The "Hand of God" was a thought experiment proposed some time in the twenty-one forties. It described five technologies that, if utilized in concert, would make their wielder indistinguishable from God.
Vilman sat at his desk in his office on his personal star cruiser, "The Left One". His deep brown eyes stared out at the brightening starfield, seeing deep into the ultraviolet and infrared. He sighed, and lowered his gaze to the work slate embedded in his station. A tiny box in the upper left hand corner of the screen blinked. One thousand, one hundred, thirty one. One thousand, one hundred, thirty five, it kept going up.
It was times like this that Vilman caught himself wondering if being a senator of the Hundred Worlds was the right position for him. As an anti-corruption measure the position hadn't paid anything in centuries. The always-growing lists of communications stalked him everywhere he went. That little box of blinking numbers wasn't unique. There was an identical indicator at the foot of his bed, on the floor of his shower, and on every tablet he owned. Also an anti-corruption measure, he remembered. He scoffed. The senate was hopelessly corrupt, and all the measures his predecessors had taken to prevent that had backfired. Some more spectacularly than others.
He glanced back up at the window to space again. In the distance, he thought he could see a nebula expanding. It's ultra-indigo hue pinned his gaze to the viewport, gently pulsing in the black. Vilman lost track of time gazing at the majesty of space. When he looked back down at his work slate again the number was one thousand, two hundred, and four. Vilman pushed himself up out of his comfortably plush hoverchair and gently stepped out of his office. "The Left One" wasn't the most extravagant star cruiser. Certainly not. For a senator his ride was an outright junker. His antigravity genemod gardens had less than two hundred specimens, after all. So as Vilman strode into the hot, moist air of those gardens his thoughts were not on the beauty, health, and wealth they embodied.
His mind was entirely occupied with a question. "Should I run for Prime Senator?" And for Vilman, this wasn't a question of if he wanted the position. It was a question of how assured was he to win. He remembered running for his current spot as Senator. The previous person in his spot was a drone sympathizing pacifist. She hadn't stood a chance. A single well-timed drone riot had shown the public she was weak. So when he swept in with a polished set of hired guns to remove the rogue robots, his win was almost certain.
It was doubly ensured when his opponent pulled out of the race a few days later. A change of heart, you know. The end times would do that to anyone. Anyone but Vilman Antargonis. He allowed his public mask to crack in the privacy of his antigravity genemod gardens, and a sickening grin spread over his face. The end times were an opportunity. No, not *an* opportunity, *the* opportunity of a lifetime. Everyone was scared, resources were more plentiful than ever, and the leadership of the Hundred Worlds had made extra sure it was too weak to do a damn thing about it. He would run for Prime Senator. He would win the race, and reform the senate. Vilman knew all their secrets. Every hidden basement, every cabin in the woods, every 'little mistake' and bribe from the last fifteen years was carefully recorded and rigged to dead-mans-switches. If he died, the whole senate was getting put out an airlock for treason soon after.
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He schooled his features back to something natural. A calm, reassuring facade was required. Vilman breathed the thick, humid air of the garden one last time before stepping out onto the main deck of "The Left One". With a deep and resonant voice, he began dictating his inauguration speech. Once that was done, he'd work on announcing his candidacy.
"Citizens of these Hundred Worlds, fifteen years ago we entered a new era. For hundreds of years, our member worlds were the greatest achievements of humankind. Safe, secure, prosperous. There were places where hunger and thirst were unheard of. Where the fear of violence was as absurd as the fear of the dark" he paused, laughing bitterly at the idea. "But now, we are in the end times. Technologies we hoped would elevate us even further have instead damned us and all our children, forever. Our military was prepared for alien threats, but the greatest threat came from within."
"The academics and their supporters are responsible for the doom that has come to the stars. Their blind arrogance abused our trust. The told us their reckless innovation would bring the Hundred Worlds into a new golden age. They lied! Throughout my campaign to become Prime Senator their hateful hearts have become more and more exposed. Now it is undeniable. The academics have shown their true colors! Even as I speak, their leaders have already been put out the airlock for high treason. Their treason, their arrogance, their reckless damnation; none of it will go unanswered! The remaining academics and their supporters will be sent to internment camps on Uriston Four."
Vilman took another deep breath. It would be a fantastic challenge to get the public to turn so completely on the academics. At the time of recording they were commonly seen as the best chance of reversing the apocalypse. He finished his dictation and glanced down at the ever-present counter of messages. It read one thousand, eight hundred, and eighty two. Vilman sighed. Once he was Prime Senator, he would undo the useless anti-corruption measures. He needed a secretary badly.
The first finger of the Hand of God is an Intergalactic Warp Drive. If such a thing existed, it would allow the user to be anywhere, instantly. The relativistic consequences of such a thing were extensively debated. The earliest prototypes appeared to simply vanish when activated. It was not until more fingers were built that the issue was resolved. In the words of Professor Hammond, "Time travel is a bitch and a half."