Day 100. 71 pages, 31,657 words.
Nobody believed. Nobody even listened – not more than once. He lived the remainder of his days on the frontier station Zero-Dark-Magi, a familiar fixture in the station bars.
But once, to hear him tell it, he’d been a virtuoso. A visionary, working with visionaries.
Rasconopolous hailed from a system once named Pax Ganimus, but which had for some ninety years been known as the Bunzolabe – and, for the past decade or more, as one of the most dangerous places in the galaxy. The Bunzolabe was the star system of Horatio Bunzo’s Funtime Happy World, and Rasconopolous had been one of the few to escape when the planet-sized amusement park had started to kill.
It was said that when Horatio Bunzo felt night approaching, he’d had his body preserved in a sleeper pod. This, Rasconopolous claimed, was not the case.
No. What beloved old Bunzo had done, Rasconopolous raved, was transcribe his consciousness into electronic form, gaining functional immortality in a computer cortex the size of a small continent. Thus reincarnated, he could continue to rule benevolently over his empire.
What actually happened when a human mind escaped its fragile flesh, its prison of sociocultural obligation, was … awful. Billions had died. A fortunate few escaped by the munificence of Bunzo – as had Rasconopolous, in a manually-operated, electrochemical death-trap of his own construction, just ahead of the evacuees. He’d been fortunate to have been found at all.
He had known what was coming. He’d known what the world was about to become. He’d known, he said, because he’d been head scientist on the very project which saw Horatio Bunzo’s mind peeled screaming out of its meat, and let loose into the electronic sphere.
Professor Mandon Rasconopolous didn’t call himself by any of his academic titles.
He called himself The Godmaker.