The God Algorithm

By J. Don Wright

The Bontrager is one of a dozen settlement ships launched from an over-populated Earth. Their mission is to colonize likely suitable planets in distant parts of the galaxy. These are one-way missions for the small crew of 16. Each member is one of the foremost in their field and their purpose is to continue the species, thus the equal balance of male and female crew members. Each member is also a practitioner of one of the 16 major religions on earth. When the ship is welcomed by an unexpected, highly-advanced race of genetically-modified inhabitants whose average lifespan is a thousand years, they initially feel as if they've found utopia. Once they realize that to remain on the planet they must assimilate into the culture and undergo the same modifications, their Nirvana begins to pale. And once the Central Service computer system which manages the entire planet informs them they will be reprogrammed with correct societal values, the situation becomes adversarial, to say the least.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Front Porch Associates
• Release date: Jul 17, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393731559

J. Don Wright

J. Don Wright has been a public servant for over 45 years as a member of the US Military, Law Enforcement, Emergency Management, and being a general  Renaissance Man. Many of the details in his stories come from first-hand experience.

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ONE

Iwas drowning. I could see a vague watery light, far above. Struggle as I might, I got no closer. I couldn’t breathe.

Captain, please lie still, you should not be conscious yet. Please relax and allow the rejuvenation sequence to complete its cycle. A slightly-feminine but otherwise androgynous voice whispered in my head. I knew I couldn’t hear it because I was still encased in cryogel. My invention had many sterling capabilities, not the least of which was preserving your fine outer skin cells from deterioration. Being able to hear through it was not one.

I relaxed and inhaled deeply, as had been our instructions. The breathing tube misted a fine, cool spray into my lungs. I knew what it was doing because I had been part of the creative team on the project. Billions of nanites in the mist were busy eradicating the toxins and acids built up in my system.

That was a significant amount, considering the eleven years I had been encapsulated for our near-light speed trip to Ceti Major. An earth-like planet had been discovered in the Tau Ceti system. Some astronomer had exorbitantly named it Major simply because it was in the Cetus constellation as part of the Ursa Major or Big Bear stream, and it sounded good.

Actually, it had been 11 years, 3 months, and six days since I had entered cryogenic sleep. Mission Command had estimated it would take 35 weeks to bring the ship up to maximum operating efficiency after her long dormancy. My ship, I thought, as I drifted in and out of consciousness.

The Bontrager had been commissioned as one of a dozen exploratory vessels sent to distant parts of the Milky Way galaxy. Our missions were to find new homes for over-burdened planet Earth. The ship’s name meant water carrier in old German. It also had archaic meanings including one who goes to great heights or equally great depths.

It was so thoroughly apropos, and it was also my surname. In a moment of nostalgic insanity, the Near-Earth Exploratory Commission named each vessel after its Captain. They did so knowing full well they were most likely going to be one-way missions.

Return using the same process was feasible; just. It would also mean we would be returning to meet our successors, 25 years in the future. The star-drive in the ship can go on forever, thanks to the power source being a nearly perfect perpetual-motion machine. It created ion pulse particles which, over a period of about six months, accelerated the vessel to .9835 times light speed. Star-drive is really a laugh. The only way we could get to any of the near star systems and still be relatively young was by using my team’s system of cryosleep.

AS A GIFTED YOUNG SCIENTIFIC intellect, I had created and patented 38 different cryo systems to cover everything from a substitute for medically-induced comas to skin rejuvenation. I was so horrendously wealthy I had solely funded the entire R and D program for the system we now used. My peers had lost their collective minds when I had gifted the entire process to the world.

Captain, your system declares you are at nominal health. You will now experience mild tingling in your body as the muscle-stimulating sequence activates. Mild tingling, I thought, who wrote that script? If feeling like you’re being lightly electrocuted is mild tingling...well, never mind, it only lasts for 15 seconds.

The last of the gel drained away and a surge of water, warmed to exactly my skin temperature, swelled across me as it herded the goo down the drain to recycling. Everything on board was recycled. And no matter how thorough the filtration process, the water always had a faint odor of urine. Or was that just my imagination?

