For Yayie

The God Equation and Other Stories

Copyright © 2006, 2007, 2008, 2010 by Michael A.R. Co

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including print, photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without prior written permission from the author.

Contact the author: michael.ar.co@gmail.com

Contents

THE GOD EQUATION

WAITING FOR VICTORY

THE OFF SEASON

IN THE EYES OF MANY

THE SWEET STRANGER

Afterword

THE GOD EQUATION

“The Captain Commander of the Pontifical Swiss Guard, Colonel Alois Estermann, was found dead in his home together with his wife, Gladys Meza Romero and Vice Corporal Cedric Tornay. The bodies were discovered shortly after 9pm by a neighbor from the apartment next door who was attracted by loud noises. From the first investigation it is possible to affirm that all three were killed by a firearm. Under the body of the Vice Corporal his regulation weapon was found. The information which has emerged up to this point allows for the theory of a ‘fit of madness’ by Vice Corporal Tornay.”

— Joaquin Navarro-Valls, Papal spokesman (Official statement on the May 4, 1998 Vatican murders)

I’ve been waiting at St. Peter’s Square since dawn. From my vantage point, near the central obelisk, the columns of the two elliptical colonnades appear as a single row like silent sentries protecting the faithful. It’s a grand illusion because the colonnades actually consist of four rows of sixty-foot columns, each directly behind the other, flanking both sides of the Piazza like the teeth of a giant shark waiting to consume the pilgrims who enter, all year round, through the Via della Conciliazione, to pray among the tombs of the Basilica.

They’ve been coming in droves throughout the morning. Some walk among the columns. And that’s where I see Gabby standing in the shadows.

“Shalom,” he says. “Sorry I’m late. I’ve had a lot of errands to run.” He wipes his forehead with a handkerchief. “It was good of you to come.”

He wears a tailored suit and wire-frame spectacles. His shoulder length hair is combed over his ears, revealing a Bluetooth hands-free earpiece. “Walk with me.”

I follow him among the towering columns. He speaks perfect Hebrew, but with an Italian accent.

“Have you found a body?”

“Several,” I say. “But my choice would depend on the location of the mark.”

“I understand. Fresh intelligence confirms that you need to pay the mathematician a visit,” he says. “That’s right. In the Philippines where the anomaly was initially detected. I trust you’re intimately familiar with the area?”

I nod, but he doesn’t see me.

“This will cause problems for all of us,” he continues, “I do not have to tell you that. What I can tell you is that we know exactly who he is, where he is, and what he plans to do. Your mission is to stop him... by any means necessary.”

He pauses as a group of nuns walk in the opposite direction. “Buon giorno,” he says, and I notice a young nun stealing a second look.

We wait a few seconds for them to pass. He adjusts his glasses. “Stop him, the way you know best. The order comes directly from His Holiness.”

We take the street alongside the Vatican Museum, away from St. Peter’s Square.

“You sure it’s him?” I ask.

“I’m just a messenger. I tell you only what’s told to me.”

“Does he plan to use it as a weapon?”

“Possibly. Depends on your perspective. It involves numbers. Lots of them. Transcendental sequences, non-linear dynamical systems. Chaos. What’s not certain is how far he is from a breakthrough or who else he’s told.”

“And the other suspects?”

“Still under surveillance, including that physicist from Belgrade and the accountant from Lima. However, it’s this Filipino whose theories exhibit the most interesting implications. He calls it the God Equation, can you believe that? He’s even writing a book.”

“Who else knows the mark? Aside from His Holiness.”

“Four of us. M’s in charge, as usual. Then there’s me, you, and Raffy.”

“Him?”

“Raffy’s our man on the ground. He’s been there awhile, and he can lead you to the mark. He’ll provide you with everything you need. He’s also the one who made the positive ID and the source of our intel. Anyway, the question isn’t ‘who knows?’ but ‘who’s interested?’ So far he’s been paying out of his own pockets, but he now seeks support from multinational corporations, several governments, and even the Church itself. In fact, with the limited kind of information he’s presented, the Work is quite keen to lend him a hand.”

“Do they know what he’s really up to?”

“They think he’s developing either a formula for predicting the stock market, an economic forecasting model, or a universal code breaking engine.”

“But that’s not the case.”

“And that’s why you’re in the picture.”

We stop at a small gelateria, which opens relatively early in this part of the city. The young woman behind the counter greets my friend with a charming smile.

“Cioccolato, per favore,” he says.

She takes a flat spatula and fills a cone with gelato.

“Grazie,” he says, handing her a few euros.

“How much do the Fallen know?” I ask.

“Now that is the question.” He touches his earpiece for show, pretending to be on his cellphone, trying not to be conspicuous, and failing miserably. “As far as we can determine, this guy’s receiving some kind of protection, though it might have been unknowingly provided by someone from their ranks, without the official sanction of the Enemy. That’s why we had a hard time identifying the target, and why we need to go through all this trouble.”

“What kind of protection?”

“Magic.”

He licks his gelato a few times, savoring the flavor. He winks at the woman behind the counter who now has to attend to another customer, a teenage girl, American, judging from her accent: “Pisstahshow, purr favoreh.” She is standing inches away from me, oblivious to my presence.

“The Cold War hasn’t ended,” he says, “but in this operation, we may have the upper hand. We think that the Fallen are unaware of the impact that this kind of research can have on our position. So we’ve kept them in the dark where they belong, feeding them misinformation and false leads. M likes to keep it that way.”

The American girl feels a slight chill as she bites into her pistacchio. Goosebumps form on her arms and she rubs them with her free hand. She glances at my friend and walks past me. I watch her slender back as she crosses the street, straw blonde hair swaying in the autumn sun.

Gabby looks straight at me for the first time and shakes his head. “No, no. She’s much too young. Don’t tell me you plan to follow her and introduce yourself.”

“It’s not yet her time,” I assure him.

“It never is, until you arrive.” Gabby steps out to the curb. “Raffy will tell you everything you need to know.”

"So why did you have to meet me?"

“I’m here to give you the green light.” He bites his cone and with a mouthful of gelato says, “You have a long way to travel and I heard that it’s hard to book a flight this time of year. Now go.”

I adjust my black robes, and spread my wings, stretching them like a giant pair of ethereal hands, shimmering invisibly. I unfurl a second and third pair of wings, six in all, like iridescent sails.

More customers arrive, a young man who wants a taste of heaven, and a middle-aged couple living in sin. They order nocciola and stracciatella.

I should order one of these flavors when I get back.

I take to the air, unheard and unseen, except by an overdressed man who calls himself Gabby.

“Ciao,” he says. He removes his earpiece.

I soar above the Eternal City, fascinated at the multiplicity of souls below me: sightseeing, commuting to work, having sex, killing each other.

I head east.

* * *

Soaking in a bathtub, with heroin coursing through his veins, he lies naked with an empty bottle of vodka floating in the water, and a .38 snub nose revolver in his hand. He struggles to keep awake, struggles with his Russian roulette.

I had watched him load his pistol with a single bullet, spin the cylinder, and snap it back in place. That was twenty minutes ago. This is his thirty-seventh attempt. He takes aim and squeezes.

Click.

Mechanically, slowly, he repeats the steps.

Click.

He cannot keep his eyes open.

Click.

His mouth starts to froth slightly.

Click.

His hand tires and starts to shake.

Click.

His chin dips the water, and he spins the cylinder again.

Click.

Then, without resetting, he squeezes the trigger... thrice.

Click. Click. Click.

His grip fails him, and his gun falls on the bathroom floor beside an empty syringe. He sinks further into the tub. His body twitches, and he slips into a coma.

I watch him drown in lukewarm water, frothy vomit, and bloody piss. I watch him die.

I whisper into his ear. Suddenly, his eyes flash open and for an instant he sees my face.

My body convulses.

I can’t breathe.

I inhale and foul water burns my nose and lungs. My face breaks the surface and I cough, gasp for air, and try to get my bearings. I cough some more, and struggle to take a real breath.

I throw up at the edge of the tub.

I am alone in the bathroom. In a body that isn’t mine. With a primitive brain that limits my perceptions, and a drugged out bag of flesh that traps my true strength.

It’s all painfully fun.

A cellphone rings. With wet fingers, I pick up the device from the floor, and answer the call.

“Get dressed,” says a voice. “Meet me downstairs beside the pool.”

Click.

I move to the shower area and rinse myself for a few minutes. Like all bodies, I can feel this one dying on me. Not from drugs, but plain mortality.

As I towel dry, I examine the body in the mirror. Tall. Heavy-set. Lightly tanned. Spanish mestizo, mid-twenties, with a pug nose, unibrow, bristle-cut hair, and a tattoo of a flaming skull behind the shoulder. He has no muscle tone.

It’s an ugly disguise, the nearest I can find, but the easiest way to get hold of a weapon.

I pick up the revolver, wipe off the moisture, and check the chamber. Two more trigger pulls would’ve fired the round. Not exactly a flaming sword, but pretty damn close. I turn the cylinder slowly, aligning the loaded chamber with the firing pin.

I enter the bedroom and search through his luggage. He didn’t bring a change of clothes, just a bag of dope, booze, and two pairs of handcuffs, one still latched to the bedpost, and no condoms. I’m forced to wear cargo-style Bermuda pants and a tie-dye shirt, the same clothes he had worn the evening before. I check his wallet: wads of cash, several credit cards, driver’s license for “Diego Merced,” and a firearm permit from the National Bureau of Investigation. I tuck the .38 against the small of my back, beneath my shirt.

I smell semen and blood on the empty, unmade bed, and I detect the scent of two females, one human, the other—

The doorbell rings.

It’s Raffy.

“P’re, ba’t ang tagal mo?” Bro, what’s keeping you?

He speaks Tagalog, wears dreadlocks, and is deeply tanned. “We need to go.”

“I had to put some clothes on,” I answer in the same language. “This was all I could find.”

“It smells bad,” he says. “We need to get you a better shirt, especially where you’re going. I know where you can get the best bargain. You have money?”

“Lots.”

“Good. I want to buy some clothes, too.”

We take the stairs down, walk past the reception area, and step into the sand. It’s off peak in Boracay, but the foreign tourists are still up and about, trying to get a tan under an overcast sky. I see some rain clouds in the horizon, bare breasts bouncing along the shore, and a sorbetero standing beside his ice cream cart. It’s mid-afternoon.

“This will just take a minute,” I say. I order a few scoops of ube and cheese, while Raffy orders mango. We walk briskly along the beach.

“What’s the lowdown?” I say finally.

“I discovered the mark by surfing the Web, believe it or not, when I came across a blog entry about a work in progress called the God Equation. Ever since Da Vinci, it seems everybody’s writing something about religion and science. The Michelangelo Cipher, The Bernini Puzzle, The Fra Lippo Lippi Paradox... I made that last one up—”

“Maybe he just wants the book to get attention.”

“But the God Equation isn’t a novel. It’s a project. The author makes the remarkable claim that he has found a mathematical equation that proves the existence of God.”

“Men have been trying to do that for centuries. Anselm, Descartes, Pascal. All have failed.”

“You’re a traditionalist, Az. Though you’re practical, you still cling to the old ways. You don’t even like using firearms, instead preferring swords and knives and plagues and natural causes, and the rest to human folly. That’s why all the jobs that you did involving guns aren’t very clean. How can anyone compare JFK and the Vatican murders to the Passover? The latter was your masterpiece. The others, just mysteries.”

“Your point?”

“Computers. None of the people you mentioned used them. This guy does.”

“So?”

“It isn’t finished. He still needs computers to help him generate the proof. I was intrigued enough to do a background check on him, starting with his date of birth and his date of death. And guess what: he’s not in your section’s records. The guy doesn’t have an expiration date.”

“Hence the anomaly.”

“We know he can’t be immortal, because he’s still human, but we haven’t got a clue on how long he’ll be alive. So that’s where we’re at. On one hand, we have machines that can compute extremely fast, and on the other, a man who might live an extremely long life. Awkward, isn’t it?”

We pause by a stall and Raffy inspects some beach shirts. He begins dictating the pertinent facts. “Matthew Cheng, twenty-four years old, single, studied physics and computer engineering in Manila, and mathematics in the U.S. His family owns considerable tracts of land across the Philippines, and significant petroleum interests abroad. Not just rich, they’re filthy. He doesn’t even need to hold a real job but won’t get involved in the family business. Instead, he occasionally lectures at his alma mater, pursues personal research in higher mathematics, and spends most of his time sailing solo around the world on board his 60-foot state-of-the art yacht, the Lionheart Oil.”

“Sounds like a pun on Leonhard Euler.”

“He idolizes him. Maybe he wants to prove that Euler is God. He made a business pitch to several alumni a few days ago, on this island, and he mentioned ‘Euler’s Identity’ in one of his spiels.”

“You were there?”

“I pretended to be journalist and interviewed him. How do you think I got all my intel? I’ve arranged for a colleague of mine to interview him today, for a feature story in Scientific American, and he’s invited him over to his yacht. It’s anchored off the opposite shore.”

“Your colleague?” I ask.

Raffy hands me a photographer’s vest that he pulls off the rack. “You need to meet him in twenty minutes. We’ll use my jet ski.”

* * *

“Mathematicians have tried in vain to this day to discover some order in the sequence of prime numbers, and we have reason to believe that it is a mystery into which the human mind will never penetrate.”

