Interviewing the CEO

by M. Maponi

The office spoke of minimalism. Ice-white walls, clean-cut and functional furniture. Exception made for the chestnut-colored carpet, everything in the room looked aseptic. The view from the glass wall on the right was more stunning than any painting: a red evening sky loomed over the jagged silhouette of the industrial metropolis below. Dark buildings and skyscrapers sharp as teeth pointed upwards.

Thomas had to admit, at least, that whoever had furnished the office had good taste. He grabbed the nearest swivel chair: his hand a pale, nervous appendage that he almost couldn’t recognize.

Behind the wide glass desk, a male figure sat so still that Thomas swore it could have been part of the furniture. It wore a sharp suit of a sober light brown; underneath, a deceptively simple-looking design shirt.

Theos’s CEO crossed its legs as it watched him. Or at least, Thomas supposed he was being watched. That was difficult to tell, since the figure had a swirling tetrahedron in place of its head.

As Thomas watched, the thing quietly vibrated, adding faces until it became a dodecahedron. Needless to say, there was something jarring in the sight of a headless human body but, somehow, it wasn’t revolting. The figure had a human neck that poked from under the unbuttoned collar and ended in a fine mist. The polyhedron rotated lazily in that light gray glow; occasionally, one of its faces would flicker like a hologram running out of power.

The CEO rested his back against the chair, assuming a relaxed, confident posture. “Good evening, Mr. Wolnmann.” It paused. “Have I said that already?”

Thomas found himself thinking that the voice, while pleasant, sounded somewhat geometrical. He shook his head: those were the first words being spoken since he had entered the office.

“I often get confused. I never remember if I spoke or I just thought. Does it happen to you, also?”

“No, it doesn’t.” Thomas’s mouth was parched. His tongue moved like a decrepit reptile, struggling to get over simple words. He had rehearsed the interview for days, and yet he found himself stuttering. He tried to clear his throat. “No, it doesn’t happen to me. At least not often.”

“Might I call you Thomas?”

He shook his head a second time. “I doubt it would be appropriate. I’d rather be called by my surname.”

“And so it shall be.”

The dodecahedron slowed down, as one of its faces turned towards the window. Thomas took the device from his briefcase: an old-looking, cumbersome audio recorder. He looked at it, hands slightly shaking. It seemed normal. There were no outward signs of his tampering.

“To tell the truth, I am surprised that we’re having this interview.” His voice sounded fake. Dumbass, he thought, get it together already. He placed the recorder on the desk. “You are known for being... elusive.”

“Oh, not at all. I’m known for quite the opposite.” The polyhedric head swirled again, letting out a new coil of gray-golden mist. “But I’ll admit that, statistically speaking, I’m not used to answering questions. In this regard, our meeting today is out of the norm. Original, I might say.”

“I’d like to record our conversation. Would that be a problem?”

“Not at all. Please do.” The dodecahedron contracted itself and became an irregular solid that Thomas couldn’t name. He pushed the button on the device anyway, glancing at his clock. Twenty minutes.

“I’m Thomas Wolnmann, freelancer at the Weisster Journal. This evening I am at Theos’s headquarters, where I’m about to interview Theos’s Chief Executive Officer, also known as God.” He had repeated that sentence so much that it managed to calm him down like a mantra. “I’d like to start with something simple.”

“Of course.” The geometric head, now a sphere, nodded; or at least it quickly lowered itself, as a human chin would do. “I started with something simple as well.”

Thomas shoved saliva back in his throat. “Theos’s arrival on the market is still recent history. From your grand opening, twenty years ago, you’ve become one of the top ten companies. Your rise has been cited, in magazines and economy courses, as the new model for interplanetary capitalism.”

God leaned forward, its geometric head humming like a soft cough. As Thomas watched, its figure changed. Its shoulders shrank under the shirt, its chest became fuller and feminine, its hands shortened and its skin took a mahogany dark hue. Of course, he knew what was happening; he had seen it dozens of times, broadcast on the network. Theologians had debated in depth on God’s capacity to imitate human bodies of any age, shape and gender. Like a skillful magician, always eager to inspire awe. Looking at the change firsthand was as irritating as an itch.

“I’m under the impression that this is not a question.” God remarked, in a smooth, if a little sardonic, contralto tone.

“It’s not.” Thomas shuffled on the chair. “The question, to put it simply, is why. Why, after all, showing yourself in this way? In this shape?”

The polyhedric head buzzed and became slightly blurred. God moved its now sleek hands in the air, in a wide, inclusive gesture, meant to embrace the entire office and maybe more. “Do you find this shape disturbing?”