The exoshell of the cryo-chamber parted along its seam with a mildly pneumatic hiss and swung open before rising slowly upright. I used the handholds in the edge to pull myself into a seated position on the base platform, flexing my arms as I did. Despite our best efforts, there was inevitably some muscle mass lost in long-term cryo. All the Lysine and electro-stimulus in the galaxy couldn’t prevent it. But no matter, I’d be back in top physical condition by the time we had all systems installed, expanded, and ready for display.

I also noticed I was the only one indicating full awareness on the crew monitor in my hologuide. The ship’s computer generated a hologuide whenever you were conscious and it always hovered near the periphery of your vision.

The technology was attuned to each individual’s retinal process pattern, as singular as fingerprints. As such, no one except you could see what was programmed on yours. All you had to do was turn your head and intentionally look at it for it to lock into your gaze. Then you could look through it as you worked on whatever you were doing.

It made short work of following even the most complicated physical or programming tasks. Visual cues and colored markers were part of the program for almost every technical function. Even surgical procedures were usually augmented by an overlay guiding the surgeon and thereby preventing all except the grossest of human errors.

Four of my sixteen crewmembers were in phase yellow; or processing wakefulness. Seven were in red, which meant they were just stirring, and three were still in purple or full cryo. We had learned early on in the field trials that allowing people to awaken on their own terms was much more desired over forced revival. Some very concerning psycho-physiological issues, especially aversion to cold, were resultant when folks were force-revived. Only Bea was in full green, and she hailed me just as I recognized the fact that she was awake.

Hey, handsome, care to limber up your muscles before everyone else wakes up? she vamped in my head. We both knew she meant nothing by it, but we both also knew she took every opportunity at innuendo with me that she could. It was part of what made her who she was.

I’m on my way to the holosphere to do just that, I replied. That is what you were referencing, was it not? Maybe I was being a little too formal.

Well, of course it was, she replied, muttering under her breath. Spoilsport. Boy, did you get up on the wrong side of the chamber.

GO EASY ON ME, OKAY? I asked, trying not to sound whiney. All of the crew, that is to say every human, experienced the same disorientation and wobbliness after extended cryo periods. Bea had to be feeling the same way but she refused to acknowledge it and pushed through the pain. The doctors had warned her about musculoskeletal disorders stemming from abuse of cryo-weakened bodies. She had ignored them much like she did everything else she disagreed with.

We selected a gladiator routine which allowed us choices of competing against a rival pair, pairing with the computer-generated combatants, or going cutthroat, which really means everyone for themselves. Bea had her gear on and thumbed the cutthroat selection while I was still gearing up, and I almost didn’t see it. Did I mention she doesn’t play well with others?

Immediately, a very large, ogrish hulk of semi-human biped charged across the arena straight for me. Thanks, Bea, I thought. I quickly slid my right arm inside the straps of the shield and balanced the trident in my left hand. The program wasn’t allowed to let anyone get really hurt.

Still, directional air blasts from all over the sphere sure do feel like the monster had just smashed my upraised shield with its sword. Driven to my knees, I thrust the points of the trident toward its exposed ankles just below the shin guards. It might have looked dumb and slow but was neither. Leaping directly over me it twisted in mid-air, landing in a crouch behind me. It was ready to attack again.

I don’t suppose we can talk about this, I asked the beast. I was startled when it replied.

"Certainly, we can have a nice cup of tea and discuss what you did wrong, right after I kill you," it replied, screaming the last two words as it leapt spread-eagle into the air.

It obviously wanted to just smash my relatively-smaller frame under its massive one, so I oblige. Dropping to a kneeling position, I assumed the Tortoise pose, twisting my shield over my body. I pulled the trident straight up from the small of my back at the last instant.

The ogre gave one surprised grunt before its bulk slid off the shield and shoved my face into the mat. I scrambled to my feet and immediately observed two things. My trident was sticking halfway through the monster’s carcass as it dissipated and Bea was desperately fending off a fusillade of blows from her opponent.

