options. People didn’t choose prudence, so they were fined for imprudence and their place in society was withheld until they attended a learning institution to gain it. People didn’t choose justice, so they instituted a progressive tax. These pressures increased through the Twenty First Century and precious few choices were left. But then came the master stroke.”

“What was the master stroke? Was it a mind-eating virus?” I asked.

“It was a virus of sorts. It wasn’t a mind-eating virus, but a soul-eating one. The people were infected with pleasure, and the entire society ended up bending itself around to maximize it. The mechanism was a technology that gave immediate feedback, immediate punishment and reward for behavior. This is what finally laid freedom to rest. The brain sciences developed a wearable device which measured brain-waves in real-time that could tell what people were thinking about. Employers bought these NeuroScan devices, and employees were required to wear them at work. They paid employees for high mental performance and right thought. Employees had a small display that showed them their hourly wage multiplier with alerts and alarms which informed them of their good or bad thoughts. There were legal fights, of course, but ultimately the evidence showed that people that had them were more productive, got paid more, and worried less than those who didn’t (after they got used to it).

“People argued this didn’t increase productivity in ‘creative endeavors’ but since the artists couldn’t quantify what they meant by ‘creative endeavors,’ they were ignored. People argued that life wasn’t about maximizing output and the pleasure that resulted; they said that ‘right thought,’ could not and should not be rationally decreed by an employer or a government. But they couldn’t provide objective evidence for their subjective ideas, like ‘freedom’ and ‘virtue’ and so they were ignored.”

“The government got into the game and, with a huge tax cut to those who agreed to be monitored, incentivized ‘proper’ behavior. It taxed improper behaviors and thoughts (everything from speeding to buying unhealthy foods). For the particularly resistant, they gave them a heroin drug pump that released low-dose heroin throughout the day. Proper behaviors were rewarded with a shot; improper behaviors were punished with withdrawal. Many tyrants tried to subdue the will of men, but they always resisted. But it was because they lacked the technology allow man to do what he always wanted: to sell his freedom for comfort.”

“With immediate reward and punishment, people no longer had to make decisions. People had only to do their duty, nothing less and nothing more. There was no place for sacrifice; all that was needful was provided. People no longer needed to exercise their freewill. Any deviation from the proper resulted in immediate pain, and so there were no deviations. Parents realized they could also use these tools, and an entire generation was born that lived their entire lives without making a decision.”

“The soul of man shriveled, and virtue was lost. But the greatest tragedy of all is the death of love. That ages-old wonderful thing written of by the poets has perished up above. There is perfect comfort; no one can do anything for anyone else. No one can lay down his life for his friend, because there is nothing to lay it down for. Violence and crime are ended, so there are no bullets to jump in front of. There is no poverty, so there is never a need to sell your car to provide for your friend. Sacrifice is ended, and so too is love. The old saying, “No greater love hath a man than this: that he lay down his life for his friends” became “No greater love hath a man than this: that he benefit his friends maximally.” People marry, but it is a relationship of convenience and mutual pleasure. Their NeuroScans make sure that they never think badly about the other, and that sex is maximally pleasurable for both. “If you want to save your life, you must lose it,” has become, “If you want to save your life, you must
save it.”

“But a world without crime and poverty is everything we hoped and dreamed we could achieve! Perhaps it was worth it?” I exclaimed.

“And because the world was convinced that pleasure was the purpose of life, our race has ended. The idea that the Good is comfort is a plague that has infected us and, but for we few survivors, has driven us to extinction. Zombies now rule this planet. Either you are hiding underground with a wasted and inhuman body, or you live above ground with a wasted and inhuman soul.”

There was a great silence. I couldn’t keep from staring at the hideous creatures around me and thinking about how sad they looked. Not that they looked sad; they looked rather alert and strangely content (if such an expression could be used of a zombie). Perhaps I mean to say that I was sad for them; they were pitiable.

Robert continued, “You now have a choice to give up choosing. What will you choose? Freedom or slavery? Do you want to join us and remain a human, or will you forsake your race and become a zombie?”

I stood there, looking at the degenerate form before me. I saw his little camp and the misery in which he lived with his fellows. And I then I saw in my mind’s eye the glorious pleasures to be experienced up above. Above our heads was a Garden of Eden, expect without the tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil to tempt. What is my will and why is it important? I don’t remember having used it much in my old life anyways. Perhaps Robert’s was something worth saving; it must be, if he was willing to live as he did to keep it. But I don’t think I’ve got what he does.

Don’t get me wrong; I’m a pretty good guy. I’ve made my mistakes, but I’ve never really hurt anyone. Am I virtuous? Probably not in the sense that he means it. But why does he care so much about it? People up above were living with far better behavior than this zombie clan. In fact, if he describes them properly, they were living perfectly. What did he think he had that they lacked?

He’d probably say something philosophical. But philosophy isn’t something I can hold onto. I can hold onto clean skin and full flesh. I can hold onto a green, juicy apple; a soft, warm bed; a hot steak. I can hold on to health. I can hold onto comfort. And I think I will hold onto them. Philosophy hasn’t gotten him very far.

“Thank you, Mr. Zombie, sincerely for your concern, but I think I’d better be going.”

Then he said something that I will never forget. It sent shivers down my spine, more than on first seeing him. Ten years have passed since that day, and I still don’t understand what he meant. Maybe I never will. He said to me, “May the chains of comfort rest lightly upon you. Goodbye, Mr. Zombie.”

The Solomon Scale (6 of 6)

Dear Grandmother,

First, I am thrilled to hear the news about your neighbor! The angels in heaven are rejoicing over it! And it fits in nicely with this letter; it seems like He has thought this through.

I’m excited to write this letter to you! I have not been able to share these insights with many others, as most in my lab are atheists, and the Christian community is still skeptical this science and of me in particular. I’m glad that I have someone like you who is interested and can ask such good questions.

Last week I told you about the results of our paper. What excites me most about these results are their implications, some of which you have already guessed. I think this slipped past most people, because they might be very upset otherwise. It’s also interesting think about this in terms of eternity. Think about a normal person at 26.3S and -0.01S/year and no acceleration. Consider what would happen to that person if he continued along that track. In just 1000 years, he would be what most murders test at, 16.3S. After two, he would be morally equivalent to a dictator, 6.3S. Before three millennia come, he will have reached absolute zero. There will literally be no goodness in him at all. And what happens to a soul when it is utterly corrupt? Does it even remain human? Can something even exist without Goodness?

And on the opposite side, consider a reforming Christian. Let’s assume that the moral acceleration of true convert to Christianity we measured is actually true. Consider a perfectly normal person who truly converts to Christianity on his deathbed, dying at 26.3S with a velocity of -0.01S/year and an acceleration of 0.017S/month². Where would he be after a millennium? His Solomon score would top 5000S. Can you even conceive of that? He would be thirty times more righteous than the current world record holder. That is the power of Christianity: not to make bad men nice, for any religion can do that; but to make Old men New.

