The God Patent

by Ransom Stephens

  “Several years ago, when I was an engineer at a high-tech company, God guided me to a discovery. Like Paul on the road to Damascus, I was confused…” He told the story of the day he and Ryan had written the patent submissions, trying to impart his belief that they’d been guided by the Lord that day—but the thin old man’s eyes narrowed as though he were dozing off, the woman looked past him into the sanctuary, and the black man shook his head.

  Foster stopped. It just wasn’t working. He fought a feeling of contempt for these people—they should embrace science, but instead, science offended them. He looked through his notes. The woman finally looked back at him, but she wasn’t happy. The black man snickered and looked away.

  In that instant, Foster felt alone, a foreign feeling that contradicted his faith. He hadn’t felt this way since he was a child. Back in first grade he’d gotten lost during a field trip to a museum. He’d been meandering along, and when he turned around, no one was there. He went back the way he’d come but took a wrong turn and ended up alone in a huge room of gothic portraits. With all those strange faces staring down at him, he started to cry. Staring at the floor, he moped to another room and nearly walked into a wall. There, in front of him, as though greeting him personally, was a painting with a boy about his age being guided by two people in robes. As he sat in front of that painting, his fear and loneliness were replaced by warmth and strength. He talked to the boy in the painting, and when he asked the boy a question, the answer came to him. In that presence he could feel no loneliness. Finally, his classmates entered the room. His teacher, surprised that she’d found him before realizing he had been missing, read the title, Jesus Found in the Temple, and told him it was painted by a man named Tissot.

  Foster fumbled his notes. The pages fluttered around the stage, and he staggered about trying to collect them. Then he caught himself. On one knee with the pages a mess in his hand, the image of Jesus in that painting came back to him. As though something were lifting him up, he stood. The sheets of paper scattered about the stage, and he said one word: “Science.”

  He waited.

  The black man turned away and the woman scowled.

  This time he yelled: “Science!”

  A few muffled hems and haws echoed in response.

  “Why don’t we embrace science? Why can’t you embrace science?”

  The black man responded in a full-volume baritone, “Because it violates the Word.”

  Foster dropped the pages still in his hand and stepped to the edge of the stage. “Science is the ultimate expression of God’s work. It can’t violate the Word.” The room went silent. “He gave us minds so that we could understand. The intellectual thieves of the scientific establishment stole science from us. They reject God, and in response we reject science.” He paced across the stage. “Do you believe in the Big Bang?”

  The parish chanted, “No.”

  Foster said, “The Bible is infallible, but it leaves out a lot of detail. My lab is filling in those details. The Big Bang is a fine theory, but it’s not finished.” Foster reached out. “When it’s all said and done, science will verify everything in the Bible. There can be no contradictions.”

  Scattered voices responded, “Amen.”

  He looked down and shuffled his feet. “Those scientists, they don’t believe.” Then he looked up and spoke with conviction. “But they will.

  “That day in that Dallas laboratory, the Lord guided me to the key—the key that will unlock the glory of God as written in the laws of nature. In the coming months, you’ll hear from both sides in the battle between good and evil, the moral and the amoral, between faith and atheism. As I bring this new discovery into the world and demonstrate how God acts in the material world, as I submit proof to the faithless, we will face great opposition. I will be challenged and we will face doubt, but our faith must guide us. You know this to be true. As God grants us His power in a culture that has been ruled by the cold, sterile, faithless tools of science for the last century, that world will rise against us, and we must be prepared.”

  Foster paused, crossed his arms, and raised his head so that he spoke to the rafters. “I will fight for you, for God, for Jesus.” Then he dropped his gaze straight into the lights and panned across the crowd. “But I can’t do it alone. I’ll call on you to fight this battle, this culture war. Driving the faithless out of our institutions takes more than one man, however well armed. When the entrenched atheists in the scientific establishment raise doubt, I’ll call on you. I’ll rely on you. Raising the power of the Lord from the forces of nature will not be easy. It will not be a spectator sport.”

