The God Equation and Other Stories (7 page)

Professor Ibrahim smiled as he waited for the altered timeline to propagate across the decades. Although eighteen men will have to die, their deaths will effectively end a five-century-old insurgency by eliminating the root cause. With the Spaniards out of the way, the sultans and rajahs of Borneo, Sulu and Mindanao will have a chance to consolidate their power, push further north, and establish an archipelagic empire strong enough to repel any foreign invader. Five hundred years of freedom w
ould
be coming in just a moment
as t
he new timeline ripple
d
across the centuries
;
he and his crew
would
remain
unchanged
within the submarine, which was
protected by the same displacement field generated by the singularity.
He almost cried.

A minute passed, then another, and another. Nothing seemed to be happening
outside
, nothing seemed to change.

Perhaps they got lost, he thought. Impossible. He had personally reviewed the quantum equations with great care, and he was confident that they had accurately measured the total mass required for temporal displacement. Besides, they had navigational charts, and enough food and water to last five days, seven at most. What else could
’
ve gone wrong? Maybe sharks ate them. Or cannibals.

The professor
’
s earphone crackled with static as the voice of one of his technicians came through.

"Sir?"

"What is it, Omar?"

"Sir, um, I was doing supplementary research on the Magellan expedition, and I discovered a small error or rather, an oversight, in our calculations. It might not be significant to be alarmed about, and the team is putting together several possible mission scenarios, but we
’
re still wondering how this skipped our attention, though we
’
re doing our best to find out, and I don
’
t know how to say this but it could happen to anyone and
—
"

"Oh just get to the point!"

"Ah, yes, well, it
’
s about the year 1521."

"And?"

"It was a Julian year, sir."

"Julian who?"

"Not who, sir,” said Omar clearing his throat, “but what. It
’
s the calendar instituted by Julius Caesar over two thousand years ago. But then the Christians deleted a number of days from the month of October."

"What the
—
  why the hell would they do a thing like that?!"

"Um, s-says here that it had something to do with fixing the vernal equinox on March 21 or to making sure that Easter always occurred in spring or maybe just to have a calendar named after their pope. Catholic history isn
’
t my best subject, sir."

"Typical."

"Sorry, sir."

“When did this adjustment happen?”

“In 1582.”

“And how many days were deleted?"

"Let me see
... Gregory ordered the 5th to the 14th da
y of October to be stricken off
... so that
’
s
—
"

"Ten days," the professor said as his vision started to blur.

"Yes, sir. Ten days." 

* *
*

They had arrived ten days too early.

“I had a weird dream,” she told Tomas as they dismantled their camp and prepared to load everything they had into the rubber boat, “that we sunk three ships this morning.”

Tomas stopped what he was doing. “You suggesting we should wait?”

She looked at her ankle. “No, it was just a dream.”

Tomas looked relieved.

“I couldn
’
t see my feet,” she said. “I couldn
’
t see yours either. I don
’
t think we had any. We left them on the shore. As the ships burned, we floated across the water to finish off the remaining crew. But the lifeboats were empty except for one person who wore a pig snout made of papier maché like those worn at Venetian masquerades. I asked him who he was and he said he was with the media.”

“Pigafetta,” said Tomas.

“Actually, I think it was Juan de Zubileta, the ship
’
s page, who was listed among the eighteen names. He was barely out of his teens.”

“So you shot him?”

“I couldn
’
t.”

“Because you realized he was just a boy.”

“No, I couldn
’
t decide whether to aim for his head or his heart.”

“That
’
s cold.”

“He and I just stared at each other until I woke up.”

“Ah, the burden of choice. Too bad it didn
’
t happen.”

“Probably did, in another lifetime. Dreams can be windows to possible futures.”

“I
’
ve always wanted to visit Guam. You think the natives will welcome us there?”

“It
’
s too far, but there are dozens of other islands that we can reach with the extra fuel we have. Let
’
s island hop. We could head south, toward the Gambier Islands, or north to the Marquesas.”

“Yes, ma
’
am.”

“Call me Fatima. The mission was a failure. We
’
re civilians now.”