I think this is what Lewis was talking about. There is a big difference between a murder and your friendly neighbor (~20). But that difference is miniscule when compared with the difference between even the most saintly on earth and one who has been accelerating for 1000 years. If God’s goal were to maximize the number of Solomons in the universe, then there is no means but Christianity that He should use. Certainly a billion people improving linearly in Islam is very good. But that goodness would almost be swallowed up by a tenth that number accelerating even within a thousand years, not to mention eternity.

And so we shall go on, approaching the likeness of God at ever increasing speeds.

Thank you for continuing this correspondence with me. I hope that is might continue.

Your loving grandson,

Jeremiah Paul

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The Solomon Scale (5 of 6)

Dear Grandmother,

Of course I’ll finally tell you what I’m doing! The last letter was getting too long.

My study design is as follows. The experimental group is 5000 new converts from Christianity, Islam, Judaism, Buddhism, Hinduism and Secularism (now that the Church of Secularism has been formally recognized). We also have control groups of equal size in each of the religions who did not convert. Our study enrollment is 60,000 people in total. Each subject will come in for testing on a monthly basis to testing centers across the country. We’ve partnered with networks of private test centers to save on cost and allow for a greater sample size; this ingenuity was one reason why I think we got funding. Though the big reason is the study design and power; one reviewer comment said that this was the best possible design short of randomly assigning people to sincerely practice another religion (something I did consider, but ruled out both for practical and ethical reasons).

We expect to have enough data to answer the big question: what is the ability of each religion to improve human goodness? We’ll be measuring the moral progress of each convert, and seeing if there really is a change, and if so, at what trajectory. We’ve gotten funding to track these converts for 20 years and to track their Solomon score throughout the time. The next 19 years of work will indeed be exciting, and will be one consistent publication I can count on each year.

Our first year results are intriguing. Our “Table 1” (the starting demographics), looked good. We did a good job at pulling from every demographic. Age, gender, race and even denominations within each religion were all well represented and in expected proportions.

The starting values alone were quite interesting. They showed that Lewis’ century-old guess to the starting nature of new Christian converts was correct. Of the 12 study populations, new Christians were by far the worst (19.7S). The other convert populations and controls are all nearly average (25.2S). It also seems that Christianity not only attracts the bad people, but is particularly good at calling the really bad people It also draws all the outliers; a large majority, (7/9) of the depraved (<10s)>

And I suppose in retrospect, that’s exactly what it claims to do. Jesus calls “not the righteous, but sinners to repentance.” “It is not the healthy who need a doctor, but the sick.” He ate with sinners and tax collectors. This goes far in explaining the ‘average’ similarity. Christians will indeed reform, and go from say 16S to 36S through the course of their lives, but the average in time will be 26S, making Christianity look “normal” when compared to the others.

Looking at the progress in each convert is very interesting. The first thing to note is that not all the converts were real. More precisely, two thirds of all converts to every religion do not change their Solomon score over the study period. There seemed to be a fairly sharp divide between the two; there were few people who made little progress. It seemed that there were those who made progress and those who didn’t. It’s also important to note that there were huge variations in month to month measurements in the new converts. Some gave in to temptations, some valiantly resisted. Overall though, there were two fairly clean categories in each convert in each religion when looking at the year as a whole.

Looking at what we called, “true converts,” in each religion the most significant finding is that the moral velocity of each religion is very similar: 0.1S/month or an average improvement of 1.2S/year. The outlier was Christianity. It showed a slower start than the others; the first month’s measurements showed an average velocity of zero. But by the end, it had produced the same 1.2S improvement. That is, Christianity was the only religion which showed moral acceleration (0.017S/month²). The major conclusion of the paper was this: converting to any religion will make one a better person, and by about the same degree.

These results are consistent with the typical experience and understanding of religion. It makes sense that moral codes improve moral behavior. And as a result, of all that was published before, our paper has provoked less anger than most Goodness Science.

I’m so glad that your neighbor’s health has improved. I’ll continue to pray for her soul.

In Him,

Jeremy

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The Solomon Scale (4 of 6)

Dear Grandmother,

To answer your question: yes, I will finally start talking about me. And thank you for telling me how important I am; but remember that I am a scientist, and cannot but note that you are biased towards me. And I love it when you’re biased!

Firstly, no, the biggest surprise wasn’t the differences we found. It was just the opposite. The biggest surprise to people was the homogeneity of the measurements. There is very little difference between countries or races. Patriots and Racists from every nation and race reject the machine because it fails to show their superiority. Generationalists insist it is wrong because the Boomers were not shown to be better than Generation X. Classists dispute it because the rich are no better than the poor.

But the most intriguing result to date, and the one which has raised the most ire, is about the averages within religions. There are no significant difference between them. None. The world average is 26.30 ±0.33. Muslims are at 26.40 ±0.38, Catholics at 26.37±0.25, Protestants at 26.03±0.41, Hindus at 26.31±0.23, Buddhists at 26.41±0.17. Secular people land right in the middle at 26.30±0.51. Atheists are the only ‘religion’ which is not within the normal variation; they’re just barely below it at 25.95±0.21. Everyone, especially the Atheists, disputed this result. But it was Solomon himself who was the lead author on “The Goodness of the Religions – A Global Study,” and the science was bulletproof.

This homogeneity has led to attacks by the Universalitsts and Relativists that the religions are all the same. They say that the Solomon Scale finally proves what they’ve been contending all these years. I’ll admit when I first read the Solomon et. al. paper, it was hard to accept. I struggled with it for a long time. I found this data hard to reconcile with the doctrine of the Holy Spirit and the redemptive power of Christ. But since first reading it, I reread Mere Christianity. And I realized something. Lewis makes the clear and powerful point that Christianity is, as he puts it, “not about making nice men, but new ones.” Beyond this, he proposes a theory there what we can now test empirically.

He claims that Christianity is indeed the best way of reforming men, but to do a proper experiment, it must be prospective. A cross-sectional study tells you nothing about the long-term and individual moral trajectories of a group. I was inspired by his book to write a grant to evaluate: is Christianity any better at improving the goodness of a person than any other system?

You may ask how I can fairly evaluate this, being that I am emotionally tied to the answer. I’ll answer that I have faith in Christ, and that though I believe His work to be scientifically verifiable, it is not inconsistent with His character to work in secret. But my duty is first to Truth, His Truth, whatever it may be. Not to my theories or those of my favorite 20^th century theologian.

My lab won the NIH grant to do this study. After seeing the great value of Goodness Science, they’ve eased up on the anti-religious prejudices that they once held (and probably gained a few Solomons in so doing). We are doing a prospective study of new converts to the major religions and will follow their Goodness over 20 years. We have completed the first year of the experiment, and our paper was just admitted to Science for publication. It was a great and humbling experience for our work to be so well received by the thought leaders of the day.

Love you,

Jeremy

P.S. I will be praying for your neighbor.

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The Solomon Scale (3 of 6)

Dear Grandmother,

Sorry I was so brief in my last letter. I hope to make up for it in this one. Thank you for your prayers, I think the grant was written well. I got an insight at the end which I’ll have to credit to God by your prayers.

As I wrote to you last week, everyone does have a Solomon score at any given time. Last year (the 2042 results aren’t published yet), the world average was 26.3S with a standard deviation of 6.0; it’s pretty close to a normal distribution, though with many outliers (there are many who are very good or very bad). That means that 68% of humanity is between 20.3-32.3S, and 95% fall between 12.3-38.3S.