Grabbing my fallen foe’s short sword, I pulled my shield in front of me as I leapt upon Bea’s attacker from a rear-quartering position. Driving the point of the sword down into the lizard creature’s upper torso, it stiffened and screamed, sounding like an old Japanese Godzilla movie as it writhed in its death throes. Realistic to the end, green ooze was running out of the cut, steaming and boiling on the floor as it spread from the carcass.

I was too busy congratulating myself on my well-placed thrust to notice Bea had stolen behind me until she stabbed me in the back. Her sword was really a simu-stick, but the electric shock it gave me dropped me to my knees, just before I fell over on my already-bruised face and passed out.

TWO

Iopened my eyes and looked up at Bea’s grinning face, if grin is what you could call it. It was more a death grimace, crossed with a pervert’s leer and sprinkled with a liberal dose of lip snarl.

You don’t play fair, I muttered as I struggled to my feet. She didn’t offer me a hand up.

Once you get beyond the ancient notions of fair and right, you’ll do so much better in life, she pontificated.

Who are you quoting? I asked.

Me, she replied.

I should have known, I grumbled. I did kind of save your butt back there, you know.

"No, you interfered," she snarled. "I had just figured out lizard-boy’s rhythm and was ready to strike. You took my kill," she said, hissing the last word.

Beatrice McMasters was our ship’s security officer. Always spoiling for a fight or challenge, she was also the weapons officer and ship’s physical trainer. She was built not so much like an Amazon but rather the gladiator I had just defeated. No one would call her pretty, especially not to her face. She might have been if her rather plain features weren’t perpetually twisted in a snarl or grimace.

HER FATHER HAD BEEN an all-planet cage fighter until he was accidentally killed in the ring during a grudge match. Simmons, a life-long family enemy, had fared poorly in the fight. He was losing until his son, also his manager, had slipped a stun bar into his father’s waistband after the last break. The shock hadn’t killed Roarin’ Rory McMaster, but it had stunned him. Being momentarily off-balance had set him up for the throat-punch which had crushed his trachea.

Bea had watched from the front row on her 17th birthday. Trained since early childhood by the only person she had ever loved, Bea had promptly challenged the winner. That option was something most family fighters didn’t exercise and even fewer accepted. Simmons hadn’t hesitated for an instant to acknowledge her challenge.

It took Bea almost an hour to break over half of the bones in his body. In a family-challenged grudge match, the only two who could call the fight were the managers in the corner. Simmons had made it clear to his son that he was not, under any circumstance, to throw in the towel. The McMasters’ family manager had never said a word.

Simmons had gamely continued until the last bone Bea had snapped was his C3 vertebrae. She held him where she had maneuvered him into a reverse headlock for several seconds, twisting on his head. It was almost as if she were trying to actually tear it off.

It was her first kill. She unceremoniously dropped Simmons with a thud to the ring’s concrete floor. Turning, she leaned over his twisted form and spat on his face. After her victory was announced officially she charged outside ring, running around toward the other side and the junior Simmons. He caught one glimpse of the raging madwoman coming for him and took flight.

Bea had never known her mother and was now effectively an orphan. Being accustomed to violence as a way of life, she joined the Global Defense Force the next day and never looked back. Her mantra and life code was No Quarter. It was rumored she had been a sniper, assassin, spy, and whatever else the GDF offered her in the manner of taking human life. Rumor was she had 27 notches on a gunstock she kept in her private locker.

I CAUGHT THE FLASH of green in the corner of my eye and locked in my hologuide, waving Bea toward the dining room across the corridor. Keying an open channel, I hailed Lars Iversson. He was the ship’s Swedish engineer and mechanic.

Lars, hur mar du? I called.

Mår jag bra och dig själv? he replied.

I just got stabbed in the back by my weapons officer, I offered.

"And you turned your back on her why?" he chided softly in his deep, rumbling voice.

Bea’s throaty laughter rang through the small ship.