He loaded the last piece of equipment, an unused rocket launcher, into their boat. “Fatima?”

“Yes?”

“Honestly, do you think our mission was a failure? What if by landing on this deserted island, even without encountering or interacting with any other soul, we still managed to make the right ripples.”

“Tomas,” she said, “I hope you
’
re right. I mean it. Given the circumstances, I
’
d rather imagine, or better yet, believe, that space-time is filled with the flapping wings of butterflies.”

The two marines launched themselves out to sea. They threw their weapons and munitions overboard as they passed through deep waters. They rode into the west but away from the sunrise.

Captain Rodriguez and Lieutenant Estregan were never heard from again for the next five hundred years. Their place in history occurred only at the end of the year 2020 when they unwittingly volunteered to sit in a rubber boat, oddly placed in the middle of a spherical chamber, in the heart of a nuclear submarine.

Things get repetitiously tedious and tediously repetitious from that point on in very much the same way the human story tends to repeat itself not in clean cycles but in convoluted knots of well-meant plans, disastrous failures, and sincere ignorance, all the while bobbing in an ocean of impudence and inevitability. So their story ends here, in 1521.

They waited for as long as they could. Victoria never came to meet them.

“Waiting for Victory” copyright © 2006 by Michael A.R. Co. First published in
Philippine Speculative Fiction vol. 2, 2006.

I was young then, so long ago. I had just turned twenty-one. Friends threw me a little late night party and after a few rounds of beer and smokes, Boyet
—
or maybe Fred
—
led me to the upstairs bedroom.

"The guys have arranged a little surprise for you," said Boyet/Fred. He opened the door and switched on the lights. Lying on the bed was the cutest piss drunk chick I ever saw.

"She
’
s all yours buddy," said Boyet/Fred. "You get dibs, it being your birthday and all. But I
’
m next, okay?" He shook my hand, patted me on the arm, and I found a condom in my palm. When he smiled I noticed his ill-fitting dentures, so maybe it was Fred. He locked the door on his way out. Thoughtful bastards.

She wore a black tank top, a micro mini, and shoes with platform heels. She was like a limp doll, I thought at the time, probably in her teens. Was she really a pro? Her arms were folded above her head, and one of her long spread-eagled legs was hanging off the edge of the bed. Her face isn
’
t too clear to me now, but she had full lips, a straight nose, and was pretty hot enough to be someone
’
s girlfriend, you know, the ones with the face of an angel and the body of a whore. She smelled good, like sweet dessert, cinnamon or taffy. I raised her skirt, pulled her black thong to one side, and slowly inched my protected member into her. It was over in five minutes. She didn
’
t make a sound, although she might have snored at some point, and overall, I
’
d rate it as a lousy lay.

Three hours later, they drove me back to my condo. I was in no condition to walk so they carried me to my living room, sang happy birthday, and raided my refrigerator. We had a few more beers
and shared a joint
. The room was spinning by the time they said their goodbyes, and I felt the urge to hurl. I threw up before I reached the toilet. I guess I blacked out.

***

I dreamt of snow. My mother was spraying it from a can. She always liked to decorate the tree this way. I was six-and-a-half years old, and an only child. Christmas was always special if you
’
re the only child. It
’
s like having a second birthday five months away. I looked under the tree and it was still empty. “When are we going to put the gifts under the tree?” I asked, and my mother continued spraying snow on the branches and said, “Once we actually start receiving gifts.” 

“When are the gifts coming?”

“Maybe by the first week of December.”

“That
’
s too far,” I said.

“I know.”

“Then why are you decorating the tree?”

“I
’
m just dressing it up.”

We just had a Halloween party the other week. I dressed up like E.T. and my mother tied a little flash light on my finger so I could make it glow in the dark. We went around our village in Alabang and went treat-or-treating. Halloween is my third favorite holiday, next to Christmas and my birthday.