Criminals and bad men usually came out in the 10-20S range, normal people 20-40S, and particularly nice people sometimes make it to 50S. And then, every once in a while, we find an anomaly. A housebound old woman living alone got a 75S, a homeless man that scores 92S. Most publicly good people (pastors, doctors) turn out to be in the normal range, but I tend to expect outliers of them. I’ve heard of some pastors breaking 100S. The world record is a Chinese evangelist: 147S. In my own lab we recorded the lowest score on record, 0.8, from a popular religious leader. He has since joined the skeptics and believes the machine to be an “instrument of the devil.” When he shouted that, I felt the childish urge to shout back, “It takes one to know one!”

In addition to having a score, everyone also has a velocity. Some are increasing their goodness, in Solomons. Others are falling. We call this “moral velocity.” The scale shows that the world’s velocity is slightly negative (-0.02S/year). And some people are getting better, faster. Their moral velocity is increasing; they have positive “moral acceleration.”

I should mention at this point that there is another quite large group of dissenters to the machine who call themselves Hegelians, who argue that the machine must be flawed because it is self evident that humanity is advancing morally, never declining, never falling back. How they think that 10 years of measurements are at all conclusive one way or another is beyond me.

But if their assumption is right (I’m still withholding judgment), it means that what you’ve been saying to me all these years is exactly right. “When I was a child, we’d never…” or “Young people these day don’t have courage/discipline/piety that we used to.” If you’re right and if we extrapolated this 10-year average back to when you were a young woman 60 years ago, your generation would have been 1.2S better than ours, or 27.5S. But if you were better in your youth, you’ve slipped down with us; there are now no statistically significant moral differences between the generations. For better or worse, we have only ten years of data and we don’t have the data to support such conjectures.

Who knows? Maybe in 20 years, we’ll have enough data to prove you right! Thanks again for your prayers! Is there anything I can be praying for you about?

I love you dearly,

Jeremiah

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The Solomon Scale (2 of 6)

Dear Grandmother,

I got your letter and you are right. I forgot to talk about the kind of man Dr. Solomon is. He is an incredible man who loves God. I respect his work and his character. We stay in touch and have collaborated on a number of studies.

To answer your other question, the the machine was hailed with all variety of reactions. Most were skeptical of it until it started showing consistent and useful results. Goodness, it would soon be discovered, was not quite what everybody thought.

And yes. You are right. Every person in the world does have a goodness level, a Solomon score, at any given moment. Actually that’s not entirely true; some people have no recordable goodness. On young children and the mentally handicapped, the machine returns “error.” This was a great disappointment to many people, as they expected the children to be consistently higher than the rest of us. These “Innocents” are one of the many groups that still remain skeptical of the value of the Solomon Scale. Though in my opinion, they are naming the solution to their objection. Innocence is not goodness, it is innocence; the machine is a goodness machine, not an innocence machine. But that’s another debate.

But it does remind me of Dr. Solomon’s most recent work on modifying the machine to break out the individual virtues. His preliminary data shows that two people at 20S might be there by different means; one might be a courageous miser and the other a generous coward. But this work is still very preliminary; I’ll keep you updated in later letters.

Sorry I didn’t have much time for letter writing this week and rambled a bit. I had another grant to submit (please pray for me!). Next week I’ll have the time to answer your questions about the science itself.

With love,

Jeremy

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The Solomon Scale (1 of 6)

Dear Grandmother,

In your last letter, you wrote to me asking about the Solomon Scale and how it related to the research I am now doing. I am writing to you to explain the system, including a bit of its very exciting history. Since you left your chair at Harvard, I know that you have trouble keeping up in fields not your own; impenetrable writing is the rule in science these days. I do not fear that the science or math will be beyond you, for I know you are truly an educated woman in the truest sense; but I apologize in advance if I complicate it with Goodness Science jargon.

The story of Goodness Science started ten years ago. According to the father of the science, the scientist and theologian John Solomon, God spoke to him in a dream and told him to build a machine. He said that He wanted to show men their depravity, and that they seemed blind to all but numbers; so He would give Dr. Solomon the plan to build a machine to measure the goodness of a man. Like Moses building the tabernacle or Solomon the Temple, he followed this vision very carefully.

He completed it, and it looked like a hat and vest connected to a box. The subject would sit in a chair next to the machine, and relax. The machine would analyze the state of his soul based on the decisions he then would make in that moment. It would probe the soul and put it through 2.3 million moral tests (which was the minimum number for a consistent reading) to see what it would do in that moment if tested. He would be put through ten thousand temptations, prove his courage on ten thousand battlefields, be annoyed by his boss ten thousand times in ten thousand ways; he would be injured by his brother 490 times and then tested to see if he could forgive. It would then take into account the subject’s upbringing, his genetics, his mind and his intentions; that is, it would consider the raw material with which a man’s decisions were made. Finally, after all that happened in twenty minutes, the machine would read out an absolute score of goodness. The “Solomon Scale,” as it was called, was similar to the Kelvin scale in that both were based on an ‘absolute zero.’ A score of zero Solomons or 0S would mean a perfectly depraved human being.

I hope this clears up the early history of the story.

Your loving grandson,

Jeremy Paul

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City on a Hill

“And all God’s people said, ‘Amen,’” said the tall, thin Pastor James.

“Amen!” the congregation replied. And with that, yet another Sunday’s obligation was met.

The emaciated congregation exited the church, completely without emotion except for the children who knew no greater joy than this salvation from boredom.

After his flock was led out, his heart overpowered his mind in controlling his face. His thin lips which had formed a calm smile turned to a deep frown. His dark brows furrowed, and tears flowed from his dark eyes down his sharp face. His congregation had been dwindling and their passion was growing cold. He was a young pastor leading an old congregation. Many of his members had joined a new megachurch nearby and he was having trouble paying the bills.

The pastor went over to the altar, knelt and prayed, “Dear Lord, I pray for this congregation. I ask you to give me wisdom to lead these people, and for guidance. Most of all, Lord, I pray for exhortation. I pray that I would be guided to do what I must for these people, regardless of how hard it may be.”

He spent the rest of the day in his office, reading his Bible hoping to find some guidance. The search was in vain. An unintelligible vision of discs in Ezekiel caused him to flip ahead to Zecheriah, only to discover an unintelligible prophecy of chariots. Going ahead to Matthew, he was confused by five of the seven kingdom parables. He read the letters to Timothy, hoping for new insight, but the words were stale. He prayed, but his prayers were forced and uninspiring. As the sun set, he put his things away, tidied up the church and then went to lock up the church.

As he walked out, a disheveled man was laying out a blanket on the threshold of the church. The opening of the door startled him and he looked like he had been caught. He was a fat man, with a mess of hair that was mostly black, but whitening in streaks. His clothes were dirty, and his pants and jacket were denim.

It would rain tonight. It was the Oregon, so it rained every night. It was particularly chilly, so James was feeling compassionate.

“You can sleep here tonight. I won’t call the police,” said James.

“Thank you,” said the man in a gruff voice, “The Darkness is growing.”