— Leonhard Euler

We reached the Lionheart Oil just as Matthew Cheng was weighing anchor. The sloop-rigged yacht had mainsail and jib already hoisted. Raffy introduces me to Matthew, who helps me board. He looks like Bruce Lee, only darker and larger. We exchange pleasantries and settle down on the deck. Raffy speeds off.

“I thought you might have forgotten my invitation,” he says, handing me a cold can of beer. A laptop computer rests on the table beside a bowl of potato chips.

“I wouldn’t miss this for the world,” I say, with an American accent. “Boats fascinate me, although I never learned how to sail.”

“It’s a cinch if you have an autopilot,” he says, and we both laugh, knowing full well that it still takes a lot of manual skill to circumnavigate the world solo. Physically, we’re near the same age, but he has the manners of an older gentleman, not condescending, but definitely arrogant. He shows me his laptop. “I customized the software for this rugged little model, so I can monitor every activity on the ship. It not only tracks weather information and GPS coordinates, but the status of every line and tackle through a network of sensors. I can trim the sails from anywhere. It’s my remote control. And best of all,” he toggles to a different screen, “I can connect to the Internet.”

He asks me to wait while he checks the status of an upload and scans a few email messages. Meanwhile, I prepare the mp3 voice recorder that Raffy lent me, and take snapshots with a digital camera.

Matthew turns his computer around and shows me an online chess game in progress. “What do you think the best move is? White to play.”

I examine the virtual board. It was the middle game, both sides showing remarkable symmetry, a clear example of grandmaster play.

“Pawn takes pawn,” I say.

“Excellent call,” he says, and enters the algebraic equivalent. “It’s wonderful that I can always find strong players online. My opponent is from St. Petersburg. Of course, I’m not always sure that I’m playing against a male, female, or human being. I believe chess programs were the first to pass the Turing test. You like chess?”

“I hold my own.”

“Well, we should play someday.”

“Certainly.”

“So Diego—can I call you Diego?—what shall we talk about?”

“I’m writing an article about the groundbreaking work by theoretical physicists and pure mathematicians from around Asia. I’ve already spoken to some folks in India and China. I was surprised when Raffy told me that there’s actually serious work being done in the Philippines. I hear you’re writing a book.”

“Not yet finished, but I’ve found a publisher. We Filipinos can accomplish miracles if we apply ourselves. Do you have a math background?”

“I’m a science journalist,” I reply. “Stanford.”

“Quick quiz then: how many sides does a circle have?”

“That’s a trick question.”

“Good answer. A circle can have zero, one, two, or infinitely many sides, depending on how you define a ‘side,’ correct? It’s also a shape that exists only in our heads, a perfect shape. The term ‘perfect circle’ is redundant. No object in nature comes close to being a circle, but you see it everywhere, the moon, the sun, all are crude approximations of a concept. But what a concept! All circles, regardless of size, have the same ratio between its circumference and its diameter.”

“Pi,” I say.

“Leonhard Euler popularized the use of the Greek letter, but it was known since ancient times. In fact, for centuries, mathematicians would try to ‘square a circle’—to create a square from a circle of precisely equal areas with nothing but a ruler and compass—until it was proven that this cannot be done. Because pi, a quantity needed to calculate the area, is a transcendental number. It goes on forever... in a non-random sequence, but with no discernable pattern. More chips?”

“No thanks.”

“A circle is often used as a metaphor for boundaries and enclosures, and indeed, pi was used as shorthand for ‘periphery.’ With all transcendental numbers, one can’t help suspect that there might be a hidden message coded somewhere in the sequence. Like what Carl Sagan suggested in the last chapter of Contact.”

“You think there’s a steganographic message? Perhaps from God?”

“Well, not the kind of message that you’re probably thinking. You can find any sequence of numbers in pi if you look hard enough, even your telephone number. Look here.” He types ‘88888888’ in his laptop, and he shows me that his pi program found the sequence appearing at the 46,663,520th decimal place. “The message is more subtle. In effect it’s saying, ‘There is a pattern somewhere, but you’ll just have to look harder.’ So it’s no surprise that work continues on unlocking the secrets of pi. Funny how the most complex structures can derive from the simplest things. Human beings from single cells, the entire universe from a singularity. Seems a convincing argument against entropy.”

He points to the mainsail. “See that pattern printed on the sail’s edge?”

I notice a colorful, paisley-like design, swirling toward the center.

“It’s called Sea Horse Valley and I generated the image using the simple function z equals z-squared plus c.”

“The Mandelbrot set,” I say, pronouncing the name in the German-style, not French.

“A microscopic part of it. I sometimes refer to the Lionheart Oil as the Mandel-boat. The entire fractal image was discovered only in the 70’s after the introduction of computers. Breathtaking, isn’t it? It goes on forever, exhibiting self-symmetry as you increase the magnification. Analogous to the revolutions of the planets or the movement of atomic particles. Check this out.” He bares his left forearm. A well-done approximation of the M-set was tattooed using several inks from elbow to wrist, like a Rorschach blob, the disk and cardioid appearing like the head and thorax of a large insect. “Like it? I did it myself.”

This guy’s hardcore.

Our conversation turned to chaos theory, deterministic systems, Brownian motions, stochastic processes, random walks and whether these walks were truly random. “Randomness is conventionally accepted as true, but no one has been able to prove it. Because if you think about it, it’s actually difficult to consistently produce a random number in the real world. Humans can’t do it because of our psychological predisposition to create patterns, and machines have to use pseudo-random generators for expediency.”

“What about the Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle? Wouldn’t that build a strong case for the existence of randomness?”

“Just because you can’t predict the outcome doesn’t mean it’s random. And what does ‘random’ mean anyway? Godel’s Incompleteness Theorem tells us that you can’t prove certain ideas using the rules within the formal system. You have to go outside, out of the box. Take the case of prime numbers, integers whose only factors are one and itself. Many methods have been developed to obtain or check primes, but it’s still notoriously difficult to factorize numbers. It’s mostly trial and error. We math geeks actually call these ‘hard’ problems for lack of a better word. Indeed the world’s cryptographic infrastructure depends on the difficulty in factoring prime numbers. However, although it’s proven that there are an infinite number of primes, it hasn’t been proven that there is not a general formula somewhere that can factorize any positive integer of any size. When that happens, current encryption systems will be rendered useless.”

He opens another can of beer, and offers me another.

“I’m convinced that there’s a pattern in the sequence of primes,” he says. “Not a message, but something more profound. Unlike the Fibonacci sequence, prime numbers do not appear in nature. They were discovered because Man played with this.” He taps his temple.

He then taps a few keys in his laptop. “Have you heard about the Prime Spirals of Stanislaw Ulam? His findings were first published in your magazine back in the 60’s.”

“Heard but never seen,” I lie.

“If you create a spiral of integers from one to infinity using a square grid, and mark all the prime numbers, you’ll find that they tend to line up along the diagonal axis. It’s amazing.” The LCD screen displays a dark field with white pixels scattered like stars forming delicate lattices of slanted line segments that remind me of city lights when viewed from high above. “I sometimes wonder if this is part of the face of the divine,” he says. “Or maybe they’re just the spots you see when you close your eyes. Euler was completely blind in the last seventeen years of his life.”

“Do you believe in God?” I ask.

“Now that’s a trick question,” he says, chuckling. “I want to, but I don’t, which is why I’ve launched this project.”

It starts to drizzle. “Let’s go below deck,” he says. “I’ve something to show you.”

His cabin is filled with electronic equipment. “There’s an apocryphal story,” he began, “about Euler. During the reign of Catherine the Great, Euler threw a challenge to the atheist philosopher Diderot and claimed he had an equation for the proof of God. Euler was quoted as saying, ‘Sir, a plus b raised to n over n equals x. Therefore, God exists! Reply!’ Naturally, Diderot didn’t have an answer and was laughed out of the court. This story is bunk, but when I first heard it, I was intrigued. Could it be possible for God to be reduced to a mathematical equation?”

Matthew sat in front of a large flat screen. He launched a command line window and began to type. “Euler didn’t find the God Equation but he did discover an equation that came poetically close.”

When prompted for his username, he types:

e^i*pi+1=0

“I’ve configured my system to accept certain special characters. This is Euler’s Identity: e raised to i times pi plus one equals zero. It combines the three basic arithmetic operations and five universal mathematical constants. But that’s just for starters.” He types in his password, and hits Enter.

The screen scrolls up with dizzying, unending lines of horizontal computer code. “Behold!” he says. “The God Equation, version 1.0.”

I peer at the screen from behind his shoulder. He doesn’t bother to look at me as he speaks. I slowly draw my gun from under my vest.

He watches the program scroll continuously. “Paul Erdös, one of my other math idols, second only to Euler, would speak about The Book, an imaginary tome written by God, containing the most beautiful and elegant mathematical proofs in the universe. My ‘God Equation’ is actually a computer program designed to seek out these equations. But it’s more than an automatic proof generator. I believe I’ve found an algorithm for the human soul.”

“Artificial intelligence,” I remark. I take one step back but keep my gun low.

“There’s nothing artificial about it,” he says. “It’s virtually organic. It uses the idle system resources of computers across the globe, much like the SETI screensaver.”

“You’ve created a worm.”

“I’ve created an answer. As word of this spreads, more people will download the program and contribute to the effort. Imagine the secrets of the universe revealed, relationships clarified, pi, Mandelbrot, e, the sequence of primes, the Riemann Hypothesis, a Grand Unification Theory.”

“When did you upload this?”

“About ten minutes before you arrived.” The program continues to scroll up. “It’s not perfect, and I’m working on the next version. There might be some bugs in this system, but because of its complexity, it may take years to find and fix.”

I’ve learned enough.

“Suppose,” I say, “God exists but is displeased with what you’re doing, and so He sends the Angel of Death to stop you.”

Matthew laughs. “Why would the ‘all merciful God’ do that?”

I aim my weapon. He sees my reflection.

“Because faith would have no meaning.”

I squeeze the trigger.

* * *

I return to Diego’s hotel room, clothes still damp, body sore, with dried blood caked around my collar.

A woman is seated on the bed, wearing nothing except a bikini bottom and a T-shirt that reads “Hi, I’m Lily” across her breasts.

Crap.

She looks too hot to be the cleaning lady. More likely the guest relations officer, or the offspring of Carmen Electra and Sophia Loren if the two had mated, neither of which matters anyway because I think I know who she really is.

“Lilian,” I say, “what an unpleasant surprise.”

She’s as bewildered as I am, but confidently remains seated. Her wavy black hair cascades to her elbows. She takes a stick from a half empty pack of cigarettes from the night table and lights up to regain her poise. I didn’t see her use a lighter or match, but there she is, puffing away. The tail section of a serpentine tattoo winds around her tawny arm and disappears into her sleeve, which I know from experience stretches down her back. It reappears along her smooth leg to terminate in a tiny head with fangs locked against her ankle.

“You have something that belongs to us,” she finally says in ancient Assyrian. “According to the Law, all suicides fall under our jurisdiction. Why are you in that wretched body? Surrender it now.”

So she came to collect.

“He not suicide,” I reply. “Him death, eh, accidental.” My Assyrian is rusty.

She switches to English. “He finds out he’s HIV positive, he shoots up junk that’s ninety percent pure, and he tries to put a bullet in his head. You don’t call that a suicide?”

“An attempted suicide. Also, he wasn’t aware of the heroin grade and didn’t plan to OD. So by the looks of it, his soul is under legal dispute. You’ll just have to wait until I release it to Purgatory for the preliminary hearing.”

She narrows her striking goat gray eyes.

“If you’ll excuse me,” I continue, “I need to drown myself in peace. You can stay here if you want. Help yourself to the minibar, take a nap, and enjoy the aircon. There’s still some junk left in the bag. It’s a good hotel. We can continue our conversation in the proper forum.”

She takes a drag on her cigarette, and deliberately blows smoke toward my direction. Her eyes widen in realization. “You’ve assassinated someone,” she says, “whose time was not yet due. Because that’s the only reason you’d be in town. Otherwise, you’d just let things run their course. Your very presence here means that someone up there has become rather... impatient with one of his children. Like the Vatican job back in ‘98. What on earth are you guys all up to? Who’s the mark this time?”

I shrug.

“Tell me. For old time’s sake.”

“What brings you here? Collecting suicides all by your lonesome seems beneath your station.”

She snorted. “Diego’s my pet. I’m his inspiration, his temptress, his recruiter, his whore. I’m the one who gave him the virus six months ago.” She pauses. “Infected needle.”

My turn to snort.

“He freaked when he found out,” she went on, “and made sure that he infected as many girls he could lay his hands on, many of them high-class hookers with kilometric lists of influential clients. Just last night, he banged one of my own, a succubus from the Ukraine. She’s very much in demand in this country. Think of the exponential damage I’ve caused; I’ll be reeling in more souls within the next decade than Beelzebub. Asmodeus doesn’t know.”

She excels at what she does. Although the Fallen try to run their business like the mafia, they operate more like a pyramid scam. A greedy, treacherous bunch of liars who recruit through empty promises. Volume is all that matters to most of them. But Lily likes to focus on a few key contacts, using their money, sweat, and unique frailties. In some twisted way, we’re so much alike.

“I didn’t violate the Law,” she says, suddenly aware that she’s revealed too much, the way villains often do. “It was entirely Diego’s decision. I did not directly interfere. I merely provided opportunities, suggestions if you will, for him to choose from and act out.”