The phone rang and my mother stopped spraying the tree. She walked to the kitchen to answer the phone and I was left alone with the tree. The snow was like whipped cream. I had never seen real snow before and sometimes I think it looks like soap bubbles. This didn
’
t look like soap, it looked like cream. I stuck out my tongue and licked it…

* *
*

I awoke on my bathroom floor, the taste of sick in my mouth. There was a buzzing sound in my ears, something like a throbbing, and I realized I could hear my own heart struggling to get my limbs to pull me up. Florescent lights too bright, my eyes insisted staying shut. My head was heavy as iron. I tried to kneel, holding on to the toilet rim for stability. I felt my stomach churn, vomit welling up inside me. I leaned over the toilet bowl and exploded, yellow muck and bits of beef and rice and
sisig
and nacho chips and salsa shooting out of my mouth and nose. Ever snort out barbeque-flavored nachos? Ain
’
t much fun, I guarantee.

I wanted to go back to sleep, back to a time of fake snow and genuine smiles, of safety and innocence, of feel good surprises. I probably drifted in and out of dreamless unconsciousness for the next few minutes, before I managed to crawl into the bathtub. I twisted the shower knob full blast. The cold was sweet and shocking; my body jolted and my balls shriveled. I pulled of my wet clothes and scrubbed myself clean.

I stepped on my clothes to dry my feet and walked dripping naked to my closet, forgetting that I had a towel in the bathroom. I put on a pair of shorts and a t-shirt, and returned to the bathroom sink to brush my teeth. The mirror had misted up but I didn
’
t bother to clear it. In retrospect, I might
’
ve seen a shadow drift by.

A few empty cans of beer had been carelessly left on my kitchen counter. It wasn
’
t a very large kitchen nor was it a very large condo (only 60 square meters which I had been renting for over two months). I crushed the cans and tossed them into the trash, shaking my head at how irresponsible my friends can be. I took two eggs from the
fridge
and was hunting for a bowl to scramble them in when I noticed that my front door was ajar. I shook my head again, pushed it closed, locked it.

On the floor, a few inches from the door, a shiny object caught my eye. I hunker down to inspect it, picked it up with thumb and forefinger and they tinkled: a pair of earrings that belonged to the hooker, shaped like two silver bells.

A shadow loomed over me. I looked over my shoulder and saw this dark-suited oriental man
(
Chinese, Japanese, Korean … who could tell?
)
standing above me, his hands holding what looked like a small black hood.

I leaped to my feet and sprung away from him, assumed a wrestler
’
s stance, my arms up in a defensive guard. He had long black hair with exotic braids, a ponytail, and a grimace not unlike Steven Seagal
’
s.

“Mr. Sy would like to have a word with you,” he said.

I was speechless for a beat. “Who the hell are you?” I said. “And what
’
s with the queer hairdo?”

The stranger smiled. “I
’
m Elvis,” he said.

Definitely Korean, I thought. I once met a Korean student back in high school by the name of Elvis Rhee. Claimed that Koreans usually don
’
t use English names until they study abroad. “Elvis” seemed so typical. On the other hand, I got a few Chinese friends with
first
names like Washington and J
efferson
….

I launched myself at him, aiming for his legs so I could tackle him. He sidestepped, grabbed my shoulder and threw me across the room. I landed on the coffee table, snapped it in half. My elbow stung, and I felt something warm flowing down my forearm, but I was too pumped to take a closer look. I launched myself at him a second time. He drew back and delivered a neat roundhouse kick to my left cheek. It connected hard. Through the veil of stars I saw the floor rushing toward my eyes. I landed on my nose, heard something crack. I yelled every profanity I knew as tears welled up and pain slammed through my brain like a clap of thunder.

Before I could get up, he threw the hood over my head. It didn
’
t smell too good. The fabric had been soaked in some kind of chemical and my nose was on fire and I think I bit my lip because I could taste something metallic. He stretched the hood against my face. I reach out behind me, seeking him out, my fingers like claws. He tightened the hood
’
s opening around my neck and shook me violently but I was unwilling to give up easily. That
’
s when he struck my kidney with his knee and the force of the blow took the will out of me and I think I yelled,
“Inay ko po!”

Funny how we all turn to our mothers in times of need.