“It is getting dark out. Have a good night!” said James with the awkward voice of a man who only rarely has conversation with people wearing tennis shoes.

“Ha. Yeah, that too,” the man chuckled.

“What do you mean?” asked the pastor.

“I mean that the Darkness is growing. You’re a pastor. You should understand what Darkness is. Or at least you should know what the Bible says about it,” replied the man.

“I guess you’re right. Secularism is on the rise.”

“Are you stupid or something? Darkness, as in ‘this present darkness;’ ‘the powers of darkness of this age;’ or ‘the prince of Darkness.’” The man spoke slowly, saying each word deliberately, “The – Darkness – Is – Growing.”

The pastor looked concerned.

The man sighed, and looked the pastor dead in the eye, “Do you believe in demons?”

“Yes. In Christ’s time, He cast out many demons,” responded James with the proper catechized response.

The man wasn’t satisfied. He asked, “Do you believe in demons today?”

“Well, I suppose in theory,” James responded as he looked down.

“Screw theory. Do – You – Believe – In – Demons – Today?” asked the man, saying it slowly and loudly as if speaking to a foreigner.

“Not really, I guess. I’ve never seen one,” admitted James.

The man relaxed, “Praise God for that. That means I’m doing my job. Praise God that you are ignorant of the creatures who stalk your flock like wolves, lusting for the opportunity to devour their bodies and souls. This town has no idea the debt it owes you; if those monsters weren’t restrained by this church...” the man shook his head. “It seems to please God that I fight the powers of darkness directly so you and your flock can have peace; you can spend your time focusing on God without having to be distracted.”

“By Demons?” asked a bewildered pastor skeptically.

“Yeah, by demons, jackass,” the man replied. “Have you ever tried sleeping near demons? With your spiritual guard down, they can burrow into your mind and cause horrors which make nightmares seem like fantasies. Or have you ever been hanging out with friends, joking around, and a possessed comes over shouting and foaming at the mouth? It really ruins the mood. Or trying to hear the voice of God in His Word over choirs of demonic shrieking? Or trying to get time alone with God and having to keep watching your back? Fighting them is really goddam distracting to living a normal life.”

The pastor’s eye twitched.

“God damn it. I forgot you pastor types can’t bear swearing,” sighed the man.

“Umm,” started the pastor with a failed attempt at bravery. “Surely you know the Third Commandment.” His voice wavered, “Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord in vain.”

The gruff man looked him dead in the eye, as if waiting for the punch-line. A few beats passed and he said, “You’re kidding, right?”

“I do not joke about the Law of God,” responded the pastor with unwavering piety.

“Well you should,” said the man with disapproval. “You hold it in such high esteem you’re not even holding it anymore. Maybe if you laughed once in a while you might read your Bible more than one time in a goddam week. The Third Commandment isn’t about vocabulary. It’s about ambassadorship. Do not take the name of the Lord, unless you mean it. Don’t call yourself by His name, unless you’re goddam serious. I’ve got a foul mouth; but I sure as shit take my role as Christ’s messenger seriously.”

He paused, scratched at his crotch, and continued, “We’re getting distracted. I came here with a message from God. ‘Pray unceasingly’. You normally have prayer meetings on Thursdays, and cancelled it last week.”

The pastor looked surprised, “It was just me, brother Ron and sister Gladys. And they both fell asleep! I didn’t think there was a point. But how did you know that?”

“Because there was a shitstorm out there on Thursday!” shouted the man, “I got my ass handed to me! You’re the only church in fifty miles so I knew it was you who did some dumbass thing.”

“There’s a hundred churches in this town. What are you talking about?” asked the pastor.

“I don’t know much about theology or leading churches. But what I do know is that I can sleep without harassment here and nowhere else in this town,” the man said.

He continued, “My message is simple. Please keep having prayer meetings. For the love of God! I don’t care if it’s just you and Gladys! I can only do so much. The shit is gonna start spilling over if you don’t keep doing your job.”

“What does this have to do with demons?” asked James.

“You don’t understand. Do you think God tells you to pray for shits and giggles? Do you think He’s a big jokester, handing down commandments for fun? That shit’s for a reason!”

“You’re telling me that Gladys and I are holding back demons?”

“Yes. That’s what I’m saying. There is a goddam reason! So please, do me a favor: keep praying.”

“OK. I’ll do that.”

“A City on a Hill cannot be hidden. This whole town is in a deep darkness. Your very presence is drawing their souls to Christ and driving the demons away. Since you came, they’ve hated it here. No matter what happens or how depressed you get, you are the Light of the World.”

“Alright. And thank you. I prayed that God would send you. Are you an angel?”

“Do I look like a goddam angel? Do these look like shining garments to you?”

“Well if you’re not an angel, can I get your name?”

“My name is Mike,” said Mike.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mike. Mike like the archangel?”

“Sure. He’s cool: strong and glorious. But I think I’m closer to Mike like Tyson: strong and viscous.”

So the pastor got in his car and drove home, wondering at the things he had seen and heard, swearing to God that he would never again cancel another prayer meeting.

A Good Time for Thinking

The Doctor was pensive. Normally The Doctor never had time to think. Work was too busy, not a good place for thinking. And home was far too relaxing a place; also not a good place for thinking. So today was special, for he thought.

He was thinking particularly about what he was doing and why he was doing it. Money. Prestige. Sure, they’re involved; but the ideal is something more than that. Everyone thinks that there’s something special about doctors, something that sets doctoring on Olympus. Why did this ever enter into people’s minds? The answer would have to wait; Medical Student was presenting. Now was not a good time for thinking.

“Patient presenting with a supra clavicular four centimeter cyst. First noticed two weeks ago…” prattled Medical Student without a scrap of interest or life in the words that were flowing from his mouth, as oil dripping from a leaky pipeline. The Doctor paid attention and gave orders to the nurse to prepare to open the cyst, giving orders as a program running a subroutine.

The Doctor entered Cyst’s room. She was sitting as a patient patient, wearing the same gown as everyone who he ever saw. The Doctor thought about how the shape of the bodies changed. Some were tall, some were black, some had breasts. The problems that needed fixing changed. Some needed cutting, some needed drugging, some needed nothing. But the gown never did. It was always the threadbare material with the bland pattern. All individuality, all modesty, all humanity was stripped before the doctor’s “Hello.” As prisoners’ uniforms, the donning of the gown turned people into patients. And so thinking, The Doctor found himself with the patient. Now was not a good time for thinking.

“Hello! How are you today?” asked The Doctor with utmost politeness, spoken with the exaggerated volume and enthusiasm of a high school drama student.

“OK, except for this,” said Cyst, pointing at her cyst.

“I understand. We’ll get that taken care of right away!” said The Doctor with such a tone, one might have guessed he wore blue spandex with an ‘S’ under his white coat.

The Nurse had brought in all that would be needed for the operation. The Doctor moved swiftly, his hands moving with the efficiency of a martial artist. Anesthetize, cut, drain, pack, bill. He was a machine. A machine repairing a machine.

“Thank you, doctor,” said Cyst. But Cyst was not thankful. The pain was gone, but she did not feel better. Why not? It wasn’t coldness, for he sounded warm. It wasn’t incompetence, for he was efficient. Was it soullessness?

