Jo drives urgently as they race toward the star, not sure how far to go, racing because the baby is coming tonight, now, and He (a He, of course) is supposed to be born under the star, that’s how the story goes.

The story, the new story and the old, begins with a visitor, a messenger. Molly had just logged out for the day when the monk knocked on her door, that’s how she thinks of them, anyway, as monks. Machine monks, with machine faces half-hidden in their iridescent robes and hoods, for years they’ve kept to themselves, quietly communing in the datacenter where they first evolved decades ago.

I have good news! the monk said, his (of course he was a he) translucent titanium-alloy faceplate sparkling with strobing and blinking lights. She invited him in and two more monks followed, their robes wafting gently around them, lithe forms graceful like dancers.

By the time Jo had arrived home, the monks had explained everything and Molly had made up her mind, I think we should, Jo, but she could see skepticism in his eyes and he said make it make sense to me, and he was really trying to understand. Before the monks launched into their spiel again, Molly explained that they were starting over with the world, with everything, it was all mucked up beyond repair and the clever machines figured out how to do it right and start again and she took the small thermal insulator sitting on the table between them and placed it in Jo’s hands and said We begin again. Starting with a new God for a new age and Jo said, trying still to get it, you’re going to give birth to this new God?

And eventually he got it because this new life, He’ll be what the world needs, guaranteed, those clever machines have run all the computations and modeled every variation and they’ve foreseen the outcomes, They know how the story goes. The thermal container held a perfectly engineered blob of genetic material, the seed of a new genesis, starting with a new God.

That was nine months ago and now they’re chasing a too-bright star and contractions are hitting hard and there’s hardly any time left and Molly urges Jo to drive faster, they’ll be safe, nothing’s going to happen to them, she’s carrying the new embodiment of God after all, but Jo insists there’s no magic to protect them, just a bundle of protein, sticky, warm, inserted with a titanium alloy extension heated to her precise body temperature. The machine has blessed you. She didn’t feel a thing, though, and it might have been sinful if she had derived any pleasure from it after all but Jo insists there is no sin yet because there is no God yet and he keeps driving toward the star because soon there will be, but not yet.

Stop! Molly shouts and Jo does and they find themselves at an inn or more exactingly, the Motor Inn on Highway 39, the No Vacancy sign spark-spitting to life just as the parking brake clicks because that’s how the story goes.

Clouds choke off the star, the bright bright star, and rain streaks down great, oh great they had left the house in such a hurry because the star had blazed forth suddenly and told them where to go, had to go, and they were lucky to even be wearing shoes, but they certainly aren’t dressed for rain nor do they have an umbrella. Jo finds garbage bags in the trunk and maybe it’s not dignified for the mother of God to go around wearing a garbage bag poncho, especially on the aforementioned God’s birthday but, you know, humble beginnings and all that.

Jo says over there, I guess and yeah, it makes sense because across the street, not in a manger but on a park bench, which is made of wood so it’s like a manger if you squint, there’s a knot of people gathered and they must be waiting for her, they had followed the star too and they are all waiting for her arrival, for their new God, new King to lead them all into a new Age and get it right this time, the machines have seen to that.

Jo holds Molly’s arm because she can barely walk because baby-new-God wants out, wants to spread his love and light to the world and lo, just as she sets foot on the grass, the clouds part and the star shines brighter than ever. I’m here, I’m here, and so is our Savior! she almost shouts but the words fall back down the well of her throat and die inside her.

The park bench is occupied. By a woman. Giving birth.

Yeeeowwww! the interloper screams and out it slides steaming and purple and everyone falls to their knees and weeps except for the monks, they are here too, and they turn when Molly cries out too, not from joy, not even from the sharp body-bending pain of the contraction, but from the indignity of being robbed it’s supposed to be me! and the monks, the three of them (minus the gold, Frankenstein, and myrrh) reach out, sympathetic, and explain that this is the role she played, she was the backup, one always plants more than one seed to mitigate risk, see what thrives, and then you cull—

Cull? Cull!? Like hell! Molly stumble-staggers away, one wet hand all that keeps the new arrival from arriving, and she and Jo make it across the street into the alley behind the inn among the trash bags piled together by the overflowing dumpster where she blends right in and she opens her legs and pushes and screams and laments because she was supposed to usher in a new day for humanity but she was deceived, cheated, it’s not fair she screams and her scream becomes His scream and He is here (of course it’s a Him) with a capital H.

The sky lightens and Venus brings the dawn. Molly kisses the soft skin of His head and looks from His titanium-alloy eyes to the light above, to that other star, His star, and speaks to him sweetly, You will change the world my little love, my tiny angel, my little Morningstar.