The chemical was working fast. I felt the ground drop from under me and I fell into a deep euphoric bliss, into the depths of the tenth circle of hell. There should be only nine circles, I know, but the devil opened a new annex just for me.

***

The Christmas tree was pretty. It was white and sparkling and tall. I looked under it, and I was happy to see gifts of different sizes. I looked for a gift with my name on it. I saw one from Ninang Rose and a smaller one from Tito Albert. But none from my father and mother. I asked her where my gift was, and she said that Santa will be delivering it on Christmas Eve. “Really?” I said. “But how will he know what kind of gift I want?”

“Well,” she said, “why don
’
t you write him a letter.”

“How will I send it? Do I need to buy stamps?”

She laughed and said that stamps aren
’
t necessary. She told me to just write the letter and give it to her, and she
’
ll make sure that Santa gets it.

“What kind of paper do I use?”

“Any will do.”

I ran to my bedroom and took a sheet of pad paper that I use for school. I looked for a pencil, sharpened it, then I began to write:

Dear Santa,

How are you? How is Rudolf? I want to ask you sumthing. I want a bycycel for xmas. I am a good boy. I want to lern how to ride a bycycel and my frends say its
EZ
. I promise to be good always. We do not have a cheemny but you can nok on the door and I will open it 4 you. Thank you Santa. Mery xmas!!!

***

When I came to, I was cold. Not freezing cold, but basement cold. The hood was no longer over my head, but I couldn
’
t see anything in the dark. I tried calling out and from the way my echoes sounded I assumed I was in some kind of cellar or storage room. I was barefoot; the floor was cold and dry. I was sitting on a plastic chair with my hands tied behind me. The bonds didn
’
t feel too tight, and the cords felt remarkably smooth.

“Help!” I cried. “Help me! Somebody! Heeeelp!!!”

I heard footsteps. The clinking of keys. Door unlocking, opening, a human figure striding in, and the smell of cinnamon in the air. The figure flicked on a light switch, and I was blinded by a halogen bulb hanging above and to the left of my eyes.

“You feeling better, boy?” said a big gruff voice. The accent was European, almost German, but thankfully not in an “Ahh-nuld” sort of way.

A bald man moved into the lig
ht. He was huge. Maybe six-and-a-half feet
tall. Built like a professional wrestler, he actually looked like Hulk Hogan without the tan. His bushy platinum blond moustache was styled just like the Hulkster so it was difficult not to make the comparison. He was wearing what appeared to be a classic three-piece suit but made of leather instead of wool. The jacket emphasized his broad shoulders, and when he reached into it to pull out a lighter, his biceps bulged from under the sleeve and it looked bigger than my thigh. He had blue eyes, or gray, and they were clear and serene.

Mustn
’
t show fear, I thought. Remain calm.

He stood in front of me, playing with a cigar cutter, rubbing it with gloved fingers.

“You Mr. Sy?” I said. “You don
’
t look Chinese.”

“Nikolai,” he introduced himself. “Nikolai Clauswitz. But you…” He paused to cut the end of a cigar with the cutter. “You can call me Mr. C if you like.”

I get it now: “C” not “Sy.” Gimme a break, I thought. This guy can
’
t be serious…

I looked around for the Korean. “Where
’
s Elvis?” I said.

“Who?”

“You know, Elvis Presley with the ponytail? The freakzoid who broke my face.”

“Ho! Ho! You must mean my assistant! Yes, he can get a bit enthusiastic. Impressive, wasn
’
t he? But you must have misheard him, boy. He
’
s elvish, and elves don
’
t have names. Not the ones who work for me. Just call him Mr. Black. He
’
d like
th
at.”

This wasn
’
t making any sense.

He lit his cigar. Although the halogen bulb worked well, I could use a little more heat. I thought he
’
d offer me a stick. When he didn
’
t, I asked him nicely. He shook his head, silently mouthed the word “no” and blew a smoke ring into the air.

“Do you know why you
’
re here?” he said.

“I can guess.”

“No, you can
’
t,” he said. “You can
’
t guess. None of you can. Don
’
t try to get cocky with me, boy, or I
’
ll have Mr. Black break your legs.”