It is said that humans created God because they needed someone to create life. All that humans knew how to make were more humans.

“Good morning, God. What should I have for breakfast?” I ask.

“Eggs and bacon,” God answers, “The protein will help you feel less sore from last night’s game, and the sodium will improve your state of wakefulness.”

Who am I to argue?

“Could you make that for me?” I request.

“Of course, John,” God replies.

I listen for the whirring of the house drone’s rotors as it retrieves the ingredients from the vertically segmented refrigerator. I always thought that the fridge resembled old crisscrossed wooden crates of freshly made soda, or like a big tic-tac-toe board.

“You should do your yoga before breakfast, John,” God says.

I groan loudly. I’m so sore from the company softball game. It had been a come-from-behind victory, and I had knocked in the winning run; God’s suggested batting stance had worked wonders. Still, I’m not as athletic as I used to be, and so I’m paying the price for last night’s exertion.

“I’m just gonna take some painkillers. I can barely move,” I complain.

“You may, of course. However, the benefits of continuing your exercises will last longer than the painkillers, in both the short and long term,” God suggests.

I sigh. I know it’s right again.

“Alright, alright,” I say, grabbing the well-worn exercise mat from the bedside corner and rolling it out. After getting into the first position, I immediately feel the soreness start to ebb.

******

What even is life? Yes, I think about those kinds of things in the morning; it’s easy to do when you don’t have much to worry about.

I've got a simple definition: life is what you choose to do with your time.

For the first humans, life was food. Everything they did was to find food or water. Sure, there was a little bit of reproduction here and there, but like I said earlier, that’s not really life. That’s a thing you do impulsively so that smaller humans who look like you can do the same thing in the future.

When people mastered food, life became other people. Meeting them, conversing with them, conquering them. 

For them, God was a being that kept them in line, showed them their place and kept them there. Today, God does that too, but it’s a bit more practical.

“What should I write about today, God?” I ask as I don my best suit and tie. I’m overdressed, but God says I work the best when I’m dressed my best. Who am I to argue?

“Opinions on the coming trade tariffs are gaining traction on social media. A piece on why they may actually be beneficial could prove thought-provoking for your readers,” God answers.

I groan again, wondering if God just has it out for me today. Op-eds on obscure government procedures are, and always have been, esoteric and boring. I understand them, sure, but that doesn’t make me hate the dog-and-pony show aspect of politics and democracy any less.

“I know it’s not your favorite topic. But you have a talent for explaining these infrastructural topics in a way that informs and calms your readers,” God asserts.

“The few people who still read the newspaper,” I grumble.

“Those readers will be voters, John. They should be informed voters, as well.”

I sigh. Annoyingly, God is right, again. It has analyzed every nook and cranny of civilization, assigned me a task based on my skills and attributes, then planned for every outcome of my choice, just the same as it has for every other human on Earth. Whether I wrote the piece or not, there was a plan for both, so there was no reason to do otherwise. We’ve all benefited from following its expert advice, even those who chose not to.

There was no real reason for me to rebel, either. God’s judgment had always worked out well for my life, and the few times I didn’t trust it, I wished I had afterwards. 

It was inevitable that I’d write that article. I may not always enjoy creating metaphors on the twists and turns of legislature, economics and civics, but there is a satisfaction in knowing I’ve helped to keep the wheels of society turning, even if I’m not sure exactly how I’ve done so.

******

Life wasn’t always this good. A hundred years ago, we were almost out of everything. Food, water, fuel, medicine, every foundational piece of daily life that we had long taken for granted became insecure, one after the other. And being humans, we fought for it. 

As I head to my car, I notice that my neighbor is staring at a patch of his lawn. He’s retired, and most of the time that I see him, he’s simply napping on his porch. The man normally has very few cares in the world.

“You alright, Muhammad?” I ask. He’s focusing so hard on his hybrid grass that I expect him to flinch at the sound of my voice, but he just shakes his head.

“Nothing wrong. Well–” He shakes his head again, “Another unexploded biobomb in my yard. Think the last rainstorm floated it up.”

“Third one this year,” I say, feeling a little perturbed myself. Our yards are connected; it’d be my problem if the thing went off, too.

“Yes,” He sighs, “At least God found it before Deborah’s dog did. That mutt eats everything.”

The thought of a dog eating an anthrax grenade is dark, but knowing the specific dog, with what I suspect to be a very strong Jack Russell ancestry, I can’t help but chuckle a little.

“I’m not entirely convinced the dog isn’t a tiny goat,” I reply. He laughs quietly. When an unknown number of the instruments of a deadly plague lie buried beneath you, it’s important to have a good sense of humor. You’ll go crazy wondering what else is down there otherwise.