Because I know under that roughshod exterior beats a heart of pure gold, and soft as a baby’s breath, I replied.

Her scream of rage was louder than her laughter.

Lars, once you’re limbered up, can you get the ship’s stores open? I ask. I could really use a cup of your good coffee.

I’m already in the dining room, and enjoying my first cup, came his ready reply. I’ll pour one for you.

On my way, I replied thankfully.

Lars did something to coffee that was almost magical. One cup and you felt like you had just drunk beauty, health, and happiness all at once. Yet when analyzed, the computer said it was just coffee. There was something mystical about it, as there was with many things about Lars.

He did triple-duty as engineer, mechanic, and blacksmith. Part of his fabrication job description was the creation of personalized body armor for each crew member. He also made the sharpest bladed weapons I had ever cut myself on. Even Sumiko, our resident Ninja, was impressed with his prowess at the forge.

His security moniker was Battleaxe, a name he wore with pride. Physically, his squat, fire-plug physique made him a significant member of the security team. He usually led one of three teams and was second in command to Bea. It didn’t hurt his image at all, wielding an exact replica of a 10th century Norse Mammen ceremonial broadax.

He had shared once with me, over too many cups of ale, that his family line was directly descended from Erik the Red. He even practiced their Norse Pagan religious tenets. It was during one of those inebriated visits that I had sworn him as a blood-brother. We had even performed the ceremonial palm-cutting. Some of my Germanic heritage was also descended from Vikings.

THREE

When I walked into the dining room Lars was seated next to Jovi, who was the ship’s everything . Her official title was combat medic, but she could actually fix anything . She and Lars had fine-tuned every system onboard during the almost two-year orbital build of the ship. They had coaxed forth performance conditions even the manufacturers couldn’t comprehend.

That had left three of those designers literally sobbing on the launch deck. The engineers had wanted answers it would have taken months to give. Lars and Jovianna were seen together at their mutual jobs so often they were just expected to be a couple, although both spent intimate time with a few other crewmembers.

Jovianna Marcon was French, Spanish, and Italian. Slight of build, she was fleet of movement and amazingly agile. Pitted against the brutish Beatrice in the holosphere, she could hold her own as long as she kept her distance. Lightning fast, she would flick in and score points before dancing out of reach.

She never grappled as that would have been her undoing. Finely boned hands would break easily. Slender arms and legs would do likewise. The svelte young mechanic was the image of the adage about not weighing a hundred pounds soaking wet. The crew often wondered how she managed to move pieces she needed to weld when they weighed ten times what she did.

Jovi was also a talented musician who enraptured most of the crew with violin, cello, and piano pieces. She would play on breaks during the protracted buildup of the Bontrager. The crew would often huddle in the cramped dining room after the evening meal.

There was also the rare occasion where parts were launch-delayed due to weather. It was during these down times that many of the crew would request traditional pieces from their native cultures. Jovi’s knowledge of classical string arrangements was exhausting. If she didn’t know a requested piece, she would by the time the next break came around. It was this talent which had won her the position on the crew, and my admiration.

SPACE COMMAND HAD INSISTED the crew actually assemble the vessel at the floating space dock. Parts were lifted up daily on the magnetic shuttle. That way, they reasoned, the crew had intimate knowledge of every fastener, panel, and system’s circuit on board. Living conditions were rudimentary. One had to get used to that if they wanted to crew any of the first Near-Earth flights.

The applicants had numbered in the tens of thousands. It had taken me six months to distill the list down to sixteen crew and twelve alternates. That meant the entire program, with all twelve vessels, was comprised of just under 325 highly-skilled specialists. I had worried over the choice between Bea and a Samoan man as security officer for weeks. She had finally exploded over the comm link one day in frustration at my reluctance.

Hell and damnation, man, make a decision. I have things to do with my life. I’ve turned down two jobs this week alone, she had raged. That almost cinched it for the Samoan before she had tempered her angst with a more respectful request. "Is there another security specialist being considered? If they’re almost