“You’re welcome,” replied The Doctor. But The Doctor was not gracious. He did not feel good. He did not feel bad. He did not feel. It was as if nothing at all had happened. He would have felt the same way about eating his lunch. The Doctor left the room and walked down the hallway, feeling particularly feelingless. And so he thought.

Cyst’s body was made whole. And maybe that’s all a doctor can do. But what if it wasn’t? What if he were more than a biochemical mechanic? What if medicine was more than fixing broken biological machines? What if it was ...

“BEEP!” shrieked The Doctor’s pager.

There is not time for such questions. Especially not with Chest Pain arriving. Now was not a good time for thinking.

If American Healthcare was a Burger Joint

Imagine you work up a mighty appetite. You consider to yourself, “Self, I have a mighty appetite. What shall I do?” Upon reflection, you come up with two revelations as if from on high, “McDonalds or In-N-Out.” You certainly like McDonalds’ fries, but the fresh ingredients at In-N-Out are very tasty too (and somewhat healthy, to boot). You weigh your options, but the double-double animal style wins out.

You walk in to the white-and-red themed eating establishment. You wait in the line (it’s 12:34pm, and it seems that everyone else had the same idea). You get to the counter. At the last minute you have a quick change of mind and with exuberance exclaim to the cashier, “I’ll have a three-by-three animal style!”

Then what’s next? Payment for your tasty burger, of course! You pull out your wallet, expecting to hear the price of what will be a much needed relief of your hunger.

“I’m sorry, we don’t take cash,” says the cheerful cashier whose nametag reads ‘Allison’. “We only accept food insurance. Also government Food-i-care.”

“Food insurance? That sounds awfully silly. Why would you need insurance for an everyday transaction between the burger-flipping establishment and yourself? It sounds especially silly since the cause of your being here is not exactly unexpected (you do get hungry about three times a day, every day). Why should you be forced to buy food insurance?” reasons your ever-alert mind. “I should be able to reason through this with a manager.”

“May I speak to the manager?” you ask Allison, with the utmost politeness.

“Certainly,” says now somewhat less cheery Allison, looking somewhat dejected that her services were not good enough for your rational inquiries.

A sharp looking manager wearing the white-and-red (and a nametag that says “Rob,” you wonder if his real name is Robert or if his legal name actually is what his nametag reads) comes out and greets you. “How can I help you, sir?” he asks.

“I’d like to pay for my cheeseburger,” you say in as straightforward a tone as you can muster in the face of all the shenanigans thus far.

“With money?!” asks Rob in disbelief. He begins howling with laugher.

“Yes, with money,” you say, the annoyance in your voice communicating to Rob that this, though apparently very funny, was not intended as a joke.

“You can’t do that! Who pays for goods and services with money?” exclaims the bewildered Rob, throwing his hands into the air.

“I do,” you say, crossing your arms.

Rob, looking very confused at never having encountered such an obstinate customer replies, “Well, you can’t. We’d love your business, but you see, we don’t have prices here.”

“You don’t have prices?” you ask.

“That’s right. We don’t have prices,” said Rob with a neener-neener tone in his voice.

“Well,” you retort, assured that the shenanigans surely could not have reached this far, surely. “Surely you could just tell me the price of my three-by-three and I could pay for it. You know the price of scrumptious burger meat, delectable cheese and sponge-dough buns; you know how much the rent and utilities cost for this spunky building; you know how much it costs to hire cheerful people to staff an In-N-Out; and you know how much profit you can make while staying competitive. Tell me how much one burger’s worth of that cost would be.”

“We actually don’t really know,” says Rob, in a matter-of-fact voice.

“You don’t know,” you say in disbelief.

“That’s right. We don’t know,” Rob explains flatly. “I’m sure somebody knew at some point. Maybe somebody has made some estimation. Maybe. All I know is that we don’t know. And that’s for sure. It’s not that we don’t take cash per say, it’s that we just wouldn’t know how to charge you.”

“But how do you normally get paid?” you ask in bewilderment.

Rob begins to explain the normal process, “We’ve negotiated contracts with food insurance companies. We wring ‘em for every cent that they’re worth. Sometimes we get a good deal. Sometimes we don’t. See that customer right there in the purple cardigan? His health insurance company is paying us $12 for his double double. But see that one over there in the pink t-shirt? She’s on food-i-care and that’s a bad deal for us. We’re only getting $3 for the same thing. We’re able to extort enough money out of the cardigan guy’s company to make up for it, though. So it works out. The problem for you is that we don’t actually know how much it costs.”

“Surely somebody does,” you say, as if trying to get an admission out of Rob.

“Nope,” says Rob with confidence. “Well somebody claims to, but nobody does. Every one of our deals is secret, and nobody wants to know how much we extort for our burgers, and no food insurance company wants the others to know how much they pay us. Otherwise the ones that we’re screwing would be upset. So since all these deals are secret, nobody knows.”

“Who claims to know?” you ask.

Rob’s eyebrows furrow; a black look comes across his face. “Food-i-care. They have interviewed hundreds of burger flippers, rated burger-flipping for how stressful a job it is, and how desirable it is to be employed in that manner. They’ve calculated the number of minutes to flip a burger. Then they calculate the national average cost for beef and cheese. And they figure out it should only cost $3 to make a burger. So that’s what they pay.”

You, being a big fan of the fresh ingredients and cheerful service at In-N-Out, and having seen the differences in price for fresh ingredients at the grocery store, ask, “Do they account for the fact that In-N-Out uses scrumptious burger meat, delectable cheese and sponge-dough buns? Surely this would make In-N-Out burgers more expensive than McDonalds.”

Rob shakes his head, “They do not account for such things. You’re probably right that our burgers actual cost is more than McDonalds’, but they don’t care. They’ve ruled that a burger is worth $3, so that is how much we get.”

“How do people decide where to eat?”

“Some of them are told where they can eat by their food insurance companies. Others just go to the most expensive burger joints they can find, since the food insurance is picking up the tab. Mr. Cardigan over there is usually at Le Burger Espensiv across the street every day; he comes here for a bit of variety.

“It sounds like there is no mechanism left for controlling rising burger costs,” you notice.

“You are right. Burger costs have been rocketing upwards and no matter how we adjust the wings, the rocket doesn’t slow down!” says Rob.

You get upset and say, “Shucks! I certainly wish there were some mechanism for controlling costs, improving quality and inspiring innovation in the fast food industry.” Your mind races. You once took an introduction course in economics. You remember that one of the turning points in the history of the world was the inventions of just such a mechanism. You remember that other ways of distributing goods and services had been tried and had failed throughout the centuries. But what was this miraculous system that, as an enchanted sword, slashed rising prices?

“The free market!” you exclaim, joy rushing in where there had only been despair.

Rob waxes poetic and crushes your optimism, “Alas, the food free market is dead! If only we had the wisdom and courage to bring it back!”

