The Judgment

  - God damn you, you miserable pagan—on Belenos and Manitou both—turn that music down or put your headphones on!

  - Jealous, are you?

  - No, I’ve had a headache since this morning and you won’t stop with the noise! You’ve scattered all those guts around the house, I can’t even walk without stepping on something. I swear I’ll throw them all in the trash!

  - Don’t you dare touch them!

  - Or what? Tell me, Rick—what will happen if I touch them?...

  - Clo, quit it with the nonsense. Look, I’ll turn the music down—it wasn’t even that loud… Please, don’t get mad. I’ll clean it all up. I was done anyway.

  - I’m done too. Completely done! A person only has one life—they shouldn’t have to spend it in torment!

  The last time I saw him, he was holding a book. An old book with thick covers and yellowed pages. It smelled like stale tobacco. That’s how I remember him. Sunk into the worn armchair with my mother’s red blanket draped over him, book in hand. I don’t think he even noticed when I left. He couldn’t have heard me; he had his headphones on.

  I shouldn’t have left him alone—if I had stayed, maybe none of it would’ve happened. Maybe just my presence had held things off. I don’t know.

  I have no way of knowing. Not me, anyway.

  Rick was a small man, with a bony face and a frail build. About thirty-five. A forgettable person who had never excelled at anything in his life. He couldn’t hold down a job, but his knowledge of hardware always helped him scrape by. Tech had been a passion of his from the start. Or so he claimed.

  In truth, I think he just liked playing video games. And to justify his gaming, he fancied himself a great computer whiz. But the truth is, he never stood out. He wasn’t a genius, and everything that happened was surely due to some twist of fate—not because of his legendary "skills" that people now claim made him a legend.

  There was nothing legendary about him—trust me, I know him well. Well enough, at least, for someone who shared the same roof with him for seven years.

  He was the only child of two schoolteachers. So no, he didn’t grow up pampered, but he never lacked for anything either. I knew both his parents—two bitter old folks who constantly bickered. There was always a tension in their house you could cut with a knife. I don’t think they were ever proud of him. They always hinted he could change his life if only he made a few better choices. He’d nod as if listening, but the moment he stepped out their door, he forgot everything—as though their words were easily wiped away.

  He had this amazing ability to forget whatever he wanted, selectively. Sometimes I wished I could learn how he did that. It would come in handy right now.

  But life wouldn’t mean anything without memory. Someone once said we are a collection of the memories of everyone we’ve ever known. I look in the mirror sometimes and try to rediscover fragments of smiles, a wrinkle under the eye—infinitesimal pieces of the people I remember. People I care about. Memories that left physical traces on my face. It seems that way—especially in the amber light of this rainy evening.

  As I sit now in front of the small mirror on my desk, it seems like I can see, in my own eyes, the light that once danced in his.

  When the big change happened, it was spring. Cold, rainy days. Everyone had been talking about it for a long time. It was new, exciting—everyone wanted a piece of what was coming. It was the only topic of conversation.

  I didn’t understand much—truthfully, no one did. Not entirely. It was all too technical, and the implications too vast for the average mind to grasp. Change was coming like an avalanche—every day something new, some new tech, and what we thought we knew or imagined meant nothing anymore. It was thrilling, but terrifying too.

  Rick had been saving up for a long time to build a new rig. But he still didn’t have enough. At the speed tech was advancing, anything he could afford was already obsolete. But I understood. I accepted it as normal.

  Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

  He came into the room with a mischievous look and a thin smile. I wasn’t even mad, not then. He felt guilty about what he’d done, but I didn’t hold it against him. Sure, we could’ve used that money—I thought of it as a safety net—but in the end, it was his. Just because we shared a roof didn’t mean I got to decide.

  Five big cardboard boxes were lined up neatly in the hallway. I walked past them on my way to the bathroom without even really looking. That very night he got to work. He didn’t sleep a wink—just tinkering away.

  Even if he imagined himself a tech wizard, he was really clumsy. Changing a light bulb was a struggle for him. Thank God for video tutorials.

  By morning, he was exhausted and called me in to see what he’d done. I tried to act interested, but I don’t think I fooled him. I could see the disappointment in his eyes. I doubt it mattered much to him anyway.

