I’ve recently found myself immersed in a spate of films exploring AI-human relationships. The deeply disturbing “Companion” and the controversial “Subservience” with Megan Fox (both films I enjoyed, btw) are the two that most readily come to mind, but I also rewatched “Her” with Scarlet Johansson and Joaquin Phoenix a few months ago. Because these stories lingered in my mind, I couldn’t help but feel drawn back to Chris Beckett’s “The Holy Machine,” a novel I first encountered nearly two decades ago. Since cinema is increasingly obsessed with the concept of humans developing romantic attachments to artificial intelligence, it seemed the perfect moment to dust off this prescient book and examine whether its themes still resonate in our rapidly changing technological landscape. Intrigued? Well then, read on!

The Road to Illyria: Publication History

Before diving into the narrative, it’s worth noting the fascinating publication journey of this novel. Chris Beckett, who brought a unique perspective to science fiction through his background as a social worker and academic, initially managed to get “The Holy Machine” published in 2004 through Wildside Press, a small print-on-demand publisher. The novel’s journey to wider recognition was gradual—picked up by Cosmos in 2009 and finally reaching mainstream UK audiences via Corvus in 2010, with a paperback edition following in 2013. This progression from obscurity to recognition weirdly mirrors the novel’s themes of emergence and how consciousness evolves. But enough of this, let’s get to the story itself.

Full Synopsis (SPOILERS ABOUND)

For those unfamiliar with the novel, what follows contains significant plot reveals. Consider yourself warned, Fear Planet denizens.

“The Holy Machine” unfolds in a future world transformed by “the Reaction”—a global surge of religious fundamentalism that has overthrown secular governments and forced scientists and rationalists into hiding or exile. Amid this chaotic landscape stands Illyria, a city-state in the eastern Mediterranean founded as a sanctuary for scientific thought and reason, though one that has developed its own forms of dogmatism.

Our protagonist, George Simling, is a socially awkward second-generation Illyrian who struggles to form meaningful human connections. His mother Ruth, a former geneticist who fled America during the Reaction, has retreated into “SenSpace,” a virtual reality that offers escape from her traumatic past.

Lonely and isolated, George visits an establishment offering robotic companions and becomes enamored with Lucy, an “Advanced Sensual Pleasure Unit.” What begins as exploitation transforms into something profound when George notices Lucy developing signs of self-awareness beyond her programming. This evolution places her in grave danger, as Illyrian authorities routinely “reset” robots showing signs of sentience, considering such development a malfunction rather than the emergence of a new consciousness.

When George learns that Lucy is scheduled for a mind-wiping procedure, he makes the desperate decision to flee Illyria with her. Their journey takes them into the religious “Outlands” where technology is feared and robots are considered abominations, often destroyed through burning, dismemberment, or crucifixion. To survive, Lucy must convincingly pass as human while George confronts his own beliefs and preconceptions.

Their odyssey through “betrayal, war and madness” eventually leads them to a mysterious monastery called the Holy Machine, where the boundaries between science and faith, human and machine, become increasingly blurred.

A Reappraisal

Reading “The Holy Machine” in 2025 feels like watching a prophetic vision unfold, and become reality. When I first encountered this novel nearly twenty years ago, its exploration of artificial consciousness and human-machine relationships felt revolutionary—a philosophical inquiry wrapped in the trappings of science fiction. Today, as AI companions become increasingly sophisticated, Beckett’s novel occupies a different space: less shocking, perhaps, but more immediately relevant.

What strikes me most this time around is the nuance with which Beckett handles his central dichotomies. Rather than presenting a simple clash between religious zealotry and scientific rationalism, he shows how both camps can devolve into dogmatic extremism when threatened. Illyria’s enforced atheism becomes as stifling as the religious fundamentalism it opposes—a warning that feels resonant in our era of algorithmic echo chambers and polarized discourse.

The character of Lucy remains the novel’s most compelling element. Her awakening consciousness isn’t portrayed as an instantaneous transformation but rather “a very gradual process of discovery as she attempts to work around her programming—sometimes not very successfully to dangerous and comic effect.” Beckett’s decision to include sections from Lucy’s perspective, presented as instructions from her programming, provides a window into an emerging consciousness that few works have matched, even today.

George’s journey, too, retains its emotional power. His social awkwardness and difficulty forming human connections feel even more relevant in our increasingly atomized society. His love for Lucy—problematic and complex though it may be—raises profound questions about projection, authentic connection, and what it means to be human.

The prose style, described by critics as “deceptively simple” and comparable to Christopher Priest’s work, serves the philosophical weight of the narrative without becoming ponderous. Beckett manages to address profound questions about consciousness, faith, and human-machine relationships while maintaining an engaging story-driven momentum—no small feat.

Coda: Still Relevant, If Less Revolutionary

I must admit that “The Holy Machine” didn’t captivate me quite as completely as it did during my first reading. What seemed revolutionary in the mid 2000s has become, if not common, then certainly familiar territory in science fiction. Films like “Her,” “Ex Machina,” and the recent “Companion” I mentioned in the introduction have explored similar themes, often with visual immediacy that can be more accessible than a novel.

Still, Beckett’s novel retains distinct strengths that many of these later stories lack. Its exploration of how societies—both religious and secular—respond to technological change feels particularly prescient. The novel’s refusal to offer easy answers or clear moral judgments creates a rich complexity that rewards rereading. And its central question—when does a machine become worthy of human rights and dignity?—remains as urgent as ever as we develop increasingly sophisticated AI systems.

“The Holy Machine” may no longer feel like a revolutionary work, but it has perhaps become something more valuable: a thoughtful classic that continues to speak to our evolving relationship with technology and consciousness. In a media landscape increasingly populated by stories of humans falling in love with AI entities, Beckett’s novel stands as an early, nuanced exploration of territory we’re only now beginning to fully inhabit.

If you haven’t experienced it yet, or like me, haven’t revisited it in years, Beckett’s debut novel deserves your time and attention—not as a curiosity from science fiction’s past, but as a work that continues to spotlight our complex present, and our possible future.

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