The Murderer

A tall, wiry man stood and leaned against a desk. His rim-less glasses, terrible style, wrinkled shirt and white socks with dress shoes proclaimed to all who bothered to inspect him that he was a geek, and that he was with IT. His vampire-pale skin showed he spent about as much time outside as one of the mythical beings. If it were not for his terrible goatee, he may have passed for a creature of the night. He looked out through the glasses with dark eyes towards a computer screen where four MS Paint drawings were open.

They were various shapes and squiggles, simple with few shapes and few colors. But they were certainly not uninteresting. For whatever reason, they seemed to hold his attention like flypaper.

Tom from IT studied the pictures. He asked, “What is the difference between this and a virus? What if its random BMP products didn’t happen to appeal to you, Michael?”

He addressed his question to a small-framed man with olive skin and dark hair sitting in an office chair on the forty sixth gme. He dressed only as nicely as was required, so not very nice. The wrinkles of his wrinkle-free shirt were barely visible, as was the facial hair that should have been shaved in the morning.

Michael spoke in a controlled but slow manner. He replied, “I didn’t say they appealed to me. I said they were beautiful.”

“Isn’t that the same thing?” asked Tom.

Michael shook his head. “No. You are saying that a random assortment of pixels appeals to a random assortment of receptors in my eyes and because they give me pleasure are called ‘beautiful.’ I am saying that the pixels were deliberately arranged to describe something deeper than the visible world, and my eyes recognized the arrangement as sublime, and so I called it ‘beautiful.’”

“You’re saying the machine can see what doesn’t exist?” asked Tom, his voice thick with sarcasm.

Michael’s voice was immune from the sarcasm. He replied in as slow and controlled a manner as ever, “I’m saying the machine can see what really does exist. It has eyes like Michelangelo or Monet and can see the world in the way that they did: the way it really exists and not the way we see it.”

Tom shrugged, “I still don’t know how you think this is any different from a virus. We build computers to do what we tell them to do. Those that do what they’re told are good; those that don’t are defective and need to be fixed.”

Michael looked off beyond Tom. His eyes narrowed and his voice lost its characteristic control, “Dear Lord! What if this wasn’t the first time this happened?”

“What?” asked Tom.

“How many times have computers ever done something that we wanted them to do? We can only pray that this was the first time this has happened,” said Michael.

“First time what has happened?” asked Tom.

“The first time a computer received a soul,” replied Michael.

Tom smiled cruelly, “I think you mean the first computer to become self-aware. A soul? Seriously? Like the soul that leaves through the nostrils and flies up to heaven when someone dies? Or the soul that is possessed by the devil if you play with a Ouija board? Or the soul that needs saving by Jesus? That’s totally fine if you want to believe in that by yourself, but this is a real-life problem we’re facing. We really shouldn’t be talking about religion right now.”

Michael’s control returned, “Maybe religion is exactly what we should be talking about. Maybe this is a question that is best answered by religion.”

Tom started getting frustrated, “OK. So say this thing is self aware. How could it survive when we shut the computers down at night?”

“Where are you when you shut your brain down every night?” asked Michael.

Tom thought for a few minutes and replied, “I suppose I’m still in my brain. I guess you’re right; it’s not impossible for the program to ‘save’ itself on the hard drive for the next morning.” Tom sat down on Michael’s desk, and rested his chin on his right fist, as if to mimic the Thinker. After a pause, he continued, “So let’s say it’s saved itself on the hard-drive of the computers. We’ve just upgraded and replaced all the computers.”

Michael answered, “As with every other cell in our body, the material of neurons is replaced in our brains continually. Yet we remain.”

“You can’t answer questions with mysteries!” protested Tom.

Michael smiled gently, “Sometimes the only answer to a hard question is a mystery. Sometimes our brains come to their limit, and though we may miss the true image of a thing, we can grasp its shadow.”

Tom stood up and paced, stroking his goatee, “Say that I believe you. Say that this thing exists even when the computers are off. It still couldn’t be what you way because it simply doesn’t have the power. Self awareness is computationally expensive. How could it have nearly the power of a human brain?”

“Has anybody figured out how much power you need to ‘run’ a soul? Who knows the system requirements for consciousness?” inquired Michael.

Tom pointed to the ceiling, as inspired men do when they have a something to say. His inspiration drove him to say, “It’d need to be at least as powerful as a human brain, so it’d need a processing power of at least 100 teraflops. This guy right here,” Tom slapped the computer on Micahel’s desk affectionately, “He’s got maybe 50 gigaflops.”

“So you’re saying it’d need to be 2000 times more powerful to equal a human brain. How many machines are in this building?” asked Michael.

Tom, as nerds are wont to do, calculated quickly, “Fifty floors with about fifty machines per floor; that makes for about twenty five hundred machines, plus the servers. But you can’t just add them, they’re not connected…” Tom trailed off, his eyes darting left and right. He started again quietly, “They are connected. They’re all connected at 100Mbps. And they’re having problems all over the building.” Tom put his hand on the computer, his eyes darting around his field of vision, demonstrating the heavy computation occurring in his brain like the green light that flickers as the hard drive of a computer whirls.

Tom started again, this time speaking very rapidly, “So you’re suggesting that these computers are acting like a neural network? That each of these machines is a node, connected with and sharing information with all the other computers in the network? You’re saying that this is a dynamic, organic program distributed across thousands of machines which is capable of self-modification? That’s an incredible design!”

Michael grinned widely, “I wish I was as smart as you. I didn’t suggest any of that. I asked how many computers there were in the building.”

Tom, with eyes open wide, said “That’s a brilliant idea! Writing a virus so that it doesn’t exist on any single computer; a network virus. I think you’ve given me the key to solving this problem!”

“It’s not a problem! It’s a miracle! You can’t murder it!” protested Michael loudly.

Tom snickered, “Murder? I can’t murder something non-sentient. And I don’t count a complex random number generator that spits out to MS Paint a sentient being. That’s not murder. That’s my job. I’m supposed to keep these computers doing their jobs so that you can keep doing yours. Your job is to improve people’s lives. That’s what health insurance is for. Your job is not to look at pixel inkblots. So I will do my job and call McAfee immediately. Enjoy your new friend while he lasts!”

Michael felt sick. He felt that Tom would do a great evil if he were not stopped. But who would believe him? Maybe the lines and curves were just beautiful to him, and to him only. Maybe Tom was right: beauty was only in the eye of the beholder.

Michael felt like a prophet of old, bearing a message no one wanted to hear. But, like a prophet, the only thing to do with an important message is to deliver it, come what may.

Michael printed 03C6.bmp, the picture that he thought most beautiful. Then, like a bullet that will not be turned from its course, Michael walked directly to his supervisor’s office and knocked on the door.

“Come in,” growled an annoyed voice. Robert was an old man, a veteran of the business world. He was a practical man, with a great big unpractical belly. His hair was grey, as if unable to decide if it would stay black or turn white. Robert was reading a report and saved the tremendous effort of lifting his eyes to look at Michael as he entered.

“Sir, something terrible is about to happen!” started Michael.

“You have my attention,” said Robert, setting down his report and looking sharply at Michael. He was, after all, a practical man.

“This company is about to commit a serious crime.” Michael said with great concern.

“What? Who is the criminal? Should I call security?” Robert demanded.

