“I spat my tooth into his eye, and this distracted him enough for me to flip him over. Blinded by the blood in his eye, he landed on his shoulder, groaning in pain, but he managed to scramble up the stairs to the top deck. I spent a few seconds looking for the gun since I knew he’d be going nowhere. When I found it, I checked the cylinder to make sure that the gun would fire with the next attempt. I only had one round in the chamber so I tucked the gun into my vest pocket where I can reach it quickly. I had to get close enough, and that meant getting his guard down.
“By that time, it was raining hard. I walked along the side-deck toward the bow. It was slippery, and there was no sign of Matthew. I cautiously head back to the stern and I call him out, thinking that he had returned to the cabin. My nose kept bleeding.
“I found him standing against the mast, between the mainsail and jib. He looked like an angel, with massive fractal wings. An angel with a laptop. ‘Fool!’ he taunted. ‘I have faced death before! You cannot hurt me!’
“‘I am not death,’ I clarified, in a calm voice. ‘Death is just my office. I am Azrael, an Angel of the Lord. And I promise you, it won’t hurt a bit.’ I approached him, arms up to show that I was unarmed.
“That’s when the boom of the mainsail swung against me, throwing me overboard. I struck the water head first.
“Raffy found me floating unconscious. Rather embarrassing, really. When I came to, there was no sign of the yacht.”
“So he lives,” Mikhail says.
“Diego’s body was HIV positive. I spat blood into Matthew’s eye. He won’t live long enough to complete his work. My section confirms he now has an expiration date. He’s not an anomaly anymore.”
“A sloppy job,” he says.
I concede. “I know, but at least we’ve controlled the damage.”
“Something bothers me,” he says, looking toward the ceiling of the Basilica. “You don’t usually make mistakes this sloppy. Even with guns.”
I remain silent.
“A pity,” he says, “Matthew was such a good chess player.” He walks to the altar, leaving me alone, invisible, without praise or thanks. I make my way out.
I made a choice.
And Gabby, Raffy, or Mikhail can’t complain. They’re too attached to their human disguises, living among the flock. But I don’t like disguises.
One of the perks of my job is that I don’t usually have to do any actual work. People come and go, and it’s all predetermined by a mysterious formula that even angels don’t understand. But every time there’s an anomaly, someone who’s simply not in my list, I have to do things myself, and make things right, and I get to choose the method. I get to choose the weapon.
I wanted to give Matthew more time. So I chose the plague.
There are limits, of course. I still have a job to do, and I still need to follow orders. I know that we are all part of the Divine Plan, fractal whorls in a complex design. But what if things really were simple? Like the area of a circle, the dimensions of a line, or the coordinates of a point. I don’t know what’s worse: finding out that things are more complicated than we’ve expected, or that all things are elementary and dull.
I think about Matthew. Why didn’t he have a death date? What role did I play in his fate?
And I think about the Equation. It was released into the Internet minutes before I got to the yacht. The mission was doomed from the beginning. I was too late.
That’s when it occurred to me.
At first, as Matthew described his ideas, it was clear to me that he would never be able to prove the existence of God in mathematical terms. His Holiness is too vast to be contained. But that was before I saw the Equation.
Then I remembered.
More than two thousand years ago, the Word was made flesh.
He was persecuted, crucified, but promised to return again, like a thief in the night or a stranger knocking at the door.
He may return as a brilliant radiance, touch everyone, and know everything, a Divine Being who will encompass the world. Alpha and Omega. Unity and Null. One and Zero.
I imagine a day when the world will receive a new message—in an email, online forum, or blog—from someone they do not know. Many will ignore the message, dismissing it as a prank, while some will respond. Those who reply to the message will receive a prize. Those who don’t will pay the price.
In this way, the Second Coming would be most unexpected.
* * *
The day will come when my office will be abolished. I’ve been thinking about a transfer. But no one knows the day or the hour, not even the angels in heaven. So I have no choice but to wait.
I leave St. Peter’s Square, taking the street alongside the Vatican Museum, and I walk to the gelateria where a certain young woman works. Today is her last day.
As I approach the counter, she sees my true form, but she smiles bravely without fear or distress.
I offer her three words of comfort: “Nocciola, per favore.”
And her heart, which had been broken from the moment she was born, began to beat forever.
“The God Equation” copyright © 2006 by Michael A.R. Co. This story was the First Prize winner of the Gregorio Brillantes Award for prose fiction. First published in Expeditions: The Philippine Graphic/Fiction Awards vol. 1, 2007.
WAITING FOR VICTORY
“Do you really think she’ll come?”
“She’ll come.”
“What if she doesn’t come?”
“She will.”
“But what if?”
“Show some faith.”
“We’ve been waiting for days. Nine days to be exact.”
“We stick to the plan.”
“We’re almost out of water. We ran out of food three days ago…”
“We stick to the plan.”
“For what? What’s the damn point? We’re going to die.”
“We’re going to make history. Now stop complaining or shut the fuck up. That’s an order.”
Tomas didn’t share the optimism of his commanding officer who now stood up and limped barefoot toward the shoreline, arms akimbo, pants rolled to the knees, a proud silhouette with a deliciously fine ass.