“So,” I say, “Asmodeus doesn’t know you’re here. The prick doesn’t know you’re leeching his share.”

She walks toward me. “I can’t be dependent on him forever, Az. I’m a career woman—”

I scoff.

“—who’s just doing her part for the organization. You really should consider joining us. We offer excellent dental benefits.” She exposes her needle sharp teeth.

She leans closer and pouts. “Aw, please don’t report me. I’ll be quiet. I won’t blow your cover if you won’t blow mine. Although—” she pauses to extinguish her cigarette with the tips of her bare fingers, tossing the butt, “—I do know how to blow.”

Smoke dances around my face. She brings her lips near my ear. “And if you want,” she whispers, “I’ll even let you be on top...”

I fire my single round.

The bullet pierces her human heart, stopping it instantly. I had held my snub nose revolver against her cleavage, and I guess her silicone-implants couldn’t muffle the sound. I push her limp body to the bed. A dark stain spreads over her chest, trickles down her arm, and drips to the floor. The blood starts to crawl toward my foot, and it rears its head like a snake. Other serpentine blood trails flow out of the entry wound, and they start to braid themselves into a large, black column. Wings spread suddenly, engulfing the room, blocking the window and the light from the fading sun.

“Sorry, it was an accident,” I say to her. “Not a suicide. We’ll talk later.”

She hisses and howls, but flies through the ceiling, leaving behind a vapor of burnt flesh and dung. The bed is empty. No trace of a body.

I walk to the bathroom and get undressed. Forensics will examine Diego’s corpse, and ask lots of questions. More mysteries to ponder. But my job here is done.

* * *

“The Internet causes billions of images to appear on millions of computer monitors around the planet. From this galaxy of sight and sound will the face of Christ emerge and the voice of Christ be heard?”

— Pope John Paul II (Feast of Saint Francis de Sales, January 24, 2002)

Mikhail and I meet inside the Basilica, beside the tomb of Pope Alexander VII, under whose reign the colonnades of St. Peter’s Square were built. The figure of the pope is flanked by Charity, Prudence, Justice, and Truth. Below them, Death raises a marble drape brandishing an hourglass.

Mikhail, in the guise of an elderly chap, had just returned from St. Petersburg, and he wanted a full report. Raffy had told him the result, but he wanted details from me.

“Lily’s fuming,” he says. “She claims that you violated the Law by failing to release the soul of Diego Merced to her. You’ve been subpoenaed to appear at a hearing regarding this matter.”

“I’ll deal with her,” I say.

“So tell me,” he says, “how could you have missed your mark at point blank range?”

“I had aligned the bullet with the firing pin,” I began, “forgetting that with double-action revolvers, the cylinder rotates with each trigger pull. When I squeezed the trigger, all I got was an empty chamber.”

Mikhail scratches his cheek, rubs his eyes. “Go on.”

“That click was the noisiest sound in the room. Matthew spun around and slapped the gun from my hand. Then he tackled me to the ground. We struggled but he had the advantage because the room was cramped and I couldn’t maneuver well. Raffy should’ve mentioned that the guy knew jiu jitsu. He was very skilled. Reminded me of the time I wrestled Jacob.”

Mikhail smirked.

“My physical form wasn’t exactly in tip-top shape. I lay flat on my back, with his forearm on my throat. He planted his fist into my mouth, knocking loose my lower incisor. I tasted blood. ‘Who sent you?’ he demanded. He hit me again, and my nose began to bleed. I struggled to regain some leverage and confessed that I was sent by His Holiness, but not the Pope.

“‘I work,’ I whispered as I grabbed his wrists, ‘for God.’

“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 rubber 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 exactly 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?”

“She will.”

Nine days is a long time for anybody to wait.

There’s nothing to do, little to eat or drink, they couldn’t build a fire or look for food. Worse, she didn’t find him attractive. With so much time on their hands, their conversations were always about the mission. But on some days, they would speculate, often argue, on the nature of time. It didn’t always make sense to either of them.

“The Butterfly Effect,” he told her, trying to sound impressive “I learned that in a physics class back at the Philippine Military Academy. Just as the wings of a butterfly can cause typhoons at the other side of the globe, small changes in the past can create repercussions for the future. That’s what some scientists say.”

“But only if the butterfly’s wings were big enough,” Fatima said.

“You’re a physicist now, I see.”

“We were sent here to destroy three vessels and everyone onboard. But why were we also ordered to make sure that we find and kill eighteen specific crew members?”

“Because only eighteen survivors made it back to Spain,” he said.

“Exactly. But you know what? I think history is very stable. The past is the past, what’s done is done, and all that crap.”

“You’ve lost me. You’re saying we can or can’t?

“To make significant changes in the future, we need to make significant changes in the past. That’s why we’re here.”

“So you’re saying the Butterfly Effect theory is wrong? No ripples in the space-time continuum?”

“Heck, there’s a ripple, all right. But it takes a big one. You don’t just create ripples in time—” She threw a fist-sized coral stone into the water and it plunged into an oncoming wave. Nothing happened. “You need the right kind of ripple—” She took a flat pebble and threw it so skipped it across the surface, jumping the waves. “It takes more than merely stepping into the past to change history. Many changes, big changes, are needed to make a difference. It takes effort. It takes precision. It takes will. Most important, Lieutenant, it takes sacrifice. And like that pebble, it’s not only a leap of faith, it’s a one-way trip. Victoria isn’t our target. It’s the eighteen survivors, the ones who made it back. We kill the magic eighteen, they never return to Spain, the Philippines will never come into being as a political entity, and a new alternative timeline is created, one where the people of the archipelago will be free, prosperous, and untainted by foreign oppression.”

“You’re taking this awfully serious.”

“It’s a serious mission, Lieutenant. History doesn’t just happen. It’s made by men.”

“Yes, ma’am. And also by women.”

“Indeed.”

He unscrewed his canteen, tilted its neck briefly to his lips, and offered the rest to her. “I wish we could live long enough to see the fruits of our labor.”

She cradled the canteen in her hands. “We’ll know in what, forty years? Check if Legazpi shows up? Just waiting nine days is already quite a chore. And you can forget about peeking into our own time.”

“We’re like the Terminator. Except we won’t be saying ‘All bee bahk.’”

“The Terminator had it easy. We aren’t machines, Lieutenant.” She took a small sip.

“You’re right, ma’am. We just follow orders.”

* * *

Tomas repeated his question: “Who?”

“Come again?”

“Who named this island San Pablo?” he asked.

“Ferdinand, who else?”

He mulled this over for a minute, referred to their map, then said, “I think I’ll stick with its official name. Puka Puka. That’s what it says here.”

She laughed for the first time since they met nine days ago. A genuine laugh without poise, without decorum. “Watch your tongue, Lieutenant!”

He stuck his tongue out, crossed his eyes, trying to see the tip. This made her laugh even harder, and he laughed with her.

When they had both recovered, Tomas said, “It’s our last night together in this island.” He winked at her.

“And?” she said, wondering where this was leading.

“I think we should start packing.”

“Let’s wait till the morning.”

“Then let me keep watch tonight. The whole night. I want you to get at least eight hours sleep.”

“Don’t bother.”

“I’ll be fine, ma’am. I’ve been sleeping all afternoon.”

“Yes you did, you lazy bum! You sure about this?”

“Trust me. I’ll take the whole shift.”

She stared at him for a while.

“Thank you, Lieutenant. That’s … really sweet of you.”

“Good night, Captain.”

“Good night, Lieutenant.” She stepped into the tent, and within minutes, was sound asleep.

Tomas sat alone on the beach. He began to wonder how the evening would’ve ended if the two of them weren’t gay.

He dismissed the thought with a shudder. Then he got up to take a leak.

* * *

She dreamt of her arrival.

Victoria.

Her black-tarred hull and dirty white sails faded into view as the morning mist cleared. Trinidad and Concepción, her larger sisters, crept slowly behind.

She sprung to her feet and saw Tomas running toward her with an AK-47 strapped on his shoulder and another in his hand. He tossed her the carbine as she retrieved a full clip from her belt.

“Lock and load, Lieutenant. This is it.”

“Yes, ma’am!”

The three ships were less than a kilometer away, perhaps no more than seven hundred meters. The sun cast an orange-red hue on the lifting mist, and she imagined the ships’ shadows stretching all the way to the beach. The sun was in her eyes.

“You’re late, you bastards,” she muttered. “Though noon would’ve been better. Lieutenant!”

“Yes, ma’am!”

“Let’s say hello.”

He knelt down, placed the rocket launcher on his shoulder, and pointed it toward Trinidad, the largest of the three.

“Aim for the water line, starboard hull,” she said. “Wait for my mark.”

The RPG-29 has an effective range of five hundred meters, only slightly farther than a 16th century Spanish cannon. But it’s more accurate and, when armed with a thermobaric warhead, far more destructive.

“Range?” she said.

“Six hundred meters.”

“Give them a few more minutes.”

“I can see people.”

“Wave at them.”

He waved. “I don’t think they see us.”

The sea was calm, the breeze steady. The sun climbed slowly as the three ships approached. They were beautiful vessels, dark and dangerous, concealing a weak, hungry, scurvy-sick crew. This is too easy, she thought.

“Four hundred meters,” he said. “Ma’am, they’re trying to find anchorage.”

She gave the signal.

A plume of horizontal smoke erupted on Trinidad’s starboard hull. Concepción’s turn came fifteen seconds later. As the two ships caught fire and listed to one side, Tomas acquired Victoria in his sights.

Victoria veered to her right and blasted her cannons toward the island, but fell short, plunging iron into the beach, destroying only coral although one managed to hit a small sandcastle that Tomas had sculpted the other day.

“Return the favor, Lieutenant!”

With careful aim, he blew a hole into Victoria’s port side.

* * *

On January 24, 1521, three black ships of the Armada de Molucca spotted their first island in the Pacific. Fernão de Magalhães named it San Pablo. It was deserted. So they continued on with their journey, and would miss all the other islands and atolls in what would eventually be called French Polynesia. Fate would instead carry him and his men to the island of Homonhon on March 16, 1521, then onward to the kingdoms of Limasawa and Sugbu. By April 27, the body of the Capitan-General would lay in pieces along the reefs of Mactan.

On September 6, 1522, Victoria, with her crew of eighteen European survivors plus four Malays, arrived in Seville at Sanlúcar de Barrameda, led by Juan Sebastian de Elcano. The cloves and other spices she carried in her leaking hull inspired the Spanish king to send more expeditions across the Pacific in the following years. In 1565, conquistadores returned to the Islas de San Lazaro and began the systematic subjugation of the archipelago for cross and crown. His Catholic Majesty, King Philip II, wondered what had taken them so long.

Centuries passed.

Then late one night, exactly 182,590 days after Magellan stopped over at Puka Puka Island and without the Philippine Prime Minister’s knowledge or consent, two marines, Rodriguez and Estregan, prepared to sacrifice their future by attempting to change the past.

“Whatever happens,” the professor said into his microphone, “try to remain calm. We’ve calculated that you will need to travel back by exactly 182,600 days. Send us a postcard—” In the next instant, the time displacement field expanded and obliterated everything in the spherical chamber before collapsing again into a sub-atomic singularity.

If his group hadn’t intervened, he thought, the time machine would’ve been used by the Chinese. A world ruled from the dragon throne would be no better than one ruled by capitalist Europeans as far as he was concerned. Even if the communists could build another prototype, it would still take at least twenty years to produce and accumulate enough antimatter to power the device. But the matter, no pun intended, is moot.

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 would be coming in just a moment as the new timeline rippled 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 day 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.

THE OFF SEASON

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 Jefferson….

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 light. 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 that.”

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.”

I didn’t know what to say to that.

“Ho! Ho! I was just kidding, boy! Mr. Black doesn’t do legs! Fingers are his specialty…” He brandished his cigar cutter, menacingly, in the light.

My hands instinctively clench, out of anger and fear. Show no fear.

“Ho! Ho! Got you again, didn’t I?” He took the cigar from his mouth and brought it toward my face. I winced, expecting him to extinguish it on my broken nose. But wait. It wasn’t broken. My nose, that is. I felt the cigar butt against my lips. There was a kindly twinkle in his eye.

“Here, take it,” he said. “It’ll kill you but given the circumstances, does it matter?”

I sucked it in, blessed unfiltered sin flowing into my mouth. Then the smoke went too far, entered my lungs and I gagged and he pulled it out and laughed. I felt violated.

“You like girls, boy?”

I continue coughing.

“I said … DO YOU LIKE GIRLS?!” His fist struck the side of my nose, breaking it again.

The scene went white, and the thunder came clapping once more. “Fer chrissakes, whadya wan wit’ meee!” I screamed at him.

Without blinking he said, “I asked you a simple question, boy. I’m waiting for your answer. You want me to repeat the question?”

I nod.

He stuck me again.

“Yes!” I yelled. “Yes! I like girls!”

“Oh. Sorry. I thought you nodded because we didn’t hear me properly the first time. You should show your elders some respect. Next time, say ‘yes’ if you mean yes.” He chewed his cigar. “Understand?”

“Yes.” I started to cry.

“Good. Let’s talk about girls. You said you like girls.”

“Yes.”

“You like sleeping with girls?”

“Yes.”

“Have you actually slept with a girl?”

I hesitated for a second, was about to shake my head but I saw him raise his fist, so I said, “Yes.”

The blow landed anyway.