  He leveled his right arm and pointed at the crowd. “I need you at my side. Can I count on you?”

  The audience responded with scattered responses of “Yes,” “Amen,” and “Hallelujah.”

  “You can count on me,” Foster bellowed. “Can I count on you?”

  It generated a louder response: “You can count on me.”

  He pointed in another direction. “Can I count on you?” And another. “Can I count on you?” Each iteration generated a louder, more coherent response: “You can count on me!”

  He repeated the process until he’d indicated every section of the stadium and then stepped off the stage with the entire auditorium in perfect synch, chanting, “You can count on me!”

  The ad-lib lecture took half the time of the one he’d prepared, and as he left the stage, he felt a rush like none he’d felt before. He’d won them over. Ten thousand people in fervent support, whether for letters to Congress, phone calls to newspapers, or e-mails to TV shows, His troops were lining up for battle.

  An hour later, exhausted but triumphant, a question danced into his mind. He’d given that lecture half a dozen times, so why did it finally come out the way he’d wanted today? He chuckled to himself, certain that the answer would come soon.

  On a table in the church bookstore, Foster set out copies of his book, The Cosmology of Creation. The black man from the audience brought him a cup of coffee and bought a signed copy. The woman asked, “What is it like to discover what He did?”

  After the congregation reassembled, as Foster packed up the remaining books, a trio of men approached. One of them, in a solid black suit, pitched in to help with the books. Another in pinstripes, who looked like a businessman, offered Foster an outstretched hand. “What a terrific story, Dr. Reed. As an engineer, a businessman, and a Christian, I had a difficult time restraining my applause until you were finished.”

  Foster smiled, not at the introduction or compliment, but at the recognition of why he’d gotten the lecture right today. He accepted the man’s hand and looked him in the eye.

  The man put his other arm on Foster’s shoulder as though they were fraternity brothers. “My name is Bill Smythe. I’m with America’s largest engineering contractor. I’m sure you’re familiar with National Engineering Group, NEG, and, like I said, you inspired me.”

  Foster didn’t let go of the man’s hand until they made eye contact. Smythe’s eyes were gray, and Foster couldn’t help but think they were empty. Still, Foster knew better than to question moments like these. He let go of the man’s hand and reached down for his briefcase. One of the hinges strained under the pressure of Foster’s notebooks and files. Bill Smythe reached it first, but he didn’t lift it carefully, and that hinge popped. Foster managed to clamp the sides shut before everything fell out. Once his briefcase was under control, he asked Smythe if he’d discussed investing with Blair Keene.

  “I talked to Blair last week. We’ve got a team of engineers combing through your book. I’m based here in Washington. Blair suggested I come out today.”

  Foster smiled on the man, recognizing that he was a weapon in God’s war, not a soldier. If NEG invested in Creation Energy, nothing could stop them. “A team of engineers? I’d be happy to extend my trip to address any technical questions.”

  Smythe said, “There are a few hurdles that Keene and I need to jump, b
ut let me tell you this: we think there is synergy between NEG and Creation Energy that can make America safer, stronger, and more righteous.”

  Smythe squeezed Foster’s shoulder and motioned to the man who’d helped with Foster’s briefcase. “This is Steven Jones, the project leader for our Alternative Energy Group. He’ll be your NEG liaison in the development of Creation Energy.”

  Foster took the man’s hand. In a navy blue blazer, khaki pants, and a black polo shirt with the NEG logo, Jones looked like an engineer, a company man. Jones gave him a firm handshake.

  “Do you have time to get lunch?” Jones said. “I have some questions about the project, the intellectual property, and the development plan.” Foster noticed that the man had a copy of The Cosmology of Creation in his other hand. He also noticed that the copy looked fresh from the printer. In the face of all this enthusiasm, the near-commitment of a huge financial backer, Foster would have preferred to see a thoroughly dog-eared copy.

  Smythe said, “Of course you have time. Let’s get a nice meal, and you two can talk shop.” He applied enough pressure to Foster’s shoulder to encourage him to step toward the door but not so much that Foster felt coerced.