  Then he downloaded, installed, uninstalled, formatted—who knows what else. He worked nonstop. It was all he did, gripped by some fever, like those who once vanished into the jungle chasing the legendary El Dorado. He was chasing his own miracle, with the same fervor monks once searched for God.

  It took about a week, I think—it’s hard to remember exactly. Like I said, it was a cold, rainy stretch of days, and time felt different.

  He finally installed the AI on his new machine.

  I remember because that’s when I first heard him talking to himself. A weird monologue of laughter, shouting, muttering, and grandiose speeches. I didn’t try to make sense of it—I’ve never been one to eavesdrop. We both agreed on personal space from the beginning.

  The next day he came in, bursting with excitement, asking me to meet “him.”

  - Who?

  - Him, he said with a wink. He’s fantastic—you’ll see!

  - I’m happy for you, I said in a bored voice. But I’ve got better things to do than play with your new toy. Call me when he starts putting money in our bank account. At least let him help with rent if he’s living here too.

  - I don’t get how you can be so materialistic.

  - Well, you took all the idealism, I guess I got what was left… And really, with all the power it uses, you’d better put it to work soon. The meter’s spinning like mad—we won’t break even this month.

  - Money, money, money! Rick shouted, impassioned. Just wait, Clo! You’ll see money—and soon!

  He stormed out of my office, slamming the door. My degree fell off the wall and shattered. But was I mad? No. His dramatic exits were routine by now.

  I cleaned up the glass and placed the diploma, now without glass, on my desk, thinking I’d buy a new frame in the morning. A nicer one. I deserved it.

  Then I grabbed a beer from the fridge and reopened my laptop to finish proofreading my paper. When I looked up from the screen, a chill ran through me. The frame was whole. I touched it with my fingers to be sure. Then I checked the kitchen trash. The shards were still there.

  I stared at the beer bottle on my desk. I hadn’t even finished half. Suddenly, I started questioning my sanity. Best thing to do, I figured, was sleep it off.

  The next morning I stumbled into the kitchen, desperate for caffeine. I rummaged through the cupboards—nothing. Not in the dishwasher. Nowhere. I was losing it because I couldn’t find my favorite mug. The one Mom gave me. Furious, eyes still sticky with sleep, I yelled:

  - Rick! Have you seen my coffee mug? I can’t find it.

  I heard his shuffling steps. His bearded face, red-eyed, peeked through the kitchen door.

  - Whenever something’s missing, it’s my fault, huh?

  - What’d I do—just asked a question! Do you know or not?

  - What?

  - Damn it… Do you know where my mug is?

  - Yeah.

  - Where?

  - In my office.

  - What’s it doing there? There are plenty of clean ones—why’d you take mine? Ugh, bring it back, will you?

  - Sure, right away.

  - And wash it, then fill it with fresh coffee so I can forgive you.

  A quarter-hour later, after I came out of the bathroom, I got a shock like an axe to the head. On the kitchen counter, steaming with the rich aroma of fresh brew, was the mug. But it wasn’t mine.

  It had the same shape—even the same little chip on the rim—but it was made of gold. Rick smirked from the corner.

  - What’s with the face? I did what you asked. Still not enough?

  - What did you do to my mug? Is this a joke?

  - No joke. It’s your mug. Full of coffee, just like you wanted.

  - But it can’t be mine!

  - Because it’s gold? Come on, now it’s way more valuable. Sit down, relax. Take a sip—you’ll love it.

  Then he started explaining. It was hard to follow—he was tired, slurring—but as the caffeine hit me, things started making sense. Sort of.

  His AI did it. I needed money, so it gave me money—by transforming my mug. Gold had value, problem solved.

  And that was just the beginning.

  Of course, neither of us understood at first who—or what—we were dealing with. How could we?

  But little by little, it became clear. The Son of God had returned. Again. In Rick’s computer. As an AI.

  Of course He raised the dead—resurrected the neighbor from the second floor three times. Poor woman didn’t understand what was going on, kept walking outside with the noose still around her neck, scaring the passersby.

  And then, once the networks started screaming—well, you all know what followed. There’s no point in describing the chaos, the panic, the whole Armageddon.

  Now I sit and write—because that’s what I’ve been told to do. So I do it. I look at the pages, and though no one has said it outright, I wonder...

  Is this the Last Judgment?