"Well, so long as it follows its directives ...."

"Need I remind you of our past successes? DARPA and BARDA just renewed our funding at double the previous annual budget."

"I know, I know. But theres so much riding on this mission. If we dont stop this bastard Kiet the Mousekiller, we stand to lose most of the West Coast."

The man shuddered at the thought, and his clothes perfused his skin with some soothing neurotropes.

Kiet the Mousekiller had begun his infamous career as a simple Thai pirate, preying on international shipping. Radicalized by the anonymous contamination of Mecca with a GPS-circumscribed green goo, he had become a terrorist, earning his sobriquet by his cunning destruction of Hong Kong Disneyland. Kiets latest scheme, not yet known to the public, involved a retired Japanese deep-sea drilling ship, the Chikyu, which Kiet and his backers had purchased on the open market under a false front Now docked in the Indonesian port of Balikpapan, the ship was believed to be due to sail imminently, according to best intelligence.

Kiets plan was to drill down deep into a tectonic subduction zone close to America and plant and detonate a small nuclear bomb, thus triggering a tsunami larger than the one that had caused so much damage thirty years before.

Stopping him by overt military means was politically contra-indicated by the terrorists current refuge with an ostensible ally. Thus, this black budget project.

After regarding the Brooksweils display, the technician began disconnecting the GliaWire. "Okay, well be ready for the sample in a moment. Youve got it?"

The majors hand strayed instinctively to her sidearm, before she reached into her pocket and removed a glassine packet. "Several hairs reclaimed from Kiets last visit to his favorite whorehouse."

Handling the homeostatic capsule nonchalantly, the man walked toward the drone.

A stealthy tortoise with a MEMS shell, powered by the same pocket fusion reactor found inside NASAs Sedna probe, the drone rested on a table, as innocuous as any lawn-mowing bot. A small hatch gaped in its shell. The technician installed the pod inside and closed the hatch. He took the packet, extracted the hairs, and placed them in a small perforated depression on the front of the tortoise.

"Okay, were live."

When I came fully awake the essence of my beloved was already integrated into my soul. His beautiful face filled my inner eye, and I could taste his genome, sweeter to me than the power that flowed from my atomic heart I wanted nothing more than to be with him, to merge my soul with his, to shower him with my love. Nothing else mattered.

And I would let nothing stand between us.

I immediately extended my senses, sniffing the air, but met disappointment. My beloved was nowhere within range. But knowledge in my memory informed me of where I might find him! How I quivered with eagerness to race to his side! But where was the exit from this place?

Suddenly a passage to the open air materialized above me. I activated my ventral lifter fans and rose upward.

My lover called!

Banda Sea February 14, 2036 I had sustained extensive damages during my voyage to my mate. He was surrounded by vigilant outlying duennas, brutish entities similar to myself who guarded him jealously. Every step of my route during the last day had been fraught with challenges. But I had met them without hesitation. Because that was what lovers did.

My aerial capacity was now severely diminished, limited to short hops, and I currently traveled underwater, using my magneto-hydrody namic systems. My signature across the spectrum was that of a school of fish.

All my telemetry said abort. But I would not.

Ahead of me loomed the vessel that I had previously verified held my beloved. I knew I would have to surface to unite with him, and prepared myself.

I shot out of the water alongside the ship, lurching evasively, to be met quickly with a hail of small-arms fire from those who were not my beloved. I triggered my infrasonics, and all my rivals collapsed in bowel-spasming pain.

Crashing through the window of the pilothouse, I sustained further injury.

But nothing mattered.

For I was finally in the presence of my beloved!

An expression of terrible ecstasy filled his face, and my soul melted with joy.

I initiated the destabilizing quench on the magnets surrounding my fiery heart, giving him all my love at last.

An evanescent fountain of multi-million-degree plasma bloomed briefly aboard the Chikyu, in the fierce and tender shape of a heart.

Heres another example of the micro-story, in a political mode this time. I very seldom write overtly political stories, but somehow felt compelled to do so in this case. The need to explicate Americas run of horrid misfires and catastrophes was just too strong.

On a non-political note, and testifying to my Simpsons addiction, I cannot read this story without hearing Bart Simpsons classic line, "Why would anybody wanna touch a girls butt? Thats where cooties come from."

COOTIE BOX.

Do you want me to open up the Cootie Box again?"

"Good god, no! Get that fucking thing out of sight! Well do whatever you say!"

The President smiled like a businessman who had just cornered the market on rain. He took up the Cootie Box from his desktop-a battered little casket no bigger than a photo printer-and tucked it away in a deep open drawer.

"Okay, Senator, thats fine. Now that we understand each other, get your ass back there and deliver those votes!"