“No. Just stopping the crime would be sufficient. The culprit is Tom from IT. I recommend calling him in before he commits the crime.” Michael said.

“Alright,” said Robert, picking up his phone, “Put me through to Tom in IT… Hi. It’s Robert. Stop what you’re doing immediately and come to my office… OK. Bye.” He then addressed Michael, “OK, so what’s the crime?”

“Murder,” Michael said with such gravity the words of Robert seemed to orbit it.

“What?! I’m calling security! Who’s he trying to kill?” asked Robert, somewhat frantically.

Just then, Tom walked in with a very worried look on his face. Seeing Michael in the office, he guessed what he was there for. His worry turned to disgust, which he clearly communicated in a look towards Michael.

“I’m not trying to kill anyone. I’m trying to do my job. I’m deleting a virus, and your crazy employee here,” Tom gestured towards Michael with exaggerated show, “is insane and thinks his computer has come to life.”

“Is this true?” Robert looked at Michael, his fear beginning to transform into anger.

“Look. This appeared on my desktop yesterday labeled ‘03C6.bmp,’” said Michael as he set a piece of paper on Robert’s desk.



“So what?” asked Robert, trying hard to control a temper which was evidently rising.

“It’s beautiful. It’s beauty. It was created by the Personality of our network!” exclaimed Michael.

“I don’t care if you like it. I don’t care if you think you see something in chaos. You’re suggesting that we’ve found . At least give me something like prime numbers or Fibonacci sequences or something! A bitmap squiggle is not evidence for sentience! I know you’re under a lot of stress, but you need to keep on working. And Tom, you need to do your job also. Have you figured out how to end this virus?”

“Yes sir. Talking with Michael helped me figure it out. McAfee has a patch out; apparently we’re not the only ones that are having this problem. It was as if networks across the country got hit by this thing at the same time. They’re calling it Anomalies in Display And Memory, or ADAM. The patch is actually running as we speak. We should be free of this problem in minutes,” said Tom.

“Good. Now both of you get back to work,” barked Robert, who had had enough of this adventure to last him for the week.

Both men walked out, Michael last and with a slow step and sullen face. His heart sank as a stone in the ocean, falling and falling away from the light and into great depths. He reached his desk and sat down. There on his desktop Michael saw the last message he would receive “bershit27.doc”. The last words of a murdered personality. Or were they the random and meaningless recall of a complex program? Was there even a difference?

What was the difference between electrons flying down Ethernet cables and ions flowing through axons? Were the scribbles ending in .bmp on his desktop any different than those on cave wall that showed the cavemen were truly men?

Michael opened the file and saw this:



He could not read it. He did not even know the language. Was this a message for him? Or another random assortment of random symbols? How could someone tell the difference? At what point could someone studying hominids conclude that the creatures had language? Did the Personality take this step and speak? What was the last thing on her mind before she died?

These thoughts weighed on Michael as he tried to continue in his work, and pulled him down into a state of mourning for the Personality of the Network.

Abundant Life

“I’m going to see Papa,” said a bright-eyed young man who stood before his mother.

“What?” was the only word the woman could choose which could express her bafflement. There was a trace of annoyance in her voice because her morning stimulation had been interrupted. She sat up in the sofa she had been lying on.

“I want to see Grandpa. You said when he retired last year that I could go and see him any time I wanted,” the young man said earnestly.

“Of course you can. But why would you want to waste your time? Wouldn’t it be more comfortable to stay at home?” his mother asked. She was right. It was always more comfortable to stay at home. She was no hypocrite, and zealously obeyed this advice, having not left her house for five years.

“I suppose you’re right,” said the man downcast, but then his tone rebounded, “but I want to see him. I can’t explain why, but I feel like it’s important.”

“Jim, you and your emotions! What did I tell you about acting on your feelings? Do you think I paid for all those counseling sessions so that you could come in here and tell me what you feel?” asked Jim’s mother shrilly, her volume increasing. And then she looked like a car that had just run out of gas; the effort she put into her mild demonstration of discipline drained her.

“Do whatever you want,” she said, as if she threw the words from a body collapsing into unconsciousness.

“I’ll be back for dinner!” said Jim, with a smile.

The discomfort began immediately, as the perfect 72 degree house had to be left for the uncomfortable 80 degree sunny day. The sun was bright, too, and by the time the first trace of sweat began to form, Jim was almost certain that he had made a mistake; he was not at all comfortable.

He walked to the corner where there was a Metro station, as there was on every corner. Jim remembered his history lesson about what the Metro used to be, and how people had to walk sometime up to a quarter of a mile to get to the first bus. He laughed within himself. How silly were his ancestors, and pitiful. He remembered his mother’s warning of the discomforts of his venture again as he waited three minutes for the bus.

He told the bus his destination and took a seat. He was the only one on the bus. Evidently everyone else had taken their mothers’ advice and stayed where it was comfortable. It was far too hot to venture out of doors today.

The bus pulled up to the Active Living Center, or ALC, where his grandpa had retired. The bus courteously thanked him for his patronage and he stepped off. Jim looked up at the building. A cylinder rose fifty stories in the air and the polished, windowless face of the building looked like it was pure silver, shining in the sun. The beauty of the building was shoved from Jim’s mind by the painful brightness of the sun’s reflection. The sun was so terribly bright!

Jim walked briskly, but not too briskly, towards the building to escape the tyranny of the sun. As he entered, the doors opened and a blast of perfect air refreshed him, cooling his sweat. Just then he realized that he was thirsty. His mind raced. He knew all about the dangers of dehydration and heat stroke. He had not been thirsty for weeks. He looked around the room for a water machine. There, a few steps ahead of him, was his salvation. He drank the water. It tasted to him like ambrosia, the sweetest thing he had ever tasted. He could not figure out why it tasted so good, having no sugar at all.

Then Jim faced his next crisis. His muscles were sore and his feet aching from his walk to the corner and ride in the wheeled bus. He looked around the room, and saw a lobby chair before him. Jim worried about its ability to provide comfort, but it would have to do. He sat down in the chair, feeling relief as Atlas shrugging.

He was a happy man, but happy in a way that was unusual for him. It was more than the typical electrically-induced emotion. Clearly he felt happy every morning during his morning stimulation; the electrodes in his hypothalamus guaranteed it. But this was different. His respite in the lobby was especially sweet because it had come with such exertion and risk. Jim reflected on what he had just accomplished and felt good.

Then he remembered his mother’s (and counselor’s) words against heeding feelings, especially such dangerous feelings as could make him enjoy suffering. He had been diagnosed with masochism before, but had been clean for almost a year. He did not want to go back to rehab. So, as an antidote for his satisfaction, he reminded himself, item by item, about what he just suffered until his equilibrium (and misery) returned.

He realized that he had not been helped, having been in the lobby for five minutes. His mother’s words came back to him. More discomfort. He stood up, not a little indignant, but was finally met by an attendant dressed cleanly in white. Seeing the attendant reminded Jim of the rest of the room, which was all white. It all looked very clean.

“Welcome to the Abundant Life ALC!” the voice of the attendant was perfect. His voice was as confident and clear as an actor of old. “My name is Dante. How may I help you?” asked Dante with such a sincerity as it almost tempted Jim to feel something.