“Yes! I sleep with girls! I have slept with girls! I like sleeping with girls! What else dya wanna hear from me?”

“The truth.”

“Last night! Maybe two nights ago, I don’t remember. But it was my birthday. My twenty-first birthday. They gave me a girl. I slept with her. That’s the honest truth, man!”

He looked me in the eye. The twinkle was gone. “You didn’t sleep with her,” he said.

I didn’t understand what he wanted to hear. I didn’t know whether to say yes or no.

“You had sex with her,” he said. “But you didn’t sleep with her.”

I nodded weakly. “We had sex,” I said.

The blow fell again, this time on my other cheek. “Don’t drag her into this!” he boomed. “You were the one who had sex, boy. The girl was the one who was asleep.” He jabbed my brow with a thick finger. “Face the facts, boy.” He leaned closer. “You raped her.”

“H-how would you know … you her uncle, her father? I didn’t hurt her, honest. I was just for fun. Wait! Please don’t hit me! Please!”

He hit me. The stars came brighter than ever. As I spun from Capricorn to Andromeda, I made two awful discoveries. First, I realized what he said was true. I had my way with the girl while she was drunk or drugged. It didn’t matter whether or not she was a hooker. Second, my nose kept mysteriously healing itself seconds after the last blow was given. That’s why each strike felt as fresh as the first time, every nerve awake to raw pain.

I recovered eventually, and Mr. C had pulled a chair in front of me at sat down. I thought about measuring my next words carefully, perhaps not saying anything anymore, but the only thing that came out of me was defiance. “How did you know? You like to watch? Were you watching me screw?” I didn’t care anymore. Let the blows rain down.

But he merely patted me on the cheek, which had already mended itself, good as new.

“I got me a list,” he said with a wink. “I check it twice. First to find out those who’ve been naughty; second to find out those who’ve been nice. And you, boy, have been very, very naughty.”

“But,” I said, struggling to find logic in this mess, “it’s the middle of July; it’s too early for Christmas…”

He stared at me, his blue-gray eyes peering from beneath the deep shadows of his brow. “That’s exactly why I’m here, boy. What do you think I do during the rest of the year?”

“Engage in kidnapping and assault?” I said.

“Of naughty children,” he added. “I check my list twice, remember?”

I bristled at the word. “I am not a child,” I said.

“Boy, when you reach my age, believe me, everyone’s a child.” He puffed at his cigar. “December is a busy month for us,” he continued, “production at full capacity. Christmas Eve is when I make the deliveries. The rest of the month, we manufacture the toys. That’s also when the letters come. It helps that there aren’t as many children who believe in me nowadays. Also, the naughty always outnumber the nice. The less houses we need to visit, the better.”

I was starting to feel cold again.

“By January, after Epiphany, we start a new cycle.”

“Cycle?” I repeated.

“Recruitment,” he said. “Eleven months of recruitment. With fifty percent attrition due to death and starvation, it’s a miracle we’re still in operation.” He placed his large hand on my shoulder. “How’s your memory?”

“What?”

“Your memory,” he said. “Think backwards. Was there a time you believed in me?”

I thought about whipped cream. I thought about snow. “I was six.”

“Indeed you were. Do you remember what you asked for?” The twinkle in his eyes had returned, and the air was thick with the smell of cinnamon.

“A bicycle,” I said.

“That’s right,” he said, “a silver-colored bicycle. Exquisite craftsmanship, I recall.”

“It was you.”

“Did you think your parents bought it for you?”

I did. I assumed they read my letter and bought me the bike. My mother never sent it but kept it in a scrapbook which she showed me when I was a bit older. “They didn’t buy it?” I said.

“My people contacted them a week after you wrote the letter. They told them that their names had been selected at a raffle and the prize was a brand new bicycle. Kiddie-sized. Your parents took full credit, did they?”

They didn’t. They never talked about it. I had just assumed. “Please don’t drag my folks into this,” I pleaded. “They’re innocent.”

“Indeed they are,” he said. “It’s you I want.”

“Why me?”

“You wrote the letter.”

He pulled out a pair of glasses and put them on; then he reached into his jacket and brought out a folded, yellowed piece of pad paper. He unfolded it, scanned the letter, and read aloud. “I promise to be good always. Your own words, boy. Your own hand.”

“I was six years old!”

“The letter was a contract. You made a request, we delivered the goods, you accepted it. You promised to be good.”

“You expect every kid to be good forever?”

“Not every kid,” he said. “Only those who wrote me letters, only those who once believed in me, only those who accepted my gift, and only those who broke their promises, who didn’t meet their end of the bargain. Kids like you.” He refolded the letter and tucked it into his jacket.

“I just turned twenty-one…”

“Oh, yes, that. As kids grow older, yes, they become nasty. That’s part of life, isn’t it? But I expect them to lead relatively righteous lives at least until they reach adulthood.” He puffed his cigar, licked his lips. “Rape, by my definition, isn’t particularly righteous. If you had stolen a cookie from the cookie jar, I’d have turned a blind eye. But this…”

“I told you, I had already turned twenty-one by the time I screwed her!”

He delivered a right cross, broke my jaw. I fell to the floor, nearly passed out, hands still tied behind my back. He waited for my jaw to heal. Then he kicked me, cutting my lip. He waited for that to heal, too.

“There are twenty-four hours in a day, boy. You might have been twenty-one in your city, but in my time zone, you were still twenty.”

I lay on the floor, stared at his shoes. A cigar dropped near my nose, and he extinguished it with a twist of his toe. Then he snapped his fingers, and my hands were suddenly free as if there had never been any rope in the first place. I was too exhausted to stand.

Then two figures came in: Mr. Black and a girl. “Take him to the factory,” Santa told them. “We could use him in our pogo stick division.”

Mr. Black still wore that weird ponytail. The girl still had the face of an angel and the body of a whore. She smelled like cinnamon. They all did, come to think of it.

They each held one of my arms and pulled me up. My feet dragged as they carried me out the door.

“Where are they taking me?” I cry out to Santa.

“To Antarctica,” he replied.

“B-but… I thought you lived in the North Pole?”

“Greenland, boy. But our toy factory is down south. I run a complex global operation and need to keep costs down.”

His voice faded as they dragged me into the darkness. “Who knows, if you perform well enough and live long enough, I’ll transfer you to our bicycle division in Guangzhou. Ho! Ho!”

“The Off Season” copyright © 2007 by Michael A.R. Co. First published in the Christmas edition of the Digest of Philippine Genre Stories, 2007.

IN THE EYES OF MANY

In the eyes of many, he was “paranoid about privacy, passionate about porn, and”—as his public profile made plain—“prevalently peppered his phrases with P’s.” Later, when the police finally caught up with him, he was prosecuted for “perverse and predatory behavior” in an indictment that was also written, on purpose no doubt, in preposterous purple prose. The judge was not amused and dismissed the charges for lack of merit. The prosecutor was also cited for contempt.

But for now, Pete Portacio enjoyed what seemed like perfect anonymity. Almost. Every morning, after checking his cell phone for text messages, using the toilet, and abusing himself in the shower, he’d switch on his PC screen, check his torrents, access his inbox, and ritually delete half a dozen or so emails from the wife/daughter/son of a very important, but recently deceased, government official. Then he’d make himself a cup of 3-in-1 instant coffee, a cup of instant noodles, return to his workstation, and read the rest of his emails. On this particular morning, however, he received no word from his Nigerian pen pals, but more disconcertingly, none from his online friends.

This was strange because one of his online identities, pinoy_playboy69, was a popular professional blogger, moderator of several adult-only social networking websites, and the best "friend of a friend" anyone could have. He was tolerant of queers but very hetero; liberal in his politics but staunchly anti-commie. He was a lurker who didn’t offend anybody and didn’t make any demands. Although he had more pet peeves than guilty pleasures, he never imposed his opinions on anyone, and he knew the difference between revelation and denial. He also loved to chat with strangers, especially bored housewives, teenage girls, or even guys who pretended to be girls. After all, he was a tolerant man.

Kittycutie15 was currently online. He met her three weeks ago while lurking in a singles group, and they’ve chatted a number of times. He instant messaged her: “Hiya! wazzap :)” Seconds later, her smiley icon went to sleep, indicating that she had gone offline. He would’ve felt slighted if he had actually met her in person. Instead, he shrugged and assumed she wasn’t in the mood.

He checked out the blogosphere (no updates in the last 12 hours), logged on to his Friendster, Facebook, and MySpace accounts as “Pedro Potenciano” (nothing new there either), then scanned the news: Terror plot foiled in Germany - Beijing police to patrol the web - EU official seeks to ban access to bomb-making websites - Russia and China deny cyberattacks -YouTube no longer banned in Thailand - Burma blocks Internet - Facebook adds safety measures -

A dialog box popped up. Koji Hentai’s Bathroom Spy vol. 19 in .avi format had just finished downloading. He ran the video, and after a few minutes of un-subtitled opening credits that featured a blue-haired man installing a hidden camera behind a two-way mirror, the scene dissolved to a still shot of a buxom Japanese girl in lingerie. Her name (in hiragana and romaji) was Midori Sutomo, 20 years old, 5’1", 35-22-34, blood type B, a sure indication of a “wild” personality. The scene cut to hidden camera footage of Midori in her birthday suit stepping into a shower room, expressing perky shock over the lack of hot water. Pete knew that the whole set up was a sham, but the illusion was convincing and sadistically funny. He lusted after her flawless skin, watched as cold water fell against her chest, dripped down her abdomen, into her navel, between her slender legs. Her scene was over in less than ten minutes, and Mr. Hentai introduced his next victim.

Pete launched a new browser window and, as Bathroom Spy continued playing in the background, he Googled her name. From one fan site, he learned that she’s only half-Japanese, “Sutomo” being an Indonesian surname. Hoping to find more explicit videos of her, he narrowed his search: “Midori Sutomo” +video

The top search was a website called Ogle but the actual URL was much longer. He clicked the link. A video played automatically, showing a pair of delicate hands awkwardly massaging a muscled back covered with green and red dragon tattoos. It looked like a phony reality TV show except the scene was shot entirely from the girl’s point of view as she straddled her partner. Pete toggled to full screen mode and increased the volume. He heard the grunts of the man as the girl’s hands turned into fists and pressed down between his shoulder blades. Occasionally, her tan breasts would peek from the lower edge of the screen.

Being an amateur filmmaker himself, Pete was impressed with the camera work, particularly the POV. He imagined that she had a special camera mounted on her forehead like a human version of National Geographic’s “Crittercam.”

The scene panned up. Midori was staring at herself in a large mirror above the bed. She was nude, and so was her partner. She adjusted her hair, checked if her ponytail was still in place.

Amazing, Pete thought. But where’s the camera?

He paused the video but the status bar continued to show the seconds ticking by, as if the site was buffering. He tried to fast forward but the interface wouldn’t allow him to view beyond the time already elapsed. The video kept playing and all he could do was watch it in real time. The scene panned down as Midori examined her partner’s face; he seemed to have fallen asleep. Then she got out of bed, walked to the bathroom, sat on the toilet, and did her business. Hardcore porn caters to all fetishes, he concluded.

Bored now, Pete returned to the site’s homepage. Ogle had a remarkably simple interface: a search box with advanced options to filter the results. There were links that allowed him to search not only by name, but also by location and proximity to user. Proximity? That didn’t make sense. A drop down list under proximity allowed him to select the radius - 10m, 50m, 100m, 500m, and 1000m. He chose “10m,” out of curiosity, naturally assuming that “m” meant meters.

Two hyperlinks appeared:

Peter Portacio / Pedro Potenciano / pinoy_playboy69…

Tricia Martinez

Thinking that the first link pointed to one of his own websites, he considered the second. Tricia was the name of his next door neighbor. He had noticed her a few times. Chinky-eyed, slightly plump, quite a looker. He stared at his wall, stared at his screen. Beads of sweat formed over his upper lip. He clicked on her name.

Another video loaded. Tricia was sitting in bed, clipping her toenails; like Midori’s video, he watched entirely from her POV. Was this a new trend? First person vlogging?  Pete hoped she’d eventually take a shower. Instead, she gave herself a pedicure. He watched and waited, learning much about cuticles, French tips, and acetone in the process. Then, while waiting for her nails to dry, she leaned back in bed and cracked open a dog-eared copy of Pride and Prejudice.

The resolution was remarkably fine. If he wanted to, he could read along with her. Why anyone would produce a vlog like this was beyond him.

Frustrated, Pete hit the Back button. Tricia’s link had turned purple, while his was still blue. This time, he clicked on his name.

A new video loaded: an image of his computer screen. Or more accurately, a video of his computer screen displaying his computer screen displaying his computer screen… like it went on forever. He slowly lowered his eyelids; the scene started to narrow, a dark shadow falling from the upper edge.

He choked on a noodle and nearly slipped off his chair. Pete stood up, looked behind him. He was alone in the room. He stared at the ceiling; nothing there either. Before returning to his workstation, he looked out his window, inspected his webcam, ran his fingers through his hair, pinched his forearm, and rubbed his eyes. Throughout all this, the video moved along with his eyes. He looked left, right, and winked; the video had panned left, right, and bounced slightly off center. He put his hand in front of his face; he could see the hand appear on the screen behind it. His heart pounded like a trapped gorilla. Pete had made an awesome discovery and his mind worked on how he might profit from it.

That’s when he noticed a link that read: View people who have viewed you.