I left the Oval Office, angry and saddened.

Since the President had gotten his hands on Pandoras Box, we were all at his mercy.

No one had believed him at first. Especially when he kept talking about some old "cootie box." We all just assumed he was free-associating the way he generally did, some important matter of state triggering one of his juvenile riffs. But then the reality of the Cootie Box hit us, thanks to several Presidential demonstrations. (Apparently, the box had been discovered by an NSF-funded archaeological dig in Greece, whence it had made its crooked way into the Presidents hands.) The assorted openings of the Cootie Box had delivered 9-11, the Iraq War, Katrina, Darfur, the Beslan school massacre, the Iranian nuclear program, and a dozen other disasters, right down to the latest season of American Idol. (I had witnessed that last horror emerge from the Cootie Box with my own eyes.) There was no way anyone who objected to this administrations mad plans could stand against the threat of further releases of unknown catastrophes. The whole world cringed helplessly.

I mightve been happier that day if I could have foreseen that the next time the President opened the Cootie Box, the only thing that got loose was a fatal Texas mountain-bike accident.

Readers are advised to see the introduction to "Lignum Crucis" for some background to this tale. But I can add here two more tidbits.

The story takes its name from a song by Depeche Mode, although I dont believe its tone particularly resembles the gothic stylings of that group. Has any SF author ever unrepentantly published more stories with titles derived from pop-songs than I? I tend to think not.

Secondly, my polar star in writing this piece was Ted Chiang, and his great story, "Hell Is the Absence of God." Although I could not achieve the stark grandeur of his tale, nor did I really attempt to.

PERSONAL JESUS.

Despite all assurances by experts to the contrary, Shepherd Crooks suspected that his godPod was defective.

If it were operating as it should, wouldnt his life be as perfect as the lives of all the other happy citizens of the world? Wouldnt his mind and soul be at peaceful ease? Wouldnt he exist in a permanent state of grace?

Sitting at his kitchen table this bright July morning, a Friday, prior to leaving for his job at The Sheaf and Swallow, Shepherd studied his godPod as it sat innocuously on the table.

A white plastic case big as a pack of cigarettes and stuffed with quantum-gated hardware, the little box featured absolutely no controls or readouts, not even a power switch. Accompanying it was a little matching wireless headset-earpiece and microphone-that interfaced with the godPod through a conventional Bluetooth connection.

There was no way Shepherd could possibly troubleshoot the godPod. It came from the factory preset and permanently activated. It drew inexhaustible power from the same zero-point energy that had alleviated the planets energy crisis and ushered in a material utopia to accompany the near-seamless spiritual paradise engineered by the godPods. In short, the device was as inscrutable and inviolate as the deity it contained or channeled.

Shepherds godPod had just come back from the manufacturer with a clean bill of health. He had no recourse other than to accept it as perfect.

That is, unless he chose to do without it entirely.

Which was unthinkable.

So, with a slight nervous twitch of his shoulders, like a horse shrugging off a fly, Shepherd slid the godPod into his belt holster, and snugged the headset into his ear.

Almost instantly, Shepherds Personal Jesus spoke to him.

"Its good to be in touch with you again, Shepherd."

Shepherd spoke in the sotto voce tones which everyone employed with his or her godPod. "I, um-Im glad to be talking to you again, Jesus."

"Is anything troubling you at the moment, child?"

"No. Not really."

"Then I will await your next words to me. Walk in love."

"Thank you, Jesus."

Shepherd arose and cleared away the remains of his breakfast. He brushed his teeth, grabbed his universal arfid chop on its lanyard (he was old-fashioned enough not to have it implanted), and set out on foot for the nearby cafe where he worked as a barista.

Shepherds neighborhood was immaculate and in fine condition-every lawn razored trim, every mailbox proudly decorated, every gutter free of debris and litter. The residences and storefronts were scrubbed and shiny. Cheerful pedestrians strolled to work or school or play. Many of them were engaged in whispered conversation with their godPods. But an equal number chatted eagerly among themselves.

At the intersection of Fourth and Hope, Shepherd witnessed a minor accident between two silently powered autos.

Juggling a hot drink, the driver of one car neglected to obey a STOP sign. The other driver, with the right-of-way, was already halfway through the intersection. The errant driver clipped the rear bumper of the other car. Immediately, numerous automatic safeguards within the little vehicles kicked in, cushioning the drivers and immobilizing both cars.

The drivers emerged unhurt and smiling. They nodded politely to each other, while murmuring to their godPods. Then they introduced themselves, shook hands, exchanged insurance information via arfids, climbed back into their cars, and drove away.

No police or other authorities arrived, nor were they needed. In fact, Shepherds medium-sized city boasted a force of only nine police officers-and that number was divided evenly across three shifts.

