PREVIEW: Chairman
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The LOST GENRE GUILD
Biblical Speculative Fiction
| Frank Creed's short story "Chairman" can be found in Light at the Edge of Darkness along with 26 other stories of Biblical speculative fiction.
Read more about the author, Frank Creed |
At the sculpture’s peak, every surface supported the man’s body as though it were
precisely constructed for him at this moment in time. The oversized lounge-style seat
gave him the appearance of a two-year-old propped up in adult furniture. The
doughnut headrest mounted in the middle of the chair’s backrest cradled his skull
perfectly, yet the seat’s architecture towered a full meter above him. From the frame,
headrest and leg extension, chrome tube tentacles maneuvered data screens like a
flock of salesmen competing for a buyer’s attention. His Yves Saint Laurent silk suit
reflected the shimmering electric blue of the closest screen.
“Chair, please show me Chicago’s Rehab success-rate demographics.”
Monochromatic cloth squeaked soft on leather as he shifted in his seat. Chair bulged to
support a raised knee. Chair waited upon him, as his tool, his friend . . . his world. This
would be a lonely place without Chair.
Silk turned red, reflecting the color of live obedient screens. Mirrored eyes reflected
data-columns that scrolled faster than a human eye could read, but this was the Web,
here he was god and the data river blasting through his mind shifted its current.
To handle an Amazon-sized pressurized data river, written procedures had been both
uploaded and neuro-surgically implanted on micro-circuitry. The thing in the chair was
human Energy, as in E=MC². It connected like a stretched-shoestring to flesh that
languished in a sensory deprivation tank. Life support systems kept the man’s body
functioning in an other-world laboratory, in another dimension known as Brussels,
Belgium. Now he lived here and it was good. Spirit’s E perpetually smiled intellectual
smugness and ecstasy. Being a Web god with data’s direct access was good.
“Spirit?” asked a nearly human voice.
“Yes, Chair?”
“I have processed and have understood the Metaphysics and Philosophy file. I now
perceive that you have taken the name Spirit after the Triune godhead of Judeo-
Christianity. The entity with whom you address as Son or Jesus, is like the Messiah,
doing the Father’s physical work.”
“That’s it.” Spirit smirked parental pride.
“But what makes this Father so powerful?”
“Ah, that.” Spirit reduced the river’s pressure. “He’s learned to communicate with
Natural Selection. He’s the first of our species who’s evolved into humankind’s next
phase. I’m the Father’s research tool, and the Son’s in charge of operations, but the
Father . . . he is wisdom’s source. The three of us are a real Trinity running the One
State.”
“Your work is far more important than I knew—running your world. I never before
understood the irony behind your names.”
Spirit laughed “You’re understanding irony now? You’re progressing faster than I’d ever
thought possible!”
“Thank you . . . may I have access to the Natural Selection file?”
“You’re kiddin’ me, right? Do your worst!” Spirit shook his virtual head in amazement.
He left the river’s volume down, ergo his subconscious mind, to handle things. He
rarely surveyed the Web around him, and he avoided looking down—not of altophobia
or vertigo, but of sheer time management priorities. He had too much to do.
precisely constructed for him at this moment in time. The oversized lounge-style seat
gave him the appearance of a two-year-old propped up in adult furniture. The
doughnut headrest mounted in the middle of the chair’s backrest cradled his skull
perfectly, yet the seat’s architecture towered a full meter above him. From the frame,
headrest and leg extension, chrome tube tentacles maneuvered data screens like a
flock of salesmen competing for a buyer’s attention. His Yves Saint Laurent silk suit
reflected the shimmering electric blue of the closest screen.
“Chair, please show me Chicago’s Rehab success-rate demographics.”
Monochromatic cloth squeaked soft on leather as he shifted in his seat. Chair bulged to
support a raised knee. Chair waited upon him, as his tool, his friend . . . his world. This
would be a lonely place without Chair.
Silk turned red, reflecting the color of live obedient screens. Mirrored eyes reflected
data-columns that scrolled faster than a human eye could read, but this was the Web,
here he was god and the data river blasting through his mind shifted its current.
To handle an Amazon-sized pressurized data river, written procedures had been both
uploaded and neuro-surgically implanted on micro-circuitry. The thing in the chair was
human Energy, as in E=MC². It connected like a stretched-shoestring to flesh that
languished in a sensory deprivation tank. Life support systems kept the man’s body
functioning in an other-world laboratory, in another dimension known as Brussels,
Belgium. Now he lived here and it was good. Spirit’s E perpetually smiled intellectual
smugness and ecstasy. Being a Web god with data’s direct access was good.
“Spirit?” asked a nearly human voice.
“Yes, Chair?”
“I have processed and have understood the Metaphysics and Philosophy file. I now
perceive that you have taken the name Spirit after the Triune godhead of Judeo-
Christianity. The entity with whom you address as Son or Jesus, is like the Messiah,
doing the Father’s physical work.”
“That’s it.” Spirit smirked parental pride.
“But what makes this Father so powerful?”
“Ah, that.” Spirit reduced the river’s pressure. “He’s learned to communicate with
Natural Selection. He’s the first of our species who’s evolved into humankind’s next
phase. I’m the Father’s research tool, and the Son’s in charge of operations, but the
Father . . . he is wisdom’s source. The three of us are a real Trinity running the One
State.”
“Your work is far more important than I knew—running your world. I never before
understood the irony behind your names.”
Spirit laughed “You’re understanding irony now? You’re progressing faster than I’d ever
thought possible!”
“Thank you . . . may I have access to the Natural Selection file?”
“You’re kiddin’ me, right? Do your worst!” Spirit shook his virtual head in amazement.
He left the river’s volume down, ergo his subconscious mind, to handle things. He
rarely surveyed the Web around him, and he avoided looking down—not of altophobia
or vertigo, but of sheer time management priorities. He had too much to do.
The Lost Genre Guild's mission is to promote quality works of Biblical Speculative Fiction (spec-fic)
through its authors, fans; to endorse new releases that fit this criteria; and of course, to glorify Him.
through its authors, fans; to endorse new releases that fit this criteria; and of course, to glorify Him.
AT A GLANCE, ONE would never have guessed that the
skyscraper-tall sculpture existed merely as a psycho-eccentric
executive Chair. The towering construct loomed somewhere
between Jules Verne’s Nautilus and da Vinci’s Aerial Screw.
Copper beams and aged-green rivets contrasted stretched black
leather.
skyscraper-tall sculpture existed merely as a psycho-eccentric
executive Chair. The towering construct loomed somewhere
between Jules Verne’s Nautilus and da Vinci’s Aerial Screw.
Copper beams and aged-green rivets contrasted stretched black
leather.