He froze.

He clicked the link, and a long list of names appeared; beside each entry were the date, time, duration, and whether the person was currently online. There were about seventy names, all of them online. Bathroom Spy vol. 19 continued playing on his other window.

* * *

Pete wasn’t the first to discover the Ogle website. Within 24 hours, the link to the homepage had been emailed, forwarded, blogged about, and posted in e-groups around the world. In 48 hours, the site hit the mainstream media and the Dow dropped 3000 points sending the world financial system into a tailspin. After 72 hours, ten nations had declared martial law, and the number of reported suicides in South Korea and Japan quadrupled from the usual daily average.

Jon Lorenzo waited outside the college for his ride, notebook computer snugly stowed in a backpack. He wore contact lenses instead of eyeglasses and a baller band instead of a wristwatch, but his khakis and loafers betrayed his maturity and announced that he was a teacher of some sort. He entered the heavily tinted SUV when it pulled up to the curb. The Undersecretary of the Department of Science and Technology was waiting for him in the back seat.

“Are we meeting with the entire NSC?” asked Jon.

“Just the Executive Committee.”

They rode the rest of the way in silence. The SUV made a right turn instead of a left and Jon knew that they weren’t going to Malacañang. He looked out the window from the corner of his eye. They were passing one of the city’s crowded slums. Three naked children, two boys and one girl, maybe six to eight years old, ran about with soap in their hair, as a woman, presumably their mother, scolded one of the boys to keep still while she rinsed his skinny body with what little water she had. Jon wondered when these children would start bathing on their own. In private. As the entire squatter community flashed by the window, he wondered how anyone could have time alone at all.

Thirty minutes later, the SUV entered a compound in Quezon City surrounded by a high perimeter wall and guarded by men wearing barongs and sunglasses. The vehicle ground to a halt, and without a word, two security men escorted Jon and the Undersecretary into the house. Guards frisked them for weapons but did not confiscate their cellphones. They were led down a hall.

“She’ll be expecting simple answers,” said the Undersecretary.

“Sir, the problem isn’t that simple,” said Jon.

“Just your answers, Jon. Keep them short and honest. Speak only when spoken to. Don’t stall. Hesitation implies uncertainty.”

“These are uncertain times, sir.”

They paused in front of a mahogany door. Another man in a barong motioned for Jon to go right in.

“Aren’t you coming with me?” Jon asked the Undersecretary. The latter nodded and Jon felt ashamed for even asking.

The room was cool, almost cold, the air-con humming and hissing, indicating it needed cleaning. All the lights were off except for a small desk lamp illuminating a sheaf of papers on a dark brown dinner table. Jon had to adjust his eyes to the dim light conditions. At the head of the table, he could make out the petite form of the President. There were several men seated around the table, some of whom he could still recognize despite the gloom: the disheveled hair of the Secretary of the Department of Interior and Local Government, the semi-bald pate of the Defense Secretary, the grim head of the Justice Secretary, and the bulky mass of the National Security Advisor who sat immobile, silent as stone. Jon nearly jumped when the thing spoke.

“Gentlemen, please take your seats.”

Jon pulled back a chair, but the Undersecretary, thinking that Jon was offering him the seat, promptly took it. Jon was forced to sit at the end of the table, directly across the President.

“Another day, another scandal,” she said, her voice unmistakable. “I looked over your initial report. You should have used less technical language.” She closed a folder labeled Top Secret: For Your Eyes Only.

“I’m sorry Madam President, I…”

She raised her hand and continued, “Never mind. You’re here now. Share your findings. And please, Jon, keep it simple.”

Jon Lorenzo cleared his throat. As senior consultant to the Presidential Task Force on Cybersecurity, he found it unfair that he was expected to work miracles when he was as much in the dark as everyone else. “From what we can determine, the website appeared just three days ago,” he began. “It’s called ‘Ogle’ except that the initial character is actually a zero. The domain name is not registered in any DNS server yet it can be accessed by anyone, anywhere. You don’t even need an Internet connection, just a computer and a browser. All our efforts to trace the host and track down the webmaster have been futile. Measures to block the URL are useless as the site doesn’t have a valid IP address. The domain name itself consists of sixty-one zeros followed by the letters g, l, and e. ICANN currently restricts names to sixty-three characters—”

“English, Jon, English,” the President interrupted.

Jon sighed. “The website shouldn’t even exist,” he said. “It violates the rules of the Internet and the laws of physics.”

“It violates our privacy, that’s what it does!” said the Justice Secretary.

“To what extent, we’ll soon find out,” said the President. “Jon, please go on.”

“Ogle gives its users the unprecedented ability to look through other people’s eyes and listen through their ears. No one knows how this is done or why this is even possible, who did it, and from where. Although it hasn’t recorded anything older than three days,”—there was a faint sigh of relief—“it hasn’t stopped recording everything since. To our knowledge, the videos cannot be deleted.” Jon thought he heard a collective gasp but it might have been the old air-con unit.

Jon continued. “This is a global phenomenon. The Ogle website consistently ranks number one every time you search for someone’s name along with the word ‘video’ regardless of which search engine you use. If a hundred others shared your name, all of you will appear at the top one hundred. Videos can also be searched by popularity. Vying for first place are Bush and bin Laden. Obama, a close third. That’s just the English version; Ogle supports multiple languages.”

“The end of privacy,” said the Interior Secretary, shaking his head. “We should wear masks, work through intermediaries, impose a ban on the use of computers…”

“The U.S. response so far was to declare martial law, hours ahead of China and Russia,” said the Defense Secretary. “We should do the same.”

“I think a state of emergency would be in order,” the Justice Secretary chimed in. "Martial law would be political suicide.”

“Martial law is our only choice!” countered the Defense Secretary. “This website poses a grave threat to our national security. Martial law is a far better option than either a coup or impeachment. We should shut down the grid. Cut the power. No electricity, no computers.”

“Sir, with all due respect,” said Jon, “that won’t solve the problem.” He pulled out his cellphone, accessed the Ogle homepage, typed in his own name, and loaded the video. He flipped the screen around and showed it to the Defense Secretary. “Millions of people own a cellphone, and most models today have a built-in browser. I can recharge mine with my car battery. A blackout now would only empower criminals, rebels, terrorists, and foreign governments.”

The Defense Secretary looked convinced and so did the President.

“There’s more.” Jon tapped a few more links. “We don’t know how it does this, but Ogle displays highly personal data on every individual account. There are a total of sixty-four parameters. Full name, aliases, e-mail addresses, date of birth, weight, height, current location in longitude and latitude, all liquid assets in local currency, the names of your children, the names of those that you’ve killed or ordered killed in or out of the line of duty, the people you’ve had intercourse with…"

“That’s enough, Jon,” said the President. “Please put that away.”

But before Jon could log out, he noticed that someone else was viewing him: kittycutie15. He switched off his phone and tucked it away.

Rubbing her temples, the President said, “Is there anything Ogle can’t do?”

“Ogle cannot read minds,” Jon replied. “And it can only track the living. Each video is literally a live feed.”

The air-con’s hum switched to a low drone like a car changing gears.

At last the President said, “What would you do?” It took Jon a few seconds to realize the question was still directed at him. He looked at the Undersecretary for guidance and got a blank stare, and the men in the shadows remained in the shadows.

“I’m not asking you to formulate policy, Jon. I’m asking for your personal opinion. What would you do?”

The air-con’s drone seemed deafening. Then he found the courage to speak his mind.

“Ogle gives users absolute access to anyone in the planet, and can search for people within a radius of ten meters to one kilometer from the original subject. I can enter your name, location, association, race or religion. Ogle will find you. I can even upload your scanned fingerprint. Ogle will find you. Therefore, I would choose my words and actions carefully from now on. I won’t do anything illegal or embarrassing and I’d tell everyone to do the same. I’d beef up my security detail. And as a public servant, I wouldn’t worry about being watched by the people I serve. I would not be a coward in a brave new world.”

“Good God,” someone said.

“Not God,” said the National Security Adviser. “Big Brother.” His shadow didn’t fidget as much as the others.

“Little brothers,” said Jon, “and sisters. Over six billion of them. Otherwise, aliens from outer space.” The Undersecretary shot him a warning glance: don’t get cocky, not today.

“What I meant,” Jon quickly recovered, turning back to the President, “is that it’s highly likely everyone on this planet has an Ogle account. Ogle keeps a history, a list, of persons that have viewed through your eyes, logging the date and time, with an instant link back to that person. Conversely, it also keeps a history of your own viewing habits. Like the videos, both lists cannot be deleted. I can watch what you see, just as you can see what I watch. It’s a double-edged sword. But rest assured Madam President, I have not used Ogle on you or anyone in this room during my initial investigation.” In truth, Jon had used it on certain government officials, including the Undersecretary, but thought it prudent to lie.

“Yet here you are, saying we should allow others to spy on us,” said the President.

“I’d spy on them in return,” Jon said. “I’d ‘Ogle’ those who’ve ‘Ogled’ me and find out who threw the first stone.” He shivered and wished someone would turn off the air-con. But maybe he was just appalled by his own suggestion.

* * *

“This is appalling,” Alexis mumbled as she arrived at the police station. A crowd had gathered outside, most being led in rather than out. The national police was swamped with cases involving petty crimes like theft and slander; on the other hand, incidents of murder and rape seemed to be declining, even after the government decided not to impose martial law. Because unlike the rest of the world, the country did not, as pundits had predicted, spiral into chaos. There were none of the street protests, riots, violent crackdowns, mass suicides, genocides, terrorist bombings, coups, and civil wars that had been hogging the foreign headlines in the five weeks since Ogle appeared. On the contrary, it seemed that most Filipinos just stayed home. She attributed it either to their sense of shame (hiya) or fear (takot), and felt that the former was the stronger form of social control. Those who had no shame (walang hiya) were controlled through the fear of getting caught and punished. As the rate of violent crime fell, Alexis realized that Ogle had become the perfect deterrent. What would she do then? She tried to recall if there was a Tagalog word for “guilt” and concluded there wasn’t any.

She could switch to family law, like her friend Laura who was making a killing handling legal separation and annulment cases now that husbands are unable to hide their illicit trysts from their wives. As Laura told her over lunch, in between sips of vanilla frap, “Your heart bleeds too much, Alexis. Human nature won’t change. Men are shameless, and they’ll always cheat.” Wiping foam from her small lips with a perfectly manicured finger, she added, “They also pay my bills.”

To this Alexis replied, “And I mind my own affairs.”

But perhaps it was due to her innate sense of justice, a misguided moral compass, or simple personal pride that Alexis continued working as a public defender. She squeezed through the crowd, holding her briefcase and cellphone against her chest. The police station was sweltering hot from the afternoon sun. The salty odor of humanity violated her nostrils as did the complex aroma of wood wax, cigarette smoke, leather, cheap cologne, and gun oil. After conferring with one of the officers on duty and almost stepping on the toes of a woman accused of estafa, she found her client sitting on a bench beside a rusty filing cabinet.

He was obese and nearly occupied half the bench. Sweat trickled down his dark puffy cheeks. He kept blinking. His knee jerked up and down, a habit she herself had trouble suppressing back in law school. The orange t-shirt he wore was drenched and she could see his dark areolas pressed against the fabric, punctuating a large letter P like lewd quotation marks.

“Good afternoon,” she said in a crisp Filipino vernacular, “I’m Attorney Alexis Lorenzo, your defense counsel.” She pointed at his t-shirt. “Did the police force you to wear that?”

Peter Portacio’s eyes lit up as he scanned her legs and breasts. He looked at her face almost as an afterthought.

“This t-t-shirt is m-mine,” he said.

“Come again?”

“The l-letter P s-stands for m-my n-name. P-peter.”

Even before Ogle, many suspects never enjoyed privacy when talking to their lawyers. A policeman was standing less than three feet away. She sat next to her client. “Did they threaten you?” she whispered. “Why so nervous?”

“N-n-no,” Pete said. “I’m n-not n-nervous. I h-have h-ad a t-t-er-ible s-stutter s-s-since I w-was a little b-boy. I w-work from h-home. Mm-medical t-trans-scrip-scription-n-nist. N-not m-much t-talk-king n-neces-s-s-s—”

“According to the prosecutor,” she cut in without a hint of pity, “that’s not all you do.”

“B-but I d-didn’t hurt anyone. I m-mind m-my own b-business. I d-didn’t even use O-o-ogle after I d-d-discov-vered that it allows users to s-see…”

“You’re a pornographer and a peeping tom so please cut the bull.” He was painful to listen to.  “I’m your lawyer, not your mother. You don’t have to lie to me. But you’ve been accused by your next door neighbor for acts of lasciviousness, violence against women, and possessing and publishing obscene materials. The first charge can be dismissed outright because you never touched her. The second charge won’t hold because at the moment, it’s not a crime to use Ogle on anybody, at least not until the First Stone bill is signed into law. On the third charge of pornography, I’m confident I can file a motion to quash on the ground that the evidence was obtained illegally. The police report clearly states that operatives used Ogle to record your activities; that’s inadmissible as evidence. Yours is a test case but we have jurisprudence on our side.”

“They c-can’t use what they saw against m-me?”

“Evidence illegally obtained cannot be used against the accused. To do so would be to take the ‘fruit of the poisonous tree.’ They need to follow procedure. You’ll be walking out within the day. Afterwards, you should hire your own private attorney. A civil lawsuit can still be brought against you and I won’t be able to help you there.”