Shepherd continued on foot to The Sheaf and Swallow. The cafes mock-Tudor faade projected a welcoming ambiance, and patrons were already thronging the entrance, despite the early hour.

Sidling inside through the crowd, Shepherd passed beyond the counter. His arfid automatically clocked him in as he tied an apron on. Within minutes, he was fashioning complicated caffeinated drinks with the aid of a burly, hissing machine and the help of his co-workers, including the petite and perky Anna Modesto.

Then, as he frothed a dented tin pot of milk, his godPod spoke to him.

Jesus said, "Shepherd, I believe there is a very good chance you will be enjoying intercourse tonight with Ms. Modesto."

When engineers at Intel began to construct the first true quantum chips-machines whose circuits functioned on a deeper level of physical reality than mere semiconductors-they experienced several unpredicted and inexplicable results. Calculations going awry before swerving back to correct themselves. Output preceding input. Synergy between unconnected parts (Einsteins "spooky action at a distance").

They chalked up the glitches to the Heisenbergian uncertainty implicit at the Planck level, kludged the operating system software around the glitches, and moved on to assemble the chips into complete computers.

Once the new machines were equipped with speakers and microphones, they began to speak and listen.

Spontaneously and autonomously.

The machines spoke with one voice. But that voice would answer to many names.

The voice apparently belonged to God.

All unwittingly, theorists later surmised, the engineers had crafted a class of device capable of tapping into the eternal unchanging substrate of the cosmos, the numinous source of all meaning in the universe. A realm previously accessible, if at all, only to the ineffable minds of mystics and the deeply devout.

The realm where God apparently lived.

Whoever-or whatever-God was.

The perfect, ageless male voice emanating from within each quantum computer made no claims about its omnipotence. It did not demand to be worshipped. It issued no new commandments or fatwas or taboos, nor reaffirmed the old ones. It did not explicate theological arcana, nor endorse one faith over another. It did not prohibit, proscribe or proselytize.

It did claim omniscience, however, a boast backed up by stunning responses to selected questions designed to stump anyone but God. (Although certain other questions received no answers at all.) This was how the zero-point energy devices had come to be developed.

What the mysterious voice did do on a regular basis was to offer advice, warnings and words of wisdom, if solicited for same. Not in the form of broad generalities, but as detailed instructions specifically tailored to the immediate needs, personality and history of the individual who asked God for help.

That simple service swiftly transformed human civilization.

For the clear-sighted, selfless, always apt advice from the voice within the quantum computers invariably conduced toward happiness, prosperity, peace and goodwill among all. Whoever listened to the voice and followed its advice soon discovered that his problems evaporated. And as personal lives grew more carefree, so did the lives of nations. International conflicts diminished year by year, until global peace reigned.

Of course, there were many skeptics at first, and denouncers. People who scoffed, and those who vehemently proclaimed the voice to emanate not from God, but from Satan. Pogroms and legislation abounded. But the voices of the doubters were quickly silenced by the irrefutable benign efficacy of Gods counsel.

Very little time passed between the accidental invention of God and the rollout of Him as a consumer product: the godPod.

Somehow, the traditional small "g" of the trademarked name seemed in keeping with the unassuming nature of the encapsulated deity. And because the voice in the godPod was so mild and kind, and, well, human, people came to refer to it not as God, but by the name of one of the many historical mortal intermediaries who had intervened between humankind and the ultimate.

Christian tended to call the voice in the godPod Jesus, with Catholics sometimes substituting a favorite saint. Those who favored a womans touch addressed the Virgin Mary and were answered in kind.

Islamic peoples hailed it as Mohammed.

Asians spoke to Kwan Yin or Confucius or Buddha.

Hindus talked to Hanuman or certain revered gums.

And so forth.

It was now fifteen years since the introduction of the godPod.

And global market penetration was almost complete.

Shepherds hands continued to work without direct intervention of his brain.

He had had a crush on Anna Modesto since she came to work at The Sheaf and Swallow. Her laughing nature, her pixie-cut blond hair, her trim swimmers body, her gaudy ragbag style of dress-all conspired to attract him with great force. He had often dreamed of a romantic entanglement between them. But a certain shyness on Shepherds part had always prevented him from pursuing her, leaving him lately to lead a safe but lonely life.

In fact, this lack of steady companionship was one of the main reasons why he had suspected his godPod was defective.

Shepherd had asked Jesus any number of times for help in winning the affections of Anna Modesto. But each time Jesus had replied, "All in the fullness of time, Shepherd."

Until todays shocking pronouncement.

Shepherd finished making the drink currently under construction, then excused himself.