  The first man held the door open. In addition to the black suit, he was wearing a wire in his ear and a pair of sunglasses that were straight from the movie Men in Black.

  True to his word, Ryan made rent on the third month. He’d scored a six-month contract as a technician at a big fiber-optics company just across the river, FiberSpec Communications. When Ryan handed him the check, Dodge said, “You should be working off the books.” Ryan didn’t understand the reference and didn’t want to start a conversation with Dodge, so he didn’t ask.

  He took on any extra work he could find too. He filled in at the Tea Café or Copperfield’s Bookstore when someone called in sick, and he did odd jobs for Dodge. Each month, he paid rent, kept $200 to live on, and sent the rest to Linda—barely a third of his child support payment but hopefully enough to show he was trying.

  In those first three months, Ryan still hadn’t seen Katarina’s mother. Other than a few rapidly shut doors, the only sign that she existed at all was the sound of Katarina arguing with her. Ryan was sympathetic, though; it had taken his mother five years to recover from his father’s death. Of course, Ryan had had Grandma and his sisters to fill the gap.

  Katarina only had Dodge. Yikes.

  When Ryan got home from work, Katarina was usually sitting on that ridiculous red velvet couch watching TV in Dodge’s living room. Ryan would sit at the other end of the couch, and after a few weeks, the two of them were exchanging wisecracks about the quality of the music videos and skateboard competitions that Katarina watched. It brought Ryan up to speed on pop music, and he learned more about extreme skateboarding than he thought there was to know. That part was scary; Katarina was bound to try those stunts. That the kid had no boundaries made him angry with her mother. He knew what his grandma would say; he could hear her voice. “We mustn’t waste our time on the dead.”

  In December, Dodge put a huge plastic Christmas tree topped with a Star of David in the foyer and set gift boxes wrapped in red, green, and blue beneath it. Ryan was surprised that Dodge would bother. Katarina said, “He’s pretending to be a human being. Appropriately, all the gift boxes are empty, like the man’s soul.”

  Ryan pointed at one of the boxes. Its reindeer wrapping paper made it stand out. “What about that one?”

  Katarina picked it up and looked at the tag: “For Katarina, From Ryan.” She looked at him with mock distrust. “It’s not going to blow up, is it?”

  Then she tore it open and found a skating helmet and wrist guards. Ryan could tell by the way she looked at them and then back at him that she appreciated the gesture, but she didn’t say “thank you.” Ryan figured that she didn’t know any better.

  Ryan’s favorite odd job was something Dodge had managed to sneak into the rental contract: security guard on weekend nights at Skate-n-Shred. Skate-n-Shred was a turn-of-the-century theater that Dodge had converted to a combination skate park/concert venue catering to Petaluma’s teenage population. Two blocks down the hill from Nutter House, the building occupied the corner of a busy street a block from the boulevard. Katarina spent most of her waking hours there.

  Ryan felt more like Margaret Mead in New Guinea than a security guard. He enjoyed getting to know the kids. Mostly, though, he felt responsible to watch out for Katarina. Skate-n-Shred wasn’t the safest place in town for a twelve-year-old girl with no curfew.

  On a cool, dry Friday night, he passed a few kids out front smoking cigarettes, their skateboards leaning against the wall. One wore a “Surf 707” hoodie, another had on a patch-covered denim jacket, and a few sat on a bench strumming guitars. Inside, the walls of the lobby were covered in graffiti of varying levels of artistic promise. Dodge left a box of markers, some acrylic paints, and brushes to encourage his patrons to release their creative angst. To him, it was a device to convince parents and police officers that Skate-n-Shred served a public purpose.

  Katarina stood on an old stained couch working on a mural. Her black skirt was decorated with Celtic knots along the hem and a crucifix on the seam in what could have been the same paint she was using. A smiling black dragon, smoke shooting from its nostrils and a few random flames leaking between its fangs, looked like it was jumping out of the wall and over the couch.