There was genuine concern in its voice. Thomas relented. Looking at God’s TV apparitions, he always had the impression that its goal was being liked. Or maybe showing how he wanted to accept, and be accepted by, any human being. That realization never failed to send a shiver up his spine.

God interlocked its fingers again over its chest, elbows on the desk. “I struggle to portray myself in an inoffensive manner. I’m aware that some people would prefer a more classic representation. Others,” and its fingers traced a little sphere in the air, “would rather not see me at all.”

Thomas fiddled with his collar. “I meant it in a more general sense. Why showing up in a physical form, for example.”

God tilted its head to the side. “You come from a new-Catholic education, correct?”

He fought the urge to swallow. There was no need to be surprised: a simple google search would have revealed which schools he had attended. Thomas nodded.

“Then you will surely know how history has been sprinkled with a number of prophets. People” — and God seemed to sigh theatrically — “blessed by divine inspiration.”

Thomas shuffled on the seat, trying to control his poise. God’s head became a cube inscribed inside a cone. It hadn’t paid any heed to the audio recorder.

“You spoke with those people? All of those prophets?”

“With most, yes. However, those attempts ended being frustratingly unsuccessful. Speaking is not enough, you see: conveying the Word is not enough. It didn’t matter which words I chose, and in which language; a conversation is a two-way street. When understanding a message, the listener is at least as powerful as the one speaking.”

He had to keep it talking. A single droplet of sweat trickled down his forehead.

“Likewise, you, Mr. Wolnmann, will be able to write a positive or a negative article about me, once returned home.”

“In short, you’re saying that you have been misunderstood.”

God sizzled, and its figure changed again. Shoulders grew and became squared. Breasts sank and the shirt fell flat on its chest, only to stretch over the stomach. Muscle-ridden arms tested the strength of the jacket, as the skin turned a yellowish tint.

“Almost always, and almost completely. Those prophets filtered my words through their ethic, the upbringing they received, the history of their nation and their political beliefs. I did try, of course, to make myself clearer over multiple encounters, but this just added more confusion. From those failures,” it sighed, “some gross mistakes were brought to life.”

That was as much as God had ever said about religion. He had always refused to acknowledge which religions he had inspired and which were a product of human imagination. Thomas found it too convenient.

“As the ages progressed, human societies have become more educated. But this didn’t bring a better comprehension of my message. It just made the myths more convoluted. Up until some years ago,” God pressed on, “I didn’t believe in direct intervention. With time, my apparent absence has become one of the pillars of many faiths. It was said that I moved in mysterious ways, when in fact I barely moved at all.”

“I don’t understand why those prophets couldn’t be convinced of the right message.”

“That’s because you attribute to me divine powers.” Thomas was under the impression that the geometric head wanted to smile. The figure, now a pyramid, spun enthusiastically on itself.

“Truth is, I cannot snap my fingers and change someone’s mind, as much as you wouldn’t be able to change gravity on a whim. The ability to think is humankind’s own sanctuary: I have no say in it.”

Thomas could feel his heart pacing faster, his skin tingling. Stay focused. Keep talking. Twenty minutes were too much; he had overestimated his ability to keep cool. But part of him still wanted to listen; part of him still hoped to be persuaded.

“What made you change your mind?”

“Time.” The polyhedric shapes of its head stopped vibrating. “I figured it was time to try again, with another kind of message, to be delivered directly. In a widespread manner. Nowadays, Theos’s various projects speak for me and better than any priest ever could.”

Thomas’s upper lip curled in a half sneer. “Surely you’ve defeated that kind of competition.”

“Indeed.” God rested both hands on its wide belly. “But some competition remains, as it should in a healthy market. Regarding more theological matters, there are and there will always be sects willing to give an alternative truth.”

“But Theos is not a sect, not a religion,” Thomas objected. “It’s a gigantic corporation.”

“Of course we are. We’re on each and every colonized planet, and we’re able to open a new branch on newly colonized planet in a week’s time.”

“T-that’s ...” Thomas touched the desk with his right hand, then pulled back, scratching his ear instead. “That’s exactly the issue. Why selling services? Why chasing profit?“

“Surely you are familiar with our education programs? With our courses for the unemployed, with the unions we sponsor, with our free legal assistance? With our orphanages, our safehouses for victims of abuse, any abuse, I may add? With the less-known space routes and the far-off colonies, where Theos’s ships guarantee at least a measure of safety?”

