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  John walked between them for a few minutes, nodding, complimenting, pointing out ways that each could be improved. The children smiled at him as he passed between the aisles of the computer science classroom, and he smiled back. He would have thanked God for them every moment of every day, if he still believed in God.

  One of the kids was particularly involved in his work, to the point that he didn’t notice John quietly move behind him to observe. His name was Dallas Howard, and John watched him silently for a few moments. The young man worked quickly, fingers skipping quickly over the keyboard as he typed. John smiled as he watched the work progress.

  Dallas had been a trouble student when he came to John’s class. Failing most of his classes, in trouble with all the teachers, he brought a lifetime of attitude with him. The rest of the teachers at the school had given up on him, and he took their poor expectations of him and did his best to live down to them.

  Not John, though. He firmly believed that no kid was a lost cause. He focused intensely on the boy from the first, pushing him to do better, to be more than he had been. Surly in the beginning, Dallas had gradually begun to respond to John’s gentle prodding. Soon he was smiling when he sat down at his desk, waiting for the next assignment to be handed out, the next challenge to overcome.

  John lay a hand on his student’s shoulder.

  "Good job, Dallas," he said, "pretty soon you’ll be able to outdesign me."

  Dallas didn’t so much as pause in his work, but he did snort lightly, as if to say, "I already can."

  "That good, are you?"

  Dallas stopped typing for a moment, looking at John with playful teasing. "The worlds I create in here are already better than the piss-poor one God did for us."

  He grinned widely, and John smiled back. A few of the nearby kids in the class heard the comment and snickered. One of them, a girl with a pair of rings in her nose, spoke up. "Want to be God, eh? You’re the wrong sex, little man."

  More laughter came with that comment, and John was pleased to see that Dallas could smile as well; that he was not taking himself so seriously anymore.

  "You bring up a good point, Patricia," he said to the girl, then raised his voice to address the whole class. They grew silent instantly, all side-chatter ceasing as he spoke. John appreciated the fact that they liked to listen to him, but also felt the pressure each time as he strove to find something to say that would both interest and inform his students.

  "Remember, ladies and gentlemen," he said, "the world is fast moving into an age where the computer-illiterate won’t stand a chance. Tomorrow’s world is going to be run by and through computers: a new age of machines merged with people, where they do the work we are either unwilling or unable to do for ourselves."

  He paused for a moment, trying to figure out where he was going with this particular strand of thought. Very often when he taught, John found himself saying things that he had not thought about beforehand. It was as though the words came from someone else at times, emerging so quickly that they left him breathless and wondering just what part of his brain had come up with that idea.

  Then he felt himself continue, saying, "So let’s say Mr. Howard here is right, and he is becoming a god of computers." A few titters at that, and more than a few of the girls batted their eyes at Dallas, who was blushing a bit under the class’s scrutiny. Blushing, but John noted with approval that he was not looking away from them. He was becoming a very strong and self-assured teen, so very different from the attitudinal, beaten-down youth of only a few months before.

  John turned his attention from Dallas back to the class. "So what does it mean to be a god? How many of us have thought about the ethics of the computer age?"

  John looked around the room. The kids all stared back at him, blank-faced.

  "I see. Does anyone even know what I’m talking about?"

  "Porn," said one of the kids. The rest of the class snickered. John laughed a bit, too, though for a different reason. It never ceased to amaze him that in all the changes in all the kids through all the years, one thing stayed constant: mention of anything sexual or any kind of bodily function was guaranteed to elicit a laugh.

  "Yes, that’s one thing we might have ethical concerns over, and certainly a subject we could spend a lot of time discussing. But I’m afraid that if we talked about that, then I’d just find out how hopelessly old fashioned I am and you would all have me blushing inside five minutes." More laughs. John drew a deep breath, still not sure where he was going with this but determined to find out.

  "But there are a lot of other things to consider, too. Remember," he said, warming to his topic, "when you are given access to something powerful, you have a responsibility to use it well. The more power, the more responsibility. And I think we can all agree that one of the most powerful tools ever made is the computer and the other machines associated with it. We have to think about our responsibilities in using it well. And I’m not just talking about porn."

  "What else?" asked Dallas, raptly attentive.

  John paused. He liked to wait for several seconds after such shouted questions. Often the other students would rise to the challenge and begin an interesting discussion. No takers this time, though, so after a moment John continued speaking. "How about video games?" he asked. The class continued to stare at him in that semi-blank way that students did when they weren’t thinking; when they hadn’t been kick-started into thinking. John was losing his audience. He had to get more participation.

  "Does anyone know what the first video game was?" he asked.

  One of the kids raised a hand. "Pac Man?" A few more shouted answers rang out as each student tried to guess the answer.

  John let the guesses continue for a time, then shook his head. "Good guesses, but wrong. The first video game was called Pong. There were two lines and a ball that bounced back and forth between them. That’s it. Nothing else."

  "Booooring," drawled Dallas, his voice sounding like a foghorn as he drew out the vowel. The class laughed again, and Dallas clasped his hands over his head and shook them in victory.