“They c-confiscated my c-computer. W-will I g-get my files back?”

“Mr. Portacio, don’t push it. Be happy you’re a free man.”

“Am I? Are w-w-we?”

She honestly didn’t know.

Alexis also didn’t know that her involvement in the case of People vs. Portacio would trigger far reaching legal and social consequences. After being cited for contempt and paying the necessary fines, the private prosecutor elevated the case to the Supreme Court. The Court, sitting en banc and taking judicial notice of Ogle’s ubiquity, decided that the exclusionary rule, or the “fruit of the poisonous tree” doctrine, did not apply to Ogle. The Court argued that because Ogle’s records and video archives were universally accessible, the contents were, de facto, in the public domain and any incriminating evidence discovered through the use thereof shall be the legal equivalent of a plain view search. A concurring opinion also raised the possibility that to suppress evidence obtained from Ogle would give criminals blanket protection from all searches while they themselves use the website to plan and commit their next crime. Consequently, Peter Portacio would serve four years in jail for pornography after the Court declared the First Stone law as unconstitutional.

Alexis had no way of knowing any of this, however, as Ogle did not peer into the future, just as she had no way of knowing that in nine months, she would be having her first child.

* * *

40 days O.E. (Ogle Era)

They say Noah’s Ark drifted for forty days and forty nights as the Flood cleansed all the evil from the earth. Jon had been drifting only a week, and was back to teaching full-time. Forty days had passed since Ogle revealed itself and Jon Lorenzo, formerly the senior consultant for the Presidential Task Force on Cybersecurity, had been leading a fairly clean life. He resolved never to work for the government again.

As he locked his office door, he noticed a Post-It note below his name and room number. He peeled it off. It was blank but smelled of raspberries and roses, an expensive fragrance he remembered buying two months ago. Before crumpling the paper and throwing it away, he ran his thumbs along the surface which had a sequence of raised bumps. The crude Braille message read: “5pm. Park bench. Pls come.” It was already 5:05pm.

She was staring west, her oval face framing her small ruby lips, a perfectly manicured finger idly twirling her hair. She was sitting on the hilltop bench, the same place where, forty-five days ago, they had last met in private. She must have something important to say, he thought, to risk meeting here.

“Jon!” she said, looking fabulously surprised. “You’ve lost weight!” They touched cheeks, a gesture of beso-beso, a mock kiss. She smelled expensive, raspberries and roses. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

Her eyes. Something in her eyes.

“Yes, it has,” he said. “What brings you all the way here?  Weren’t you supposed to have lunch with my wife?”

“Jon naman, that was hours ago! I came from a medical appointment and I wanted to watch the sunset. Come, have a seat!”

I can’t, he thought. But complied without protest. Forty days, he remembered. Clean life. Clean slate.

“You said you saw a doctor? Is anything wrong?”

“No,” she said. “Everything’s fine. Great.”

Her eyes were light brown. Quivering gold. She couldn’t look away from him.

“I’m pregnant, Jon.”

Inexplicably, his spirits sank and he was struck speechless. The gold in her eyes disappeared but the quivering remained.

She kept smiling, perfect teeth between perfect lips. “Say something,” she said. “Congratulate me. Please.”

“Oh, sorry. I mean, congrats! I’m so happy for you. That is good news. Is it good news?”

“Good news,” she said. “Definitely.”

She leaned over and hugged him. He inhaled her scent, imagined what could have been. Waking up beside her, touching her skin.

They continued their friendly embrace longer than planned. With her finger, she quickly traced eight letters on his back: I-W-A-N-T-E-D-U

He broke off and asked, “So will the two of you be tying the knot soon?”

“Ay naku,” she said. “We broke up more than a month ago. Found him on top of a stripper while I was away in Hong Kong. Don’t you love Ogle?”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

“Does he know?”

She shook her head.

“You’re not going to tell him?”

Again she shook her head. “It’s better this way, right? Less complicated.”

He could only nod. What else could he do? “Have you told Alexis?”

“I’ve texted her. She’s very supportive.”

“And your father?”

“Not yet. He’s getting promoted, and I want him to enjoy his moment in the sun first. The President has named him the new Secretary of the Department of Science and Technology.”

“Yes, I heard,” said Jon. “I no longer work for the government though.”

“I heard.”

They sat quietly for a while, listening to the wind, waiting for a sign. The narra trees had begun to flower. Before he could speak, she got up, and so did he.

“Well,” she said, “I have a long day tomorrow. Adultery case. The husband says he’s got the video to prove it.” She winked. “Sometimes, Jon, it’s the wife who cheats. What time are you heading home?”

“I’ll get a taxi at the corner. Color coding.”

“Need a lift?”

“You’re heading south, I’m heading north. It’s okay, I can manage.”

“I see.” She reached into her handbag for her car keys, and instead pulled out a mirror to check her mascara. “Oh, and please tell Alexis she can keep my laptop for as long as she needs. I’m getting an upgrade. It was great seeing you, Jon.”

They touched cheeks, beso-beso. Her cheeks felt warm. He watched her walk to the parking lot, and he waved goodbye as her silver Mazda drove out.

The sky was turning orange. He could never tell the difference between the colors of dusk and dawn. When he got to the taxi stand, he found Father Samson also waiting for a ride. He was nearly eighty years old yet normally took solitary walks around the campus with nothing more to guide him than a cane and a Bible.

“Good evening, Father.”

Father Samson looked at him closely, squinting behind a thick pair of spectacles. “Oh, Jon! Yes, it is a good evening indeed!”

“Have you been waiting long?” Jon asked, indicating the taxi sign.

“Quite,” said Father Samson, “quite a bit. Half-an-hour, I’d guess. There aren’t many people and cars in the street these days.”

“Not since Ogle.”

“What’s that again?”

“Ogle,” Jon repeated. “The website that sees everything.”

“Oh, yes,” said Father Samson. “I’m afraid my hearing isn’t as reliable as it used to be. You should speak louder next time.”

“I will, Father.”

“Heh?”

“I will, Father!”

“No need to shout, Jon. We don’t want to scare the taxi away.” Father Samson grinned, his eyes narrowing into slits. “I was just pulling your leg. I can hear you fine.”

Father Samson was a favorite among the students and faculty. Jon chuckled. “You know, since we’re going in the same direction, I suggest we share a taxi.”

The priest rapped his cane on the pavement. “Too lazy and impatient to wait for your own, eh? I’ve been waiting here awhile.”

Jon’s ears reddened. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to suggest...”

“Jon?”

“Yes, Father?”

“I’m pulling your leg again.”

Both men snickered. For a moment, Jon forgot about Laura’s pregnancy until Father mentioned seeing them.

“You and that lady looked good together,” he said.

Jon wished Father Samson was joking. He felt a thousand eyes watching. He downplayed the incident. “You mean Laura? She just found out she’s pregnant and wanted to share the good news.”

“Congratulations then! Are you hoping for a boy or a girl?”

He and Alexis had promised never to use Ogle to keep tabs on each other, but why take chances? Jon did his best to sound humorously shocked. “Haha! She’s not having my child, Father Samson! I’m already happily married.” He held up his hand, proudly displayed his wedding ring. “Laura is a friend of my wife, Alexis. We’re trying to have children of our own.”

“Bless you then,” said Father Samson. “I take it this ‘Laura’ is also married?”

“No,” said Jon. “She’s fiercely independent.”

“I think she likes you.”

“Pardon?”

“I’m not blind. Not yet. If there’s anything you want to confess, I’m right here. We have time.”

Jon scratched his nape. “I’m no longer a practicing Catholic. But thanks for the offer.”

If Father Samson was offended by that remark, he did a fine job of concealing it.

“Talking about it might lighten your burden.”

Jon would rather keep his thoughts private. He graciously declined a second time.

“You’re a decent man, Jon,” said Father Samson. “That’s human nature.”

Sensing the opportunity to change the subject, Jon asked, “Is decency part of human nature? Ogle has turned us into voyeurs.”

“Are you a voyeur? Am I a voyeur?” Cocking his head toward the direction of a security guard near the campus gate, he added, “Is he a voyeur?”

“Wait till you give him a computer.”

“Even then, I can’t imagine him having the time to watch everyone in the world,” said Father Samson. “I’d imagine that he’d rather do his job, thankless it may often seem, to earn an honest wage, instead of living life as a couch potato. Maybe I’m just an old man with old fashioned ideas, but I believe the majority have better things to do.”

“And the minority?”

“I’d be flattered! Think about it, Jon! Of the billions of people in the world, some might actually be interested in watching my daily routine. Perhaps they’d listen to my homilies for a change.”

Jon shrugged. “And I thought I was important...”

“But you are important! In the eyes of your wife, in the eyes of your lady friend, and in the eyes of God.”

Jon loved his wife, lusted after Laura, but was strictly a man of science. He found it easier to believe in the extraterrestrial than the supernatural. He secretly suspected that Ogle was a prelude to an alien invasion, and found it comforting to theorize about sentient nanoscale cybernetic parasites tapping into the optic nerve and uploading zetabytes of video footage to their cloaked spaceship for long-term storage. It was just a crazy hypothesis, but preferable to assuming Ogle was the work of an Abrahamic God. Distracted with this train of thought, he failed to exercise his usual tact, and, as a taxi finally arrived, curtly replied, “I wouldn’t want a God who likes to watch me all day, every day.”

This time, Father Samson looked genuinely hurt. “Adam and Eve were created without shame,” he said, climbing into the taxi. “However, after tasting the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge, they became ashamed of their nakedness and tried to hide from their Creator. The world has not been the same since the Fall. Until now.” He closed the door, signaled to the driver. “Take care of yourself, Jon. You might want to take a jeepney instead of waiting for another taxi. It’s getting dark.” And with that, the taxi drove off.

Jon stood with his mouth agape.

The taxi stopped about twenty-feet from him and the rear window slid down. “I was just pulling your leg, Jon,” said Father Samson. “Hop in!”

* * *

“Man is born free,” Rousseau once wrote, “but everywhere he is in chains.”

Alexis Lorenzo couldn’t agree more.  She had been reading a recent case of two American teenagers, a sixteen-year-old girl and a seventeen-year-old boy, who had e-mailed sexually explicit pictures of themselves to each other. The law convicted them of child pornography, with the judge asserting that the images could still be distributed without their consent, which was what had happened when their parents sent the pictures to the police.

“Generation WWW,” she typed, “is just one step behind Generation X but thrice as lost: curious, unabashed, and deplorably gullible. The irony is that the law had in effect punished those it sought to protect. Should the law act as the stern hand of a father or the watchful eye of a mother?”

Congress seemed to be favoring the stern hand over the watchful eye. Amid bribery scandals and marathon hearings, lawmakers were attempting to pass the so-called “First Stone” bill. She hated the phrase; it sounded like a medical condition. But the media embraced it even if the analogy was a bit off, much like the way “color coding” once referred to a vehicle traffic reduction scheme that had nothing to do with colors, or how “charter change” and “constituent assembly” were shortened to “cha-cha” and “con-ass.”

The bill was named after an incident in the Gospels. Just as Jesus challenged anyone who has never sinned to cast the first stone at the woman caught in the act of adultery, the First Stone bill, if passed, criminalizes anyone who would use Ogle to look into other people’s lives. Alexis knew its enforcement was impossible; it would be easier to prosecute everyone who downloaded pirated music. King Canute would’ve fared better fighting the sea.

Alexis was working in her living room, clad only in a negligee, trying to integrate these ideas for an upcoming symposium aptly called, “Society of the Shameless: Ogling Our Future.”

“Although the end of privacy did not, in all cases, spell the end of security, safety, and shame, the greatest impact to the next generation may also be the least obvious. In a world of absolute transparency, how will our children rise above the mediocre middle? With everybody watching their every move, will they still be able to compete, innovate, lead, and create change without shame? Or will they form the ultimate social kaleidoscope, reflecting the reflected, following the followed, reduced to pretty shapes and colors but nothing else?”

“Darling, it’s late. Come to bed.”

“Give me another minute.”

“That’s what you said ten minutes ago.” Jon placed his hands on her shoulders, gently massaged them. He whispered something into her ear.

“Hmmm,” she cooed, “now that’s creative…” She tilted her head, kissed his hand. He kissed her neck. She adjusted the strap of her negligee. “Let me just shut down, okay?”

Satisfied with her answer, he returned to their bedroom. Alexis returned to her computer.

“The experts have been too preoccupied with how privacy ended,” she typed. “The question we should be really be asking ourselves is, ‘How did privacy begin?’”

She saved her file, closed the laptop, and joined her husband in the master’s bedroom. He was lying in bed with one arm behind his head, his pale torso above the sheets, looking pleased with what he saw. She was not concerned about the multitude of strangers who might be Ogling her fleshy figure; she only cared about the eyes of the man she loved. But she was also a sensible woman and insisted that the most ancient, the most human, and the most beautiful act of love should never be shared with others.

“Close your eyes, darling,” she said. As soon as he did, she tiptoed to her side of the bed, gingerly climbed in, leaned over her lover, and turned off the lights.

At that moment, across the city, the screen of an immaculately white laptop, branded with the silhouette of a partially bitten apple, suddenly went dark. Attorney Laura Ignacio, a.k.a. kittycutie15, decided it was also time to go to bed.