  Ryan sat on the sofa’s armrest. “Whatcha doin’?”

  “Painting death.”

  He stared at the painting for a second. The dragon only looked black at a glance. Colors swirled into its skin and the spiny structure of its neck, with shades of purple on its belly. She’d included shadows that made it look three-dimensional. It was a happy-looking dragon.

  He said, “Shouldn’t death look more, um, dead?”

  “No.” Katarina stepped up on the back of the couch and brushed white paint above the dragon, covering the wall’s olive drab up and onto the ceiling.

  On the wall directly across the lobby, a much larger dragon looked back at the little smiling dragon. The small one was vivid and sharp. The larger was dun brown and mottled. “Did you paint that one too?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  He went across the room and looked closely at the larger dragon. The mottles were from the olive drab of the wall leaking through. Where the little dragon sparkled, its layers of acrylic reflecting the fluorescent light, the big dragon’s flat latex absorbed the light. A few wisps of smoke curled straight up from the big, old-looking shadow of a dragon. “This guy looks pretty beaten down.”

  “He’s not beaten down,” she snapped. “He’s doing the best that he can.”

  “Oh.” Ryan noticed that the little dragon’s eyes, complete with little stars in their irises twinkling like emeralds—the same color as Katarina’s eyes—were aimed directly at the old dragon, but the old dragon was looking up at the ceiling.

  “If you were dead, you’d look beaten down too.”

  “Sorry, Katarina.” Ryan went back to the couch. “What do I know from art?”

  Reaching her brush farther out on the ceiling, she lost her balance and had to step down from the couch. Ryan caught her arm, steadying her. She pushed away. “I don’t need your help.”

  Ryan shrugged. “Sorry.” He noticed that, incorporated in the dragon’s breath, there were little symbols and some writing. He pointed at them and said, “What are these things?”

  “These things are what’s left over after death—would you please leave me alone?”

  As he walked from the lobby to the theater, he heard Katarina mumble, “People are so fucking stupid.” That she was such an ornery little wretch amused him. It reminded him of the youngest of his three sisters at that age. Ryan didn’t like her saying fuck, though.

  Inside the theater, a dozen skate rats flew up and down the ramps while a band called Broken Skeg set up on stage. As he passed, the kids held out their skate-cards. Ryan pretended to scrutini
ze them but gave most of his attention to whether they had their helmets strapped on and wrist guards tight.

  Backstage, Broken Skeg’s junior groupies, two fifteen-year-old girls wearing lots of black lace, flirted with the band’s front man. Make that “front boy”—he was barely sixteen. Sitting in the center of the couch, he had his arm around one of the girls and pulled her close. She whispered in his ear and snuggled against him.

  Ryan leaned over to listen. She glared at him. To the front boy, Ryan said, “Go tune a guitar or something.”

  The next time Ryan passed through the lobby, he noticed that Katarina had painted the ceiling white with gray puffy edges from one end of the room to the other, connecting the two dragons—there were more of the little symbols and words, like tiny graffiti, embedded in the clouds. He looked around for her, but it was crowded and she was small.

  Around eleven o’clock, Ryan wandered through the alley in back. Three teenagers, two older boys and one smaller kid, huddled behind the Dumpster in the shadows of the security lights.

  One of the boys abruptly threw his smoke into the gutter. He wore a black leather vest over a torn T-shirt and had a spiked collar around his neck.

  Ryan sniffed the air and groaned. “I really wish you’d get stoned someplace else.” Ryan recognized one of the two bigger kids. Alex, the ultimate poseur; he made the other kids call him The Ace, and the force of his personality was strong enough to pull it off.

  The smaller kid’s face was turned away, but Ryan recognized the skateboard—it was nearly as long as she was tall.

  “Katarina?”

  She started to take off.

  “Wait up—Katarina!”

  She stopped and turned around, her face aimed at the ground between them, but her eyes turned up at him. Ryan knew adolescent-surly when he saw it. She kicked her skate up to her hand. “What?”