Fatima stared at the horizon, wondered if this had been a terrible mistake. Tomas, like his namesake, was the doubter; she was the believer. She had to be... for her peace of mind, his sanity, and the future of their people. People neither of them will ever see again.
The sun was sinking rapidly behind her. She looked over her shoulder, but it was the lieutenant who lowered his gaze.
“Ten days tomorrow,” he said. With a twig and a shrug he drew a line and a circle in the sand.
Her lips were chapped, her skin sunburned. She felt miserable inside. She stepped into the water. Her ankle still hurt, but the apathetic surf distracted her from the dull pain. A dark scab had formed over her laceration; the swelling was gone.
“We’ll know by tomorrow, right?” Tomas called out to her. “We’ll know if this was worth it?”
“We won’t. We’ll never know if it was worth it. But just the same, we should still keep an eye out for her. If … when she comes, we do what we were ordered to do.”
“We need to find food and fresh water.” He drew pictures of fish in the sand. “We should find a larger island.”
She returned to sit beside him. She took out a nautical chart from her breast pocket. “We also need to conserve fuel. The nearest island is hours away.”
“This place is pretty despite the silly name,” he said, examining the chart in the fading light. “There’s just no food, no water, and it’s too hot during the day and fabulously freezing at night. Disappointing.”
“The Disappointing Islands. Though when he first discovered it, he named it San Pablo.”
“Who?”
She didn’t answer immediately as she was lost in her thoughts.
* * *
They had landed on the uninhabited atoll a little over a week ago, a dark rubbe
r boat with an outboard motor, two marines, and one mission. Most of the islet’s perimeter featured jagged rock and coral. Captain Fatima Rodriguez maneuvered the boat around the islet then directed it toward the driest, sandiest side. A narrow strip of sand peeked out of the sea; she suspected the shoreline came dangerously close to disappearing at high tide.
Lieutenant Tomas Estregan leaped into the water as Fatima cut the engine. He pulled the boat toward the beach, and dragged it in the sand a few meters, deliberately forcing Fatima to sit back for the ride.
He parked it behind a coral outcrop, secured the boat. He proceeded to prepare their camp while Fatima surveyed the eastern horizon. This is the perfect spot, she thought.
With only one khaki dome tent and one sleeping bag, they agreed to take turns keeping watch. After sharing a light meal of cold combat rations, they spent their first night in complete darkness, sleeping in three-hour shifts. After Tomas’s second shift ended at 0300 hours, it was Fatima’s turn. She yawned, checked her watch, and lowered the night vision goggles over her eyes. The smell of the sea, the sound of the surf, and the gentle snores of her companion were all she had for entertainment. Her view was dark and boring.
She fell asleep at 0400 hours. When she awoke at dawn, she saw their rubber boat floating in the sea. “Son of a bitch,” she mumbled. She leaped to her feet and ran barefoot into the water, kicking at the oncoming waves. She tripped and fell forward, managed to catch her footing but not before scraping her ankle against the reef. “Son of a bitch!” she yelled, wincing in pain. She turned around, water up to her waist, and shouted, “Wake up, Lieutenant! The boat! Our boat’s drifting away!”
She swam out to retrieve it, swallowing some water, her eyes stinging from brine and the white morning sky. Tomas swam to her and together they pulled the boat back to camp.
He inspected her wound, which bled profusely. Tomas reached for the first aid kit and treated her injury with antiseptic. “Take it easy,” she hissed.
“You should try to keep this dry for a few days,” he said.
She shook her head. “Salt water will help it heal faster. Don’t bandage it.” Blood and pus were oozing out of the wound, and her ankle had swelled. “We should check our gear.”
They inspected their equipment and supplies, which remained hidden on the boat beneath a blue-black tarp to protect it from sand and salt water: food rations… check… fresh water … check… battery pack… check… extra fuel… check… two AK-47 carbines… check… twenty clips of ammo... check... twenty rocket propelled grenades… check... one rocket launcher… check.
They were going to meet Victoria that morning, as scheduled, and they were ready to give her the welcome she deserved.
Morning turned into noon and Victoria never showed up.
“We should search for her,” suggested Tomas as the afternoon began to mature.
“Trust the plan,” she said. “Trust me.”
“I trust you, ma’am.”
“She’ll show.”
But she never did.
So they spent their second night together. It was colder than the first. Fatima suspected Tomas had stopped trusting her.
She couldn’t blame Tomas. Trust is a greedy emotion you can’t have “a little” of. It’s all or nothing. She herself had a hard time trusting her superiors when they first recruited her for the mission. It had happened just a few days ago, although it was more like centuries.
On New Year’s Eve, she found herself inside the hull of a hijacked Han-class nuclear submarine, the result of an audacious, clandestine mission to steal a Chinese invention that would alter the course of history. Three soldiers were lost, a dozen wounded. Tomas was one of the survivors, and was hastily introduced to Fatima when she got onboard for the mission’s second phase.
She had been informed of her exact role only hours before her arrival, and it took her longer to believe in the crazy plan than to agree to it. As the civilian mission leader told her during the final briefing, she was selected for two reasons.