“In the Eyes of Many” copyright © 2007 by Michael A.R. Co. This story was a Gregorio Brillantes Award Finalist for prose fiction. First published in The Philippine Graphic/Fiction Awards Prose Anthology, 2010.

THE SWEET STRANGER

“This spirit seeks the love of men. If they refuse she is their slave; if they consent, they are hers and can only escape by finding one to take their place. Her lovers waste away, for she lives on their life. Most of the Gaelic poets, down to quite recent times, have had a Leanhaun Shee, for she gives inspiration to her slaves and is indeed the Gaelic muse—this malignant fairy. Her lovers, the Gaelic poets, died young. She grew restless and carried them away to other worlds, for death does not destroy her power.”

- W.B. Yeats, “Irish Fairy Tales,” 1891

“When the snake vanished, in her terror she tried to pray. But language failed her. She could find no tongue in which to speak till at last she thought of some children’s verses in English and then found herself able to pray in that language.”

- Breuer and Freud, “Studies in Hysteria,” 1895

The Ides of March, 1896.

He should have used a bigger spade or selected a better spot.

He stands alone beneath a tree, deep in the forest. But after digging for almost an hour, the top of the hole barely reaches his knees.

“To your waist,” his master told him earlier that afternoon. “The hole must be deep enough for you to crouch in.”

The boy wanted to question the wisdom of the order but like an obedient servant he merely nodded and assured his master that the job will be done before nightfall.

“Sooner,” his master said. “You mustn’t wait for the dark to catch up with you.”

I wish you could have told me earlier, he thought.

“It will be done this afternoon,” he said.

“But do bring a lantern,” said his master, “just in case.” The boy nodded, and thanked him for his concern. Satisfied, the master dismissed him with a wave of the hand, revealing the black tips of his thumb, index, and middle fingers. That his master’s fingers were stained with ink was not surprising to the boy, but this time they were darker than usual as if his master had been in the middle of writing a rather difficult letter.

The boy stops digging. His own fingers are not as delicate as his master’s but they, too, are stained. Not black but red.

He stabs his spade into the pile of earth outside the hole, and leaves the spade’s handle standing like the hilt of Excalibur, while he inspects his calloused hand. Somehow, he had cut his ring finger. Blood flows down to his nails. The wound is minor; he doesn’t feel any pain. But seeing the first drop of blood strike the ground is disconcerting enough and he instinctively wraps his fingers with the hem of his tunic to stanch the flow.

Only then does he feel the hurt. The cut had opened a vein along his inside knuckle and it stings when he stretches his fingers wide. More drops fall.

The surrounding forest begins to look more menacing despite his familiarity with the area. In a cold moment of reflection, on a hot and humid afternoon, he feels as if he is really digging his own grave.

As an act of contrition, he recites the words his mother taught him long ago before she left him, and which he, having seen only sixteen summers, had forgotten to say before disturbing the ground at the foot of an ancient tree.

“Tabi tabi po,” he says. “Tabi tabi po.”

The tree’s roots stretch across its patch of forest floor like gnarled fingers; they clutch the ground like a stubborn old man hanging on to old habits. Its wrinkled bark and twisted trunk reminds him of Mang Melchor, the local medicine man, whose right leg is shorter than his left yet refuses to walk with a cane because it is, according to the old man, “unbecoming” of his status as a healer. His awkward stance resembles the semi-bent appearance of this tree. Most of the large leaves are still green although some have already turned orange-red since the dry season began. A few of the red leaves lie about him as if the tree had also been bleeding.

What did his master call this tree?

Terminalia catappa.

To everyone else, it is known as the talisay.

“Tabi tabi po,” he repeats. He doesn’t expect the talisay tree to answer because he doesn’t direct his apology to it. He speaks instead to the unseen spirits that might be dwelling beneath the roots. The nuno. The duende. Or the larger creatures hiding among the low hanging boughs. The kapre. The tikbalang.

The previous year, his master had done a survey of the superstitions prevalent in the island, including the belief in faith healers like Mang Melchor, and he wrote down his findings in what he called the Practicas de los Curandos. But what was intended to be his technical masterpiece was also a work-in-progress, the Descripciones de Plantas Medicinales, Maderas de Contruccion Especies Olcoginosas o Resinosas y Algunos Metales, Heteropsidos y Antopsidos de una Coleccion Naturalista, which the boy and the other students had assisted in compiling. His master advocated the scientific method, and he wanted to bring European technology and ideas back to his homeland. As his master once lamented in an early letter from Germany, “Everyone here talks of barometers and thermometers, the way we talk about San Agustin and San Procopio, of whom we know more than the saints themselves.” In spite of this, the boy was still interested in his master’s views about malignos, and asked for his opinion.

His master admonished him never to believe in such creatures. “They are relics of our pagan past,” he said. “Impossible for intelligent men to even consider.”

“But maestro,” the boy said, a bit impetuously he realized too late, “I am not an intelligent man. That’s why I’m asking you.”

“Pilosopo,” his master said in mock annoyance. Then, before the boy could respond, he added, “Which proves my point, young man. You are a lot smarter than you think.”

The boy was confused, as he did not want to anger his master. In his mind, the nuno are dark and wear no clothes, while the duende wear beards and colorful hats and shoes. He repeated his original question: “So what is the difference between the nuno and the duende?”

His master sighed. “I don’t know. I’ve never met any. But if you see some, ask them. When it comes to research, you should always turn to the primary source.”

Before the boy could ask him to elaborate, his master offered his best answer.

“I would surmise they are the same magical being,” his master said, in a tone both incredulous and sincere. “The nuno are the natives, while the duende arrived with the Spaniards.”

“I see. The nuno are Indios like us, while the duende are Kastila.”

“No, no, no. I did not say that. But now that I think about it, if they were real, perhaps they came from Spanish Galicia. Or from France, which was once part of ancient Gaul, a land once steeped in Celtic culture before the Romans took over.” His master was a genius with wide intellectual and creative abilities. He loved to use strange words.

His master turned to him. “Do you know what ‘duende’ means? It’s short for dueño de casa. The ‘lord of the house.’ If the little buggers aren’t Spaniards, they sure would talk and act like them. Haha!”

The boy had never thought of the Spaniards as small people before. It was refreshing. So he laughed as well. “And what about the nuno, do they live outdoors then?”

“Fresh air, clean water, I don’t see why they wouldn’t.”

“Are they Tagalog or Visaya?”

“Neither. Political boundaries wouldn’t mean much to them.” Then in a low voice, his master said, “But it would not be farfetched to think that they may soon be Filipino. Just like us.”

Rumors of revolution and a new secret society have been quietly spreading among the village folk. His master would casually discuss politics with farmers and fishermen, but he seemed to avoid the subject with his students, preferring that they focus their energies on language, literature, mathematics, botany, zoology, and physical exercise. Sometimes, however, he made an exception in one of his lessons.

“I have my doubts about the tikbalang,” his master said. “The common people consistently describe the tikbalang as a monster with the body of a man and the head of a horse. Can you believe that? A horse! But horses are not indigenous to these lands. They arrived with the Spaniards aboard their ships. Pues, we don’t even have a native word for the animal! Their ‘caballo’ became our ‘kabayo.’ Now think, young man, if the horse came from Spain, where does the tikbalang’s head come from?”

The boy wanted to suggest that maybe the tikbalang’s long ugly head was unique in itself but merely mistaken for a horse’s head by witnesses lucky enough—or unlucky enough—to see one. But he kept quiet and, because he didn’t have the vocabulary to explain his idea anyway, he allowed his master to continue.

“Exactly ten years ago,” his master continued, “when I arrived in Paris en route to Heidelberg … via Strasbourg, you see” —his master loved to share detailed stories about his travels— “I shared a table with a young gentleman at a café near the train station. Although his French was better than mine, his thick accent revealed that he was either from Germany or Vienna. He name was … let me think … santisima! I can’t remember that man’s name... escapes me at the moment... Freude? Freud? No wait … Freund I think he said his name was. Yes, since he paid for my coffee, I might as well call him Freund, which, rather apt as I now discover, happens to be German for ‘friend.’ So this man Freund told me he was in Paris to study under the great Jean-Martin Charcot, the mesmerist. His feats were legendary and so were his public performances. He could make anyone do his bidding by waving his hand like so. Charcot, I mean, not Freund. Now this gentleman shared with me a wonderful theory he had been developing. A theory of the mind! According to him, our mind has several levels. Several minds, if you will. And some minds are active when we are awake, others when we are asleep. One part is logical, verbose, thoughtful, and wise; the other, wild, unrestrained, infantile, and passionate. Ah, if only I can get hold of the latest medical journals! I must write to Ferdinand.…”

“Like dreams?” the boy asked. It was the only thing he comprehended from his master’s soliloquy. He didn’t quite catch the rest. After all, what do fronds and charcoal have to do with dreams?

“Yes! Yes!” his master said. “Dreams figure prominently in Freund’s theory! Clever boy. Some dreams are good, others are bad.”

“Like the bangungot,” the boy said.

“In English, it is called a nightmare. You try it.”

“Night-mare,” the boy repeated.

“Bad dreams in the West were thought to be evil spirits. Artists have represented them as horse demons. Notice the horse again … and not just any horse but a mare … and the seductive, almost sexual, connotation of riding … now, now, don’t blush … sex is as natural as eating. Perhaps the tikbalang is a similar manifestation of one of these in-between minds, just below our waking thoughts, the part of the mind that fuels our dreams. That if we dig deep enough, we’ll discover that the tikbalang was created by our ancestors out of fear, effectively transforming a pagan god into a maligno, effectively mating horse and its rider, to represent—and to demonize—colonial oppression. Why the horse, you say? The horse belongs as much to the haciendero as the sugar and tobacco plantations he owns.”

“Maestro,” the boy said. “So like the duende, you are saying that tikbalangs also come from Spain?”

“Ay naku,” said his master. “Have you not been listening? There are no such things as duendes or tikbalangs or kapres or aswangs or manananggals or tiyanaks. I am giving you a scientific answer to these fairy tales! If horses come from Spain, why are the tikbalangs—” He paused, looked at his ward’s confused, inquiring face, and patted him on the head. “Nevermind. I have an even better question for you. If tikbalangs really existed, large creatures as they are said to be, where are they now?”

Where indeed?

There is nothing in the talisay tree’s branches. Nothing to be afraid of. No birds, no snakes, no lizards, and certainly no cigar smoking creatures with Spanish faces.

Nevertheless, he continues his incantation. “Tabi tabi po. Tabi tabi po.”

He makes the sign of the cross, recites three Pater Nosters, and he goes back to the task before him.

After paying his respects, the ground becomes more yielding. Part of him knows that this is because he had gone past the rocky layer and has reached more sandy earth. Another part of him knows it is because the encantos are satisfied with his bloody libation.

He works in silence and tries to ignore the small wooden box he had set next to the unlit lantern.

His master was very specific with his instructions: “Dig the hole but do not open the box. Was it not Pandora who unleashed the troubles of the world because she could not follow orders?”

The boy does not know who Pandora is. But uncharacteristically of him, he did not bother to ask.

The box is rectangular and unadorned. It is as long as his forearm, and as wide as the length of his two hands. The box reminds him of a Chinese treasure chest without the jade inlay and intricate carvings. There is no lock. The lid is held in place by braided leather straps, tied in exotic knots, the likes of which he had never seen before. The boy was given the noble and fearsome honor of burying it. And he was specifically told not to tell his master where.

He shifts his eyes away from the box and pretends it does not exist. For now, it would be just him and the hole. Nothing more.

“Tabi tabi po,” he murmurs. “Tabi tabi po...”

Inch by inch, layer by layer, the hole grows deeper. The cicadas begin their mating calls and he realizes he needs to work faster if he is to finish early. He is careful not to sever any roots so he tries to dig around them. The talisay tree does not seem to mind.

A strong breeze blows in from the west, enough to scatter the fallen leaves. The air tastes salty but he could smell something sweet. It lingers elusively, blending with the earthy fragrance of the forest. At first, he thinks it smells like rose water, then decides it is more exotic than that. Nutmeg perhaps. Cinnamon, maybe.  The cicadas continue singing.

Something stirs inside him. His stomach quivers, his heart races. He is aware of her presence but pretends not to notice. He keeps his eyes down, his wiry torso bent over, and wonders if he should say anything at all. He can hear the soft rustling of leaves as she walks nearer. He senses her approaching the talisay tree. She stops when she is barely three paces away from him. She stops and does not say a word.

The hole is getting deeper. As deep as the silence they share between them. The strange mistress does not seem to mind.

When the hole is as deep as his waist, deep enough for him to crouch in, he continues digging, prolonging his awkward agony, until fatigue and boredom finally take over. He lays down his spade and wipes his forehead with his sleeve. He stretches his arms above his head, pretends to yawn, pretends to be unaware of her presence. He estimates it must have been a quarter of an hour since she arrived. He turns around.

She is sitting on the ground in a posture he had seen once before. She sits like a sirena, a mermaid, looking out to sea.

“Hell … hell …” he stammers. “Hello.” He always greets her with the first English word she taught him; she told him it was a greeting that didn’t mean anything and was therefore more honest than “how are you doing?” or “a good day to you.”