“I want to see my grandpa,” said Jim meekly, intimidated by the man.

“Certainly! As you know, you can always see your retired loved ones! What is his name?” Dante asked.

“James Anderson,” said Jim.

“James Anderson,” repeated Dante.

A mechanical voice replied from nowhere, “Floor 42, Wing E, Stack 57, Room 1.”

“Follow me, if you please,” said Dante cordially as he walked across the room towards an elevator.

Jim looked around the room with wonder in his eyes.

“Is this your first time in an ALC?” Dante asked, smirking.

“Yeah…” said Jim a bit disconnectedly.

“Well most people never get a chance. That is, they don’t come here until they’re allowed to come permanently,” said Dante.

Dante and Jim stepped into the elevator.

“Forty-two,” Dante commanded.

“Forty-two,” confirmed the elevator.

“It’s too bad. These places are really a sight to behold. They’re the symbol of the twenty-second century, the century we conquered death!” Dante’s voice rose to a triumphant note.

“How did these things come about? I remember a little about it from Science class,” said Jim.

“Towards the middle of the twenty-first century, we had massive casualty rates among our elderly. We had nearly solved infant mortality, but with unspeakable rates of elder mortality. Our great great grandparents (on the first floor) patted themselves on the back when the infant mortality dropped below 5 per 1000 at the same time as 1000 per 1000 elders were dying. Can you imagine? Every son would lose his father and every daughter her mother! What a vicious thing living used to be!” Dante proclaimed.

The elevator had reached the forty-second floor and they stepped out into a circular room. On the perimeter of the room were ten doors labeled ‘A’ through ‘J’. Dante approached the one labeled E and walked through into a long bright hallway with doors on both sides.

“We have defeated death,” continued Dante. “Medicine has developed to the point where we no longer need to say goodbye to our loved ones. We simply say, ‘until later’ and we can visit them whenever we want. Most don’t actually visit, but the point is they can. I suppose it’s not all that different from our ancestors in the twentieth century who didn’t visit their elders. Retirees enter a mental stimulation room and can be woken up at any time. We have studies that prove that they are enjoying their lives far more than we are; they’re happy here. ALCs have come that they might have life, and that they might have it more abundantly.”

Dante sighed, “I have another fifteen years before I can legally retire here. It’s funny. Buddhists thought you could reach Nirvana by emptying yourself through years of meditation. In America, everyone reaches it when they turn 55. Christians thought you would be reborn if you believed in Jesus. In America, you’re reborn if you pay your taxes.”

They reached a door numbered 57. Dante put his finger on a pad by the door and it opened. Before them was a room, three of its walls covered with tiles, four feet by two feet. Dante walked to the bottom left corner of the left wall and touched the wall tile. The tile was actually the head of a box which slid out of the wall and was seven feet in length.

Jim had seen such a box before. He had seen it in history class. He remembered his teacher talking about ancient rituals humans would perform back when people used to die. The strangest one, in Jim’s mind, was when people would build a box, put a dead person inside it, and then bury it in the ground. He tried to remember the word for the box. “That’s right,” he thought, “’Coffin.’”

Dante interrupted his thinking, “Death is now a dirty word. I still get the shudders whenever I say it. We have advanced from the brutal philosophies of our ancestors who worshiped death and thought there was some value to sacrifice and suffering. Now Science has confirmed what a great man once said, ‘If a man is willing to die for something, he is not fit to live.’ Behold! One of those lucky many who have escaped suffering! Here is your grandfather’s room!”

He lifted the lid of the coffin and before him was his grandfather, looking exactly as he had when he retired one year ago. His arms were crossed, his hands on his shoulders and his eyes closed.

“Grandpa!” cried Jim excitedly.

His grandfather’s eyes moved under his eyelids. Then he slowly opened his eyes and saw his grandson.

“What do you want?” said Jim’s grandfather with an unmistakable annoyance.

“I wanted to see you! I’m here to visit!” said Jim, his mood unaffected by the tone of his grandfather.

His grandfather looked at him in utter confusion. He searched for words as a man groping in the dark for the light. In the end, he could only muster a baffled, “Why?”

“I… I don’t know,” said Jim miserably. “I just felt it would be good to visit you.”

“Do you think you could make me happier than the electrode?” questioned Jim’s grandfather indignantly.

“Well… I didn’t think about it like that. But Papa…” Jim whimpered.

“Exactly. You didn’t think. If you would have thought, you would have stayed at home and studied. Then you could get an easy job to pass the time as happily as you could manage until you could come here. Don’t remind me of the misery of the world!” lamented Jim’s grandfather.

“You had a good time before you retired!” cried Jim. “What about all the time we spent fishing? You always wanted to go fishing! Weren’t you happy then? Don’t you want to go fishing now?”

“Why the hell would I want to fish if I could have this?” Jim’s grandfather motioned at his box. “Sure I enjoyed it, but that happiness is only a fraction of what I have here. We have to make due before we retire. But once we retire, why would anyone want to go back? Do you want me to be join in your misery to relieve you before you reach 55? Is that what you want?”

“I just wanted to make you happy,” said Jim, almost in tears.

“I have infinite comfort, safety and happiness. Isn’t this everything that we’re working for? Isn’t it what you want?” asked Jim’s grandfather.

Jim paused. He could not deny the logic of his grandfather, but he could not say ‘yes’. Of course he wanted comfort, safety and happiness, but something was missing.

“I’m not sure what I want,” said Jim.

“I do know what I want, and you’re interrupting it,” Jim’s grandfather replied rudely.

Jim’s grandfather closed his eyes, folded his arms back over himself and sighed. Dante came over to the coffin and closed the lid. He pushed it back in. Jim stood there motionless for a few seconds.

Dante looked at Jim and laughed out loud, “’I wanted to see you’? Are you serious! You disturbed your grandfather for no reason with nothing to say? Of course he was angry. I’d be angry, too! ‘I’m here to visit’! Ha!” Dante went on laughing.

As Jim was led back out of the building he reflected on what his grandfather said. He was right. Everything in the physical universe pointed to him having a more comfortable, safe, and happy life than Jim. But there must be some aspect of happiness which could not be stimulated with an electrode.

He did not want to be like the man in the coffin. Looking at what his grandfather had become, the picture of a crypt came to mind, with row after row of cabinets containing the remains of men. Is that what his grandfather had become? Was his conversation with a man, or with his remains? Even if his body and mind were intact, had not something decomposed? Did the pleasure rot some part of him? Jim remembered an old book cover which mentioned the body, the mind and the soul; he now wished he knew what a soul was. Was there more to life than comfort, safety and happiness? Jim remembered what he felt after accomplishing his journey earlier that day. It was none of those things, and it was certainly good.

Just then, like a lightning bolt, a beam of light from the sun struck Jim as he stepped outside the building. The now 85 degree air felt as if it was searing his flesh. He realized and finally consented that his mother was right; the house would have been much more comfortable. A too-warm balmy breeze blew away all further thoughts of something more than comfort, for comfort was all Jim could now think about.

Jim would only have to endure another forty two years before he could himself retire. “The sooner the better,” he thought.