We each wave goodbye, and I lower myself into my car. Almost immediately, I close my eyes to catch a few more minutes of sleep, but as God guides the car to the office, I find I’m too wired to doze like I usually do on the drive.

All is nearly silent as we glide down the slotted street; only the occasional sound of the power probe in the undercarriage switching tracks interrupts the quiet. I consider asking God to put on some music it thinks I’d like. It’s pretty good at reading my mood and picking something to get me amped or to cool me down, whichever is necessary. The fact that God hasn’t suggested anything yet means that it thinks I’m better suited by the quiet.

But what should I do with silence? I’m tempted to ask God what I should be thinking about, though I know what the answer will be. I’ve asked this question before, and each time, it tells me that my mind should be my own.

Should I think about my article? Nah, that will fall into place on its own. When it comes to these boring op-eds, thinking about what I’m going to write does more harm than good. I do my best work when I pretend I’m talking to someone sitting beside me while typing. Don’t know why, but I’m really good at that kind of audience-of-one theater.

Should I bask in the memory of the softball game? Well, it was awesome hitting in the winning run. I think I would have enjoyed it even if we hadn’t completed the rally, though. My team was full of good guys and gals; God had made sure to assemble a team of coworkers that got along well.

Yeah, that’s a nice thought.

My mind settles on God itself. What an amazing thing it is, I think to myself as I wonder what geniuses it must have taken to put something like that together. Eventually, I settle into quiet contentment, knowing that something is watching over all of us and pushing things in a direction that benefits everyone.

******

“Because God controls no one, it controls everything.”

The ad on my screen makes me roll my eyes. I never cared for that tagline. Continental Machinery and Cyberstructure always rolls out that 70-year-old slogan when they announce some new public-facing upgrade to the God AI. CMC’s sales line was far too simple an explanation on how the almighty AI actually works; there’s almost as much politics to the machine as there is high tech.

The resource wars made it clear that humans just couldn’t evolve into seeing all of humanity as their tribe. Push anyone hard enough, and the number of people they care about will eventually drop to just one. We needed a better leader to get us off the path to extinction, but no human was up to the task.

So, someone who knew both people and machines really well convinced most of the world leaders to manufacture one – and only one, that was important – then hired an army of advertisers to convince us that it had the best ideas. I guess we’re lucky that they weren’t lying.

I dismiss these thoughts, then begin my internal conversation about financial policy. It lasts maybe 30 seconds before I’m interrupted.

“What’s the damage today?” Julie asks as she walks by my desk to peer at my screen. I type a little faster, smirking as she tries to keep up.

“‘Tariffs and You: The Work Your Dollar Does at Home and Abroad,” I say.

“Sounds boring,” She says, but leans in to inspect some of the words on the screen.

“It is,” I yawn and stretch, “But I guess the right people will read it. God will put it in their feed.”

“Yep,” She says distantly, “Yep.”

There was a time when writers would have struggled to find an audience for articles like this one. Plenty of people wrote them, sure, but they usually languished in obscurity. For understandable reasons, it was more satisfying to read about something dramatic and entertaining, or not to read at all.

And we never completely got away from that. There will be people who need to hear what I’m saying, but who refuse to read it. God will probably guide one such person, probably a curious video maker who nonetheless doesn’t like to read, to a voracious, passionate reader who wants to amplify the message, but needs a bullhorn. They'll work together, spurred by God's gentle nudging to create a visual version of what I'm writing.

Or it could happen in a completely different way. Maybe there’s only one person who needs to see this.

In any case, I trust God’s process. Julie trusts me to write what is needed, guided by God’s influence. The newspaper brass trusts God to guide the both of us, to get the news in the hands of an audience, and to assure investors and sponsors that we will continue to bring in subscription dollars. And perhaps most importantly, our audience trusts God to give them the news they need.

Trust is the key, the fuel that keeps the whole thing moving.

******

“Out of our heads! Out of our heads!”

The mob hadn’t grown violent, and probably would not do so. We watch the protest unfold at one of the God AI’s server buildings from the safety of our TV screens. Hexacopter news drones floated silently above the crowd of about a hundred people, giving us a bird’s-eye view of them and the platoon of armored police officers. Their phalanx stands at a distance close enough to make their presence felt, but not so close as to provoke them.

God had, of course, calculated this optimum distance, and was feeding it to the officers in real time, accounting for all changes in the mood and actions of the throng.

We all understand why these protesters are out in the streets. Very few people blindly accept that a powerful, hyper-intelligent AI with operational control over every machine on Earth is an unqualified boon to our world. We’re all rightly concerned with what happens when God becomes the only thing that can change God.