  Geez, thought John, he’s coming along great!

  Aloud, he said, "Thank you for that compelling gamer review, Mr. Dallas." Another round of laughs. "So who of you plays video games now?"

  Three quarters of the hands in the class went up.

  "What are some video games you like?"

  The words came quickly, a shouted chorus of the newest titles.

  "Duke Nuke ‘Em."

  "Tomb Raider."

  "Double-0 Seven."

  "Metal Gear Solid."

  "Resident Evil."

  John waited until everyone had made a contribution, then held out his hands for silence. Immediately the students quieted, waiting for his point. "Good list there, ladies and gentlemen. Now, consider: in recent years, a major selling point for new systems is how life-like they can make their games. How real are they? How many pixels calculated per second? How fast?"

  He stopped a moment, then turned to a young lady named Jerianne, a sallow-faced girl who wasn’t interested in speaking much. John called on her a lot for that very reason, trying to include her and encourage her. Some students needed to be held back a bit, to be reigned in and corralled. Others needed someone to set them free.

  "What do you think, Ms. Halley?

  "Huh?"

  "How fast are games now?"

  "Dunno."

  "They’re making games that perform over six billion pixel calculations per second. That’s more than enough to make exceptionally realistic games. Cartoon-like, or even life-like."

  A few of the students nodded, and John smiled inwardly. They were starting to focus on what he was saying.

  "So here’s a question, or maybe just a thought: when a five-year old played Pong, what was he doing?"

  Silence. Then Jerianne answered.

  "Playing a video game."

  The class snickered again, but John silenced them quickly. "No, don’t laugh. Tha
t’s exactly right. He - or she - was playing a game. But now, when a five year old plays one of the modern breed of games, what is that child doing?"

  "Playing a game," someone said. John shook his head slightly.

  The class waited, then finally Dallas spoke. The kid was smart, and he gave the answer that was so simple it sounded stupid...which of course was why John wanted someone to say it.

  "He’s making decisions."

  "What?" asked John.

  "He’s making life-and-death decisions."

  Someone hummed Darth Vader music. More snickers. John chuckled, too, but his eyes were serious.

  "Sounds funny, doesn’t it? But maybe that’s right. Isn’t it just possible that a five-year old, someone whose own sense of reality isn’t fully shaped yet, could confuse real life with a game? When you can’t tell the difference between the people next door and the people on your video game, is there a difference? Are the people in the machines more real to some of us than the people in the supermarket?"

  The class quieted. John smiled to himself again. He could see that some of them - most of them - didn’t think his statement was correct. But that was all right. They were at least thinking about it, instead of just absorbing every single word he said without trying to make sense of it for themselves. "Kids today are all supermodels," he had told Mertyl once. "If they aren’t physically bingeing and purging, they’re doing it intellectually, swallowing everything that you give them and then puking it back at you at exams and hoping it doesn’t leave a bad taste in their mouths. I want to be someone who teaches them how to eat a good, balanced meal that will actually help them in some way."

  Now, the class looked like it was preparing to tuck into a feast. The first words were confrontational. A small African-American boy named Jonas spoke up without raising his hand, his high-pitched voice lowered as he tried to speak forcefully. "You gonna spread that line about how TV and video games are the reason kids are shooting each other in L.A.?"

  "Maybe." See what they did with that.

  "That’s crap, Mr. Task. You can’t tell me that some kid plays Metal Gear and then goes out and shoots his best buddy ‘cause the game made him do it."

  "You think it’s crap?"

  Jonas nodded. Standing up to the authority figure. That was all right with John. They were welcome to hold their own positions. He enjoyed it when they did, in fact, as long as they didn’t stomp on anybody in order to stomp on that person’s argument.

  The class waited to see what John would reply. He didn’t say anything, though, because at that moment the classroom door opened.

  And she walked in.

  John almost lost his breath. It caught in his throat, trapped there, and for a frightening moment John worried he’d forgotten how to breathe at all.

  He didn’t know why the girl affected him like that. His love for the children in his class was completely on the level of teacher to student, of an older brother who ached to show them the way through life. So why he should have this strong physical reaction to the girl who stepped into the class was beyond him. It was strange; baffling.

  More than that, it was...what?

  It was recognition.

  There was something familiar in her face, something about her bone structure. Something about her cast aside the gloom that shrouded John’s past, and for a split second he thought he could remember. A bolt of lightning seemed to flash through him, burning out his insides and leaving behind cold ash that sent shivers up and down his skin. Then the moment passed and the gloom once again drew itself over his memory.

  At last, his mouth remembered its job. "May I help you?" he asked.

  The girl held out a yellow slip of paper. After a moment of serious deliberation he was able to move his feet and walked toward her. Further control returned as he approached her, and in the few feet between them, he was able to convince himself that there was nothing special about the girl in the doorway. But only on the surface. Beneath his conscious thought, he knew he was telling himself lies, and knew that she was important.

