The rest of them strew their creations all over the Universe. They were constantly having to go back and fix something that had gone wrong, something unforeseen that they were prohibited by law to let fester. At least there was some control over them. If there weren’t, the place would be full of failed projects, like wounded beasts, waiting for help to come. Or death.
He thought of his own worlds. Praxis, to name one. A bluish world, largely ice, a single life form, the Helimorph, perfectly in tune with its environment, immortal, self-sustaining, no trouble to anyone. That’s the kind of world he liked. Simple. Serene. Soothing.
If there had to be action, as for his senior project, he liked it to be ubiquitous. A dance in which all the partners meshed, and the dynamics produced life-like movement of the whole, like gears. He got an A for Xanatra. His worlds always had a X. It was his trademark. Someday he would be famous, and everybody would know when they came upon a world with an X that it was his.
But that was far in the future. He was still a student, once more the lowest of the low, as he began this second phase – his internship. Still under the watchful eye, but sent out to do damage control. They used novices for this job, even though it was obviously the most difficult, calling for the most experience. Even the experts couldn’t cope with a world once it had gone bad, so might as well spare them, use them where they could do the most good, and send in the clowns for the terminal cases. Maybe they’ll be just the thing.
That’s what they said to him. “Maybe you’ll be just the thing,” when he said he felt incapable of curing the kind of world he never would have created in the first place. A messy world, with all manner of creatures, and free will. Free will is what he hated most. The players were supposed to play their parts, not deviate, not refuse to co-operate, not act as though they didn’t know their lines or the plot, or what was to happen.
That’s where he was going – to one of these worlds where the creations had gone mad, taken up a life of their own, forgotten who or what they were, and were impossible to control. Who was the student? Jehovah. Only two years behind him, and he knew him well. Everybody did. A bombastic personality given to demonstrations of power – the same powers everybody else had, but he put a dramatic turn on them and majestically took them to himself. He had never liked him. And he didn’t expect to like his world. Earth. A harsh sound.
And the people? He’d boned up on them this morning. They were very much like their creator. Stubborn, haughty, refusing to play by the rules. Yes, very much like Jehovah. He’d had the misfortune of being Jehovah’s mentor for a term and so became the target of his refusal to play the game. No matter what he suggested, Jehovah declined. If he objected to something, Jehovah did it as soon as possible. To get anywhere with him, he’d had to reverse everything, so in the end, Jehovah had completely changed him, and he had gotten nowhere with Jehovah.
And that’s where he expected to get with Earth and these chosen people. Nowhere. They were not his choice. They were hardly even Jehovah’s. He’d tried several tribes of them before, and none of them amounted to anything. They fell upon each other like insects, made themselves sick and died. Jehovah tried to frighten them into behaving by claiming he had sickened them as a punishment, but it never did any good. Until he got to a bunch that was so stiff-necked they couldn’t even have fun. These people, he managed intermittently to get to behave.
But now Jehovah was off to face some other music at home. His father had found out about a little hanky-panky happening down on Earth, and he felt it reflected badly on the family name. Some of Jehovah’s cadets, young apprentices who were supposed to stay out of sight and render assistance, became enamored of some of the creations and procreated with them, creating legal and sociological problems. Jehovah was on the point of being sued, and the family fortune was at stake.
He was being sent down to save the day.
He had an idea, and that was to give these beings some sense of history. Let them know they’re special. Let them know there’s something bigger than they are – a higher power, so to speak. Let them know they aren’t alone, that someone is watching, that it isn’t a free-for-all – that someone had had something in mind when he put them on Earth.
To that end, he had painstakingly recapitulated their past. There were recorders all over, though the denizens weren’t aware of them. Nobody ever left a world without leaving the recorders; that’s what their name and fame would be based on. What would be the point in forming a world then leaving it alone and never mentioning it again? Even those who weren’t so good at it kept track of what they’d done.
He’d decided to follow protocol and appear to his new charges as if he had been there all along, as if he were the very same Lord – God, in fact – who had promised them dominion in the first place. The very same who had anointed these particular rascals the Chosen People (what a name).
In truth, after the creation, God, as Jehovah had styled himself, had not been allowed near it again. God was, at this moment, and had been, since a good, long look had been taken at his world, out beyond beyond, where whatever harm he did wouldn’t affect the civilized. God had been banished. He sent back poignant messages asking for reconsideration, but so far no one had been inclined to answer his prayers.
About to take the name himself, he felt pushed into a corner. Forced to assume a personality. He hoped he could steer clear of that. He did not want to be God. He had no respect or even liking for Jehovah. He had found him to be small-minded, violent, incapable of forming a real friendship, and interested only in putting on a show.
Of course, not all of it had been his fault. He’d been saddled with Zeus and the rest of his band of insubordinates. The Olympians, they called themselves. They’d been a pain here, and they were a pain there. The thought had been that participation in a project the size of Jehovah’s would make them cognizant of the importance of their powers, the responsibility they had to use them for the good of the Universe.
Which is what they claimed they were doing. Childish fun and brutal adherence to appetites is just what the Universe needs. And to make sure they could continue in that vein, they jumped ship and sought a suitable place to play their games in peace and all the luxury their powers could provide.
The ship’s log reads that they settled their shuttle on top of a mountain. Later parties confirmed they were still there, the mountain was named
The Olympians were democratic. Each used only the powers assigned to him. They all had their followings, but none of them took it very seriously, in spite of the many temples and oracles devoted to them.
The Olympians were gods the Earthlings liked. Whereas the Jehovans, as the egoist preferred them to be called, were afraid of their God with a capital G. He was vengeful. He was cruel. He was impetuous. He had a terrible temper, and when he got angry, stormed off leaving fire and quake in his wake.
There was nothing to do but go. He’d drawn a bad assignment, but it wouldn’t last forever.