“First,” said the professor, “your predecessor was killed during the hijacking operation and we needed the best available replacement within our critical twenty-four hour window: a topnotch marksman with actual combat experience. I understand you had just finished your tour in Mindanao, correct?”
“But I need more time to prepare.”
“You don’t have that luxury. The Chinese aren’t happy, and they’d rather destroy the device than lose it to us. We’re hours away from open war, you know. And trust me, they will find us.”
“The second reason?” she asked.
“Mass,” he replied.
“I don’t go to mass.” She had not been to church since she was sixteen.
“I meant your physical mass. Your personal file says 48 kilos, but we need to be precise. You’re exactly 48.1251 kilos … without clothes … and, as we were pleased to discover, identical to the young soldier who was killed yesterday, the one who was supposed to lead the mission. She was also a woman.” He waited for her to react. She didn’t say anything. “That special camouflage suit you’re wearing,” he went on, “brings your total mass to 49.8951 kilos. It was designed to help keep your body’s moisture at a fairly consistent level. Water retention is a good thing.”
She looked puzzled. “Why the interest in my weight?”
“Not weight,” he said with some impatience. “Mass.” He handed her a thick plastic envelope. “That’s 35.1 grams.”
She was led into a small, spherical chamber. Tomas was already seated in a black rubber boat, accompanied by several bags of gear. He smiled at her as she took her place across him.
The professor left the chamber and ordered it sealed and pressurized. He returned as a disembodied voice.
“Captain Rodriguez and Lieutenant Estregan, welcome. I do wish I had crafted a beautiful speech for this momentous occasion, something for posterity, but if my theory is correct, such words will be moot. So allow me to go straight to the point. You have your sealed orders, with detailed instructions on how to identify, intercept, and execute your targets. You are both ordered to read these documents carefully when you get to the island. Both of you are trained warriors, and in addition to food and water, you have in front of you the instruments of your vocation.”
The chamber started to hum. “The total mass of every object in this chamber - the boat, your weapons, your bodies - was precisely calculated to ensure that you are accurately transported to the proper coordinates: 14 degrees 49 minutes south latitude, 138 degrees 48 minutes west longitude. No more, no less. One gram is all it takes to bring you hundreds of kilometers off course. Or not at all. The timing of the rendezvous, however, was very easy to resolve.”
He paused as the countdown began.
T-minus sixty seconds and counting.
“The Chinese calibrated this machine for 1421, which according to our intelligence was the year when Admiral Cheng Ho led his emperor’s treasure fleet on its sixth expedition. Fortunately, our engineers have managed to reset the system and move the date forward by one century. The future no longer belongs to the Chinese … because the past now belongs to us.”
T-minus thirty seconds and counting.
“I suggest you close your eyes. Cover them with your hands if you have to. In half a minute, the chamber will be bathed in a very bright light, brighter than a thousand suns. But nanoseconds before the photons can intensify to ignite your eyelids and burn off your face, and before the implosive thermonuclear shockwaves destroy your soft tissues, a singularity will form at the center of the sphere, expanding to isolate every atom in that chamber, including yours, from this universe, to take the both of you on a trajectory with destiny….” He tried to catch his breath but coughed instead.
T-minus ten seconds and counting. Fatima and Tomas could feel the static dancing along their skin. The air smelled of ozone.
“Whatever happens, try to remain calm. We’ve calculated that you will need to travel back by exactl
y 182,600 days. Send us a postcard—”
Silence followed.
A rocking sensation. The smell of the sea. Fresh air.
Fatima opened her eyes.
“Happy New Year,” said Tomas, squinting at the sky.
It was the 24th day of January, and the year was 1521.
At least that’s what their unsealed orders told them. Aside from detailed navigational charts of the Pacific Ocean, the envelope contained accurately reconstructed drawings of Trinidad, Concepción, and Victoria. As expected, it also included a list of eighteen European-sounding names.
* * *
Tomas was getting restless. It was their third day on the island. The horizon was still empty.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said. “What if this is a test. There probably never was a time machine. It’s an elaborate hoax and we were selected because we fit some kind of psychological profile and whoever is behind this just wants to observe how a man and a woman will behave under these circumstances. Like some cheesy reality TV show.”
She massaged her ankle, said nothing.
“We were lied to,” he continued. “Yes, I don’t think there ever was a time machine. It’s a big nasty trick.”
Fatima almost agreed with him. How could they tell what year they were in when the sky and the sea looked virtually the same year after year? Was it 1521 or 2021?
“There’s one way to find out,” she said. “We wait for her to come.”
“Ma’am, we’ve waited three days already.”
“So we give her another week. Look here, we have enough food to last us four more days, and enough fresh water to last seven.”
“Ma’am, if the time machine worked, we should’ve seen her two or three days ago. A week is an awfully long grace period.” He held up four fingers, then five. "That’s nine days in total."
“I’m glad you know how to count. Now count this. Three people were killed for this mission. You survived. Don’t let them die in vain. Grant them the respect they deserve by giving them nine days.”
“And if Victoria still doesn’t come? What then?”
The God Equation and Other Stories Page 3