The Holy Machine by Chris Beckett

you were in Greece when the Greek squippies went crazy.’
    I pulled the top off the first can of beer and let the TV settle on real-time news.
    ‘… all around Illyria, sabres are rattling ’ a commentator was saying, ‘ The Islamic Republic of Albania has officially declared war. The Holy Autochthony of Epiros has suspended all contacts. The First Hearer of Herczgovina has called on all children of Light to suspend their differences and obliterate Illyria, which alone of all countries in the world is purely made of Darkness. The Pope has sent a message of condolence to his erstwhile bitter enemy, the Patriarch of Constantinople. Even the First Elect of America, Elisha Jones, has expressed his outrage, though of course Catholics, Muslims and Orthodox Christians, just as much as unbelievers, are persecuted under his own Protestant rule… ’
    Image after image showed angry crowds, angry religious leaders, in the diverse trappings of their faiths…
    Then there were reassuring images of Illyria in readiness: jets marked with wide-open eyes streaking across the sky, Goliath fighting robots, three metres tall, patrolling the frontier, armed speedboats streaking across the mild blue sea with Illyrian flags fluttering behind them…
    And then: more crowds, flashbacks to earlier that day in Illyria City itself.
    I was shaking badly now. When Charlie brought me my meal I could barely hold it.
    ‘You see?’ Ruth demanded, pointing at the screen, ‘You see?’
    I exploded then. ‘For fuck’s sake Ruth, just leave me alone for five minutes will you!’
    She burst into tears and ran off to her room.
    ‘You never even asked me what happened to me today!’ I shouted after her, ‘I’m the one that was nearly killed, not you! Me! Me! Me!’
    I felt a strange dull ache behind my eyes.
    Hungry as I had been, I found that when it came to it I couldn’t bring myself to eat, or to follow what was happening on the TV screen, or even to sit still in one place. I grabbed my jacket and went out, heading for Lucy, through subways crawling with security machines and streets still littered with debris.

15
    ‘How are you George? It’s nice to see you! Would you like a glass of wine, or some coffee or something?’
    ‘No thank you.’
    Lucy was wearing her little, sleeveless denim dress. She settled on the bed, tossing back her hair, curling her legs up underneath her, in that graceful, teasing way that I normally found irresistible.
    She smiled.
    ‘You look tired. What do you want to do, George? Talk a bit? Shall I tell you about what I used to get up to with those naughty sisters of mine? Or do you want to watch me undress? Or do you just want to…’
    ‘You’re not real, Lucy.’
    She laughed, apparently unabashed.
    ‘I mean, look at this stupid room,’ I said, ‘Those books. You can’t even read can you?’
    ‘I can read. Sometimes visitors like to write things down they want to do, if they are feeling a bit shy. Would you like to do that George?’
    I grabbed one of the books from the shelf and flipped through the pages: Science Fiction in the Twentieth Century .
    ‘ The characters lack depth ,’ I read, opening it at random, ‘ and it’s obvious that the relationships between them are of much less interest to themselves or the author than their relationship with technology. It is as if the latter has become a substitute for… ’
    I flipped impatiently to the table of contents.
    ‘Go on then,’ I said. ‘If this is your book, tell me the names of some twentieth century science fiction writers!’
    Lucy smiled: ‘Heinlein, Asimov, Aldiss, Ballard…’ she began.
    I was surprised and, very grudgingly, impressed by the thoroughness of her programming.
    ‘You could have got that just from the contents page. Okay then: Asimov, Heinlein… Tell me some of their books!’
    Lucy looked at me with her beautiful, gentle eyes.
    ‘ I, Robot ,’ she began, ‘ Stranger in a Strange Land… ’
    I tossed the book