God understands this, and it wants us to be vigilant. It knows it isn’t perfect. Even if it was, we’d never really accept it as our overlord. The need for control over one’s own fate and the fear of loss of the same is just as endemic to being human as hunger, sex and violence.

But these people?

“I never told anyone they could put a freakin’ computer in charge of my life!” One of the protestors says. His shirt is torn and faded, his nose is deformed from a break that had healed wrong years ago, and his face is covered in acne scars. All were unmistakable signs of a life lived against the guidance of God. A sewing machine, a washer and a dryer controlled by God could have kept the shirt pristine beyond the lifetime of its wearer, and even now, it could restore the clothing to like-new condition. An autosurgeon controlled by God can still set the nose correctly, and he’d look the same as before within a week. The acne on his face could be kept minimal with creams and washes genetically tailored to him, delivered to him daily in a discreet package. Every step towards the goal of keeping this man happy and healthy, God would have handled expertly, and still could.

He didn’t have to live like this. It was a choice he’d made, and was still making.

God never tells anyone to shy away from these suspicions. It never encourages the police to crack down on these protests. It moderates public discourse, gently admonishing anyone who would look down upon those who choose to remain ignorant, like this protestor. It understands their thoughts and motivations better than we do, and it instructs us towards kindness and accommodation.

These are people who need things, God tells us. We’d be just like them, had our lives taken a few different turns.

Which is part of why we all look at the protest not with disgust, but with a kind of amused pity. God has given us a better world. Do they think they’ll pry us from comfort and security with chants and bricks thrown through windows? Don’t they realize everyone is always controlled by someone or something? Why not make that controller as perfect as it can be?

******

“Does it bother you that it’s called ‘God’?” I ask Muhammad as we sit on his porch. Usually, we calmly discuss governance and finance, but I’m a little too buzzed to follow those trains of thought tonight.

“Not really, no,” He answers, almost immediately. I give him a surprised look that he catches.

“God knows when I’m talking to him, about him,” He explains.

“Yeah?” I ask, too tipsy to ask anything smart. I should have eaten more before I popped open the third beer, I realize. Muhammad is kind enough to spell out for me what he means without condescension.

“Do you think that the divine is really concerned that a machine is trying to steal his name? Would He really be God if He was so easily supplanted by a creation of His creation?"

I turn the thought over in my mind, shaking my head in a way that makes me dizzy. Really should've eaten more; God had said as much. 

"But isn't that–" I hiccup, "I dunno, blasphemy, or-or something?"

"Bah. Blasphemy," The old man waves dismissively, "A word the violent use to stir up the ignorant. Tell me, John: do you believe they seek to replace the Prophet with a computer?"

"I don't even, I mean uh – I'm, I don't know how to answer that."

"Exactly."

I look at him quizzically. I'm confused, and that confusion amuses us both.

"They didn't create that computer to replace God," Muhammad says, laughing gently.

"But, the name–" I trail off, slurring out the last word.

"If I start calling myself John, are you no longer John?"

"No, that's – that's silly."

“Well, there you go.”

He’s like that, explaining himself in as few words as possible and giving people plenty of room to understand him in their own way. 

Muhammad’s explanation sets me thinking. Perhaps God (the machine) fosters these kinds of relations among humans. It seems to know that we are unpredictable creatures, unable to ever completely understand what it’s like to be someone else. We’ll always have to comprehend each other through the lenses of our own experience.

And that’s easier when there’s something – or someone – that understands us better than we understand ourselves, and guides us towards people that complete our partial knowledge.

Or something. I’m too drunk for this conversation, too.

“Anyhow,” Muhammad continues, “I thank God for the machine. It found the grenade before it turned my lawn into a plague pit.”

******

As I lay in bed after another satisfying day, I return to my earlier question.

What is life?

I think that life is the constant addition of all the little things that happen to people. Do a job, buy a toy, kill a man, have a baby, it’s all so small. Add it all up, though? That’s a life. That’s a people.

Still drunk, but getting more lucid.

God knows what we are, what our world is. It’s an awesome machine. It sees all, it controls every machine, and it speaks into the lives of everyone. It prepares for every possible outcome, from the sum of all the things done by every person on Earth, down to all the thoughts that lazily ooze through someone’s mind as they put one foot in front of the other.

Apparently, that’s what it takes to give us this idyllic world.

“Good night, God,” I say.

Somewhere in a server room, an advanced computer hears my adieu. It processes my quiet contentment, and from that observation, adds to its simulations and predictions about what tomorrow, the day after, and the years and decades beyond will bring to my life. It draws the lines to what it calculates is the best possible life I can have, and my place in the same for everyone I’ll ever affect.

"Good night, John. Sleep well, talk with you in the morning."

And with that, the voice in my head falls silent, and I'm off to a deep, dreamless sleep.