“Yes, I know that—”

“No!” God’s voice exploded in a roar, for the first time deadly serious. Imperative. It rose its hand, but it stopped midair and lowered it back on the desk. “To be fair, your misconception is a common one. You think, Mr. Wolnmann, that money corrupts, hence Theos must be corrupted. In truth, money is a means to an end. All those humanitarian activities exist thanks to my staff of professional and dedicated analysts. As we keep making a good profit, we will keep helping people all over. And so it shall be for a long time. We are still growing, still expanding, and we cooperate with all the major governments.”

“But money has no value to you. You could just make money out of thin air.”

“Ah,” God’s head buzzed as if laughing “but that would create a crazy inflation, isn’t that right? I am already held guilty of much. I surely don’t wish to cause another financial crisis.”

For some time, they kept silent. God turned around its polyhedric head towards the window. Its body thinned and shortened, its muscles withered, and wrinkles started appearing on its skin. That transformation made Thomas nauseous: it was like looking at someone aging in fast forward. Something seemed struck in his throat.

The recording device stood, unnoticed, on the desk.

“It’s still a matter of will.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I’ve tried explaining to human beings my point of view: it didn’t work.” God crossed its fingers. “As I stated, I cannot change minds. I could establish a theocracy, but then I would be no better than any of your petty dictators.”

“So you made a corporation.”

“Yes. Theos reaches humanity in a familiar way and speaks with a language that humans understand. Building new hospitals is more efficient, more convincing, than any sermon. And we never ask for faith; we never ask for commitment.”

Thomas had nothing to say against that argument. There had been cases where Theos had been the subject of inquiries, but it always had been for minor stuff. An employee on Mars getting fired, or miscalculations in the tax reports of some small subsidiaries. Each time, Theos had been upright.

Thomas found himself gritting his teeth and he forced his jaws to stop. “That’s hardly a direct way of acting. A lot of people are skeptical of your motives; they think you may be hiding something.”

God tilted its head. “A lot of people, or you?”

Hell, Thomas cursed mentally. He hadn’t managed to keep his voice smooth, neutral; his anger was showing. Don’t mess this up. A few minutes more. “I meant no offense,” he stuttered.

“Don’t mention it.” God shooed away an imaginary fly. “It’s fine; not an issue, nor do I find it offensive. Regarding your question, skepticism doesn’t anger me, even if you might have heard otherwise. I just don’t understand where it comes from.”

“You...” — Thomas stopped, keeping his tone in check — “When you showed yourself to the world, religions of years old fell apart. You know this perfectly well. And still, you opened a business and refused to talk.”

God rested an elbow on the desk, and its body hummed, regaining strength and shape. It looked like a healthy young man again. “About what?”

“The meaning behind existence, yours and ours. Your goal, your design.”

“My goal isn’t much different, roughly speaking, from a cat’s or a monkey’s.”

Thomas opened his mouth to rebut, only to find himself at loss for words. His lips remained parted for a couple of seconds.

“That’s right,” God continued, “like everything alive, my goal is to keep on living.”

That was worse than anything Thomas had anticipated. “You’re telling me,” he said, in a ghostly voice, “that you, of all people, have no goal.”

“On the contrary.” The geometric head contracted until it became a small sphere, then a dot. Something clicked. “Your recorder,” God said, “seems to have stopped.”

Thomas felt his perception expanding, in a single moment of blissful clarity. He thought he could feel time dripping away at the lethargic pace of the sweat on his skin. Suddenly he thought of all the times he had faced a mortal danger. When, in his childhood, the school bus had skidded on the wet road and almost run through the stop like a cannonball. He remembered, many years later, how a robber had pointed a gun at his face.

But right then, right there, the danger couldn’t be avoided or postponed.

The device was homemade. He had collected old recipes from the troubled years of terror attacks and studied them at night. The hardest part had been making the thing portable, unnoticeable, while being powerful enough to fry a room. The time was near. He realized that he wasn’t scared. He had tried to understand, to reconcile his faith with that creature, but now he finally realized there had been no need.

He was excited for his goal, his sacrifice. His glorious mission. The destruction of that false god. “Let me check it,” his voice sounded alien.

Thomas pushed the recorder forward on the desk. In that moment, it exploded, pulverizing his hand in a ball of flame. The desk was annihilated and the carpet melted. Furniture all around them was transformed in a chaos of flying shards. The glass wall shattered outwards, letting out tongues of fire.

Thomas couldn’t know, but most of his body had been reduced to a pulp, splattered across the walls and vaporized; not necessarily in that order. Only fragments of bone were left behind. Somewhere, down below, alarms began howling like concerned cats. The office had become a battlefield.

“I’m sorry. Mr. Wolnmann. As I said, I can’t change someone’s mind. I would have explained, if given the time, that ideas cannot be killed.” God said.