  The paper she held was a transfer permission slip. She was a new student. But usually new students came with a week or two’s warning. John looked around, stalling while he simultaneously tried to figure out what to do with her and what to do to gather his shell-shocked wits about him.

  The answer presented itself in the form of Dallas Howard’s enraptured face. Obviously he had noticed the new student - Kaylie Devorough, the slip said - as well, and was equally struck by her, although for far more obvious and biological reasons than John.

  A sly grin spread across John’s face. "Well, class, it seems we have a new student. And you know what we do to new students around here."

  A chorus of voices rang out. "We eat them!"

  One of the kids cackled like a witch while two or three others dissolved into more genuine laughter. Kaylie stiffened for a moment, then relaxed as she realized that this class was likely to be less than torturous.

  John turned to face the newest addition to his class. "Well, Ms. Devorough, I’m Mr. Trent and welcome to Computer Sciences. Today we’re loading websites the students have designed."

  Kaylie stuttered, "I don’t...that is...."

  "You don’t know much about computers?"

  She shook her head.

  "That’s okay, I’m not sure I do, either. So we’ll sit you with someone who knows what he’s doing." John pretended to scan the classroom, though in fact his choice was already made. "Why don’t you sit with Mr. Howard?"

  John guided Kaylie to Dallas’ desk, and the boy’s face lit up. Was this Heaven? John didn’t think so; indeed, he no longer believed there was such a place.

  But, if this isn’t Heaven, John thought, then at least it can be a good place. I can try to make it better.

  Dallas’ face was red, but glowing with excitement as Kaylie moved her slim frame near to him, sitting beside him and letting him explain what he was doing.

  John pulled himself away from them with difficulty, trying to cast off the webs of strangeness that had cast themselves about him with the entrance of the new student. He moved into a different row, and work resumed as the class returned to their individual projects. John began his roving again, wandering up and down rows in an apparently directionless pattern that somehow took him by each student who needed his help at just the right time.

  He helped the students where he could, laughed with them where he could not, and above all tried to shake loose the thought that had come into his head. The thought from that night, and from so long ago. The thought that had returned to his mind with Kaylie’s entry into the room. Someone is coming.

  FAN HQ, AD 3999/AE 1999

  Malachi sat in his cell. Waiting. He lay on the cot that was the only piece of furniture in the spare cell. Monks in the Dark Ages lived more ostentatiously than did he, and Malachi, though not proud of that fact, was happy to suffer for his cause.

  He was nude. The darkness of the room caressed his body, touching it with the gentle feel of a lover. He savored the darkness. His eyes were rolled back in his head, as though he were trying to look at his own brain. To see why it made him think the way it did, as though visual perception of the gray mass would be able to further confirm what he already knew: genius resided in his mind. Genius and more.

  Malachi was one of the elect. He had served well, and would continue to do so.

  Fire flared in the darkness. The breath sighed gently from Malachi's lips as he watched the ghostly incandescence dance through the room. No heat came from it, only a dry coolness. That was what told him that the flame existed only to him.

  A vision from God, it had to be.

  The flame danced, and Malachi thought he could see the last bodies of the last men and women on earth as their lives extinguished.

  The final face he saw dying in the fire was his own.

  His hand clenched into a fist, as though tightly gripping the barrel of his gun. He remembered shooting Lucas, and replayed it
in his mind: that wonderful moment when the man realized that his life would end. Lucas’ eyes trying to look in every direction at once, as though the more he could see, the less he would lose.

  The moment of clarity was something Malachi treasured. That moment when they all realized, yes, they were going to die. It came to everyone, though they all experienced it differently. Some refused to accept it until the last, others knew instantly.

  Lucas had known from the moment Malachi shot the bartender. The urine that sprayed out of him testified to that, and he wished he could have taken a small trace of the urine back with him. He supposed he could have, had he thought of it earlier. He could have emptied out a whisky bottle and stored some of Lucas’ fluid in the glass vessel. Would the glass hold it? Or would it burst under the pressure of Lucas’ holy urine?

  Malachi would never know. But next time, perhaps he would try. Perhaps he would make his next victim urinate into a cup. If it was a man, perhaps he would arrange his attack at a time when the man was aroused, to gather the man’s seed, the fluid of life.

  He had no idea how he might do this, but he had no doubt that such could be accomplished, should the desire arise within him.

  He would never take blood, though. Blood was holy. Sacred. It was the redeeming power that had brought him here, to this place, to this very room. It was blood that drove him to kill, to destroy, and thereby to create.

  It was blood that Malachi had spilt, and would spill again. But he would not take it with him. The blood must soak into the earth, to become a testament to his greatness; to the Work he had done.

  An intercom, small and all but hidden in the bare stone wall of his room, beeped.

  Malachi ignored it for a moment. It beeped again, and he swung his legs over the side of his bed. A lighting-stemmed crucifix swung near his chest, its metal warm from laying against his neck. Malachi touched the intercom. At the other end of the line, he knew, another man would be reading a piece of paper. The paper would hold a name, a place, and a time.