She doesn’t return his hello. She is a year or two older than he is, perhaps only seventeen or eighteen. She has smooth alabaster skin, a compact but slender figure, a proud bosom, a strong jaw, light-colored tresses which his master once described as “chestnut blonde,” and blue-green eyes. Her melancholic eyes stare not at him nor through him but at the space between her world and the next, in a time between forgetfulness and forever. The blue-green richness of her irises accentuates her dilated pupils, like wet flower petals after a heavy rain. He looks away, and stares at her feet, which to his surprise are bare. Her toes are slightly stained with sand and soil. The rest of her body is wrapped in a red falda, a white camisa, and a dark green mantilla shawl with an unusual lace pattern similar to knot work.

She is exquisitely beautiful.

He remembers how he felt when she first appeared in Talisay barely a year ago; how his chest tightened when she walked past him; how his loins stirred when she bent over his study table. She smelled like cinnamon at the time.

He thought she looked too young to be his teacher, but his master insisted all of the school’s students should learn English, the “language of the future.” It wasn’t difficult to agree to his master’s request. She did demonstrate some experience with languages, as if she was older than she looked. Although her Spanish was mediocre, her beauty made learning a new foreign language pleasurable, and the sixteen-year-old boy of this story learned fast under her tutelage.

There had been whispers, of course, among the villagers and especially among his classmates. Where did the master first meet her? Hong Kong, as officially claimed? Germany, as some suspected? What about America and its growing Irish immigrant population? And who was this Señor Taufer, the blind American who traveled with her to Talisay? Was he really her stepfather? Or could Taufer be her lover, too?

Although they lived as husband and wife, no one had witnessed his master’s wedding. Some suspected she was only after his master’s money. Others suspected she was a spy, sent by the colonial government to report on his master’s political propensities. But her conversations with others were always apolitical, and she spent her free time walking along the shoreline, staring into the western horizon. One of his younger classmates said that Taufer was either her client or her pimp and that she’s just a pretty “foreign whore,” but the child quickly revised his views after receiving a sharp and stinging slap on the back of the head.

“Don’t let your filthy words defile her reputation or I shall spit on your tongue and scrub it with my spade to cleanse them for you.”

For good measure, he slapped his classmate again, but a little lighter this time, just to remind him who the emperador of the class was. The offense was never repeated in his presence, but secret smiles were shared among the others. Whispers have a way of spreading without speakers.

Especially if such whispers came from primary sources.

Late one moonless night, as her young champion went out of his hut to relieve himself, he passed by his master’s house and heard muffled sounds. He thought it was from some kind of animal, like the fluttering wings of a bat, the purring of a cat, or maybe a dog panting and scratching against the walls. It frightened him at first, but he mustered the courage to investigate. Upon hearing the unrestrained grunts of his master and the rhythmic gasps of his mistress-lover, the boy felt jealousy well up inside him. He knew it was wrong to listen in and he knew it was best to leave discreetly and immediately, but he found he couldn’t. His body refused to obey his reason, and he found he was anxiously aroused. He stayed where he was, crouched just outside his master’s bedroom window, and listened until his master was finished. Only then did he walk to the outhouse to relieve himself. He would also find relief in other ways.

She visited his dreams ever since that night. Once, she appeared as a fairy princess wearing light spider silk robes, and a crown of emeralds and gold.  He came to her in the form of a unicorn without a horn, for she had lured him with a song and a cube of sugar, and she rode him without a saddle, holding on to his mane, and he took her swiftly away across the ocean, rescuing her from his master, to take her back to a place she called “Tír-nan-Og,” the land of the young, the land of her race. He asked her if they were going to island of Luzon, because that’s where the Tagalogs are from. He awoke before they reached the isle, because in this particular dream she flew off his back, on leathery wings, leaving behind her womb and her legs, leaving him alone to fend for himself, and he sank into the open ocean and drowned. This was an exceptional dream. Most of his dreams were not as innocent as the one just described.

About seven months ago, he had a dream that felt as real as the spade in his hand.

He was collecting seashells for his master by swimming into one of the hidden coves where a fresh water river met the sea, when he saw a white figure sitting on top of a green rock. The woman was drinking from an oddly shaped bottle, like a crystal conch. He thought he had stumbled upon a sirena, but the presence of her two long legs negated that possibility. He swam closer, and found it was his master’s Irish mistress in a translucent white dress. He had always harbored fantasies of catching her bathing, for surely she must bathe every day as is the custom in this tropical country. How else could she smell so sweet?

He pulled himself onto the rock, and sat beside her, shook off the salt water from his hair and his muscular, brown arms. He laid the seashells on her feet, and some were the same color as her eyes, for even in his dream, she had beautiful, mysterious eyes.

She offered him the bottle filled with a brown liquid, and she told him it was uisce, the “water of life” in her native tongue. She held the bottle close to her chest, enticing him to come closer.

He took the bottle from her hand, gently touching her fingers and accidentally brushing the swell of her bosom with the back of his palm. He took a whiff.

“I cannot drink this,” he said. “Maestro says I am not old enough to drink.”

She took the bottle from him.

“Sláinte,” she said, and then she licked the opening, and brought it to her lips. She titled her head back, exposing her delicate neck, which was moist with sea water and perspiration. He watched her swallow and he tried to swallow with her, but his mouth was dry. She wiped her lips with the back of her hand and offered the bottle to him again. She asked him if he would care to drink it now.

The bottle felt lighter this time. She had consumed most of its contents but left some for him.

“Es-lawn-cha,” he mimicked her toast, to the best of his ability. He brought the bottle to his lips, and noticed the salty-sweet taste of her, a delicate brackish taste dancing on his tongue, and then the shock of the burning liquid crashing into his mouth, slithering down his throat like a sea serpent, caressing his fast beating heart.

He winced, recovered, tears welling up.

She laughed and told him that he held his drink well. Her breath had the same sinful aroma. And then she touched his hair, played with his ears, and glided her fingers down his neck.

She laid herself down on the rock and pulled him to her. She asked him how he liked the taste of the water of life, and she invited him to taste some more. And taste her he did. Their kiss was long and deep and thorough. Then he tossed the shells out to sea and he took her, and claimed her, and as the waves thrashed about them he covered her with his body and their motions rivaled the violence of the tides.

He had many dreams like that.

The sun is setting fast. The fallen leaves about them are bright red. He feels giddy but does not know why; either his giddiness was brought about by his early exertions or from the memory of her nubile body splayed against that cold, wet rock.

While standing inside the hole, he keeps his eyes fixed at her naked feet. It is getting late and he welcomes the prospect of walking her back to his master’s house.

She asks him if she is still beautiful.

This catches him off guard. He had forgotten how musical and exciting her voice feels to his body as her question floats in the quiet air. “Of course, yes, you are the most beautiful woman I know.”

She crawls toward him on all fours, reaches out to him, placing both her hands on his shoulders to steady herself. She kisses him in the cheek. “Go raibh maith agat,” she whispers. May good things come to you. It is her way of saying “thank you,” except it’s more honest.

Her chestnut locks fall across his face, and the smell of cinnamon is stronger than ever, overpowering the scent of spirits that he imagined still lingered in her breath. Her mantilla drops casually to her waist, exposing her delicate collarbone and the cleft between her breasts. He blushes, and looks away. He points to the box and says, “Did he have a name?”

Without warning, she slaps him hard with a violence so intense he thought her hand had passed through his head and his eye had exploded out of its socket.

She screams at him in a language he has heard only in his dreams but cannot understand. “How dare you!” she seems to be telling him. “How dare you!” But in his heart he knew she meant, “How dare you reject me!”

She turns around and cries against the tree. Dusk is starting to set in, but he stands motionless, unable to speak, watching the young girl wail. He had never seen her cry like this before. Not like this. Her cry is half lamentation and half incantation, a summoning to the forest creatures to listen to her pain.

She crouches by the tree, rocking to and fro on her haunches, her back toward him, her shoulders shaking with each sob. One hand covers her face, the other curls around her knee. Her skirt is soiled with clay and moss. Her voice sounds strained, but eerily sonorous as it shifts from a sorrowful wail to an animal-like whimper and finally undulates into a series of sighs and moans the nature of which he had heard only once on a moonless night, outside the walls of his master’s house.

He climbs out of the hole, and sits next to her, unsure of what to do. His heart wants to take her at her most vulnerable but his mind wants to protect her, too. He convinces himself to put his arms around her bare shoulders to enjoy both possibilities. But instead he keeps his hands tucked beneath his armpits. He can only watch with nothing but his silence and his secret shame.

A firefly dances across her nape. Dusk has arrived. His own shadow starts to fade in the dying day. She, however, radiates a glow that seems to brighten the more distraught she becomes; it is the lone firefly that seems to cast a shadow on her skin.

He takes the lantern, and with a piece of flint and the edge of his spade, he starts a small flame. More fireflies arrive. The cicadas stop singing.

They sit in silence as the forest darkens about them. She glows brighter than the lantern light. Fireflies fly about them in respectful distance, as if warning the other insects not to disturb them.

He gets up, carefully taking the wooden box with him as he climbs back into the hole. He scrambles out again, and with his spade he begins to fill the hole with earth.

“Francisco,” she says finally.

He looks at her, trying to comprehend.

She tells him that the master wanted the child to be named Francisco, after his grandfather.

He looks at the tiny wooden box, made tinier now that it rests at the bottom of the hole. “He should be baptized then,” he says. “A priest could have carried out a simple ceremony.”

She shakes her head. She says that it was never his master’s right to name the child. He looks at her again, tries to find meaning in her face.

“Does this mean …” he stops, reconsiders, and says instead, “May I name the child?”

She stares at him. A crafty gaze, almost sinister. “It is not your right either,” her eyes seem to say. She remains silent all throughout.

He thinks for a moment, and says, “Pedro is also a good name.” He also thinks that it would be wise to name him after Saint Peter, who may then allow the infant soul to pass through the gates of heaven, but he makes the wise decision not tell her this.

She agrees to name her stillborn child Pedro Francisco.

He recites five Pater Nosters and five Ave Marias. He doesn’t know the exact number required, but it is easier to count the prayers with his ten fingers.

She tells him that he would make a good priest. It is a strange statement to make, in the gloom, by the lantern light, against the ethereal glow of her alabaster complexion.

He nods; he has considered it before.

She asks him, almost commands him, to put his arm around her. It is chilly, she seems to say to him, although he continues to sweat.

He obeys.

The heat of her flesh instantly ignites his own, but his tunic remains intact.

She leans closer, their noses almost touching, her hot breath warming his skin. Her fragrant hair frames both their faces like a silken hood, and her eyes seem to glow in the growing darkness. She kisses him on one cheek, kisses him on the other. Then, she kisses him full on the mouth. And they embrace as two old friends, embrace as two young lovers, embrace with an understanding that although the cicadas have stopped singing, they will create their own song for the night.

* * *

He finds himself alone at the bottom of the grave before dawn, with the wooden box as his pillow. Someone had untied the intricate leather knots, and he does not know how to re-tie them.

The lantern still burns, providing the only source of light and heat. He can find no trace of the mistress.  No footprints, no hair strands, no evidence of her presence.

He holds the lantern to illuminate the small box.

Its lid is slightly ajar. He expects to discover the odor of decay but smells only sweetness. Will the child resemble his master, he wonders, or will the child resemble him?

With steady hands, he lifts the lid.

He does not find Pedro Francisco. He does not find a premature infant, seven months old.

Instead he finds piles of paper and several old pens.

His face does not express shock, only confusion, then realization, as he leafs through the sheets, scanning his master’s distinct handwriting… fragments of novels… complete poems and songs… a recipe for paella and sinigang… a grimoire… a page of prophesies… a partial draft of a surreal yet unfinished novel, written in Spanish and English, telling of two great wars that have not yet come to pass… a 400-page alchemical manual deceptively entitled Descripciones de Plantas Medicinales, Maderas de Contruccion Especies Olcoginosas o Resinosas y Algunos Metales, Heteropsidos y Antopsidos de una Coleccion Naturalista… and the end of a short story…

Before him are pages and pages of his master’s fertile and unrestrained mind. He can find no politics in any of these drafts, no real science, no psychology, sociology, or any other “ologies,” only passion and honesty. These drafts and notes are not about understanding what nature is, but appreciating what it could be, without artifice, without method.

And yet his master chose to bury it.

Perhaps his master had already found his inspiration years before she crossed his path. By publishing two novels, he had proven that his own muse already resides inside him. There was never room for another.

She had mistakenly offered his master her love. She had offered him her freedom. She had offered him her eternal spirit. And still he rejected her. So she became his slave, his plaything, his scribbled drafts, waiting to be passed on to the next man and the next, until she can find the one person who will return her love.

He picks up a page folded like a letter. It is a poem of thirteen stanzas. The boy remembers that his master had applied to the Governor General to allow him to travel to Cuba and serve as a doctor for the Spanish military, a selfish gambit to end his exile. His master was confident that his application would be accepted, and he had written a poem entitled, “El Canto del Viajero,” the Song of the Traveler, in the event of positive news.

“El Canto del Viajero” is a light, frivolous poem, nothing compared to the powerful verses that now present themselves before him. How strange that his master would choose to reject this version.

Such a shame, he thinks, to bury divinely inspired talent.

But the poem feels incomplete. Without a second thought, he takes a pen and writes a fourteenth and final stanza, mimicking his master’s cursive penmanship.

Much better.

Yet, yet … something else is missing. A poem of this magnitude deserves a worthy title. But he cannot think of any at the moment.

Leaving the poem untitled, he waits for the ink to dry. He folds the paper, and tucks it into the bottom of the lantern for safekeeping; he will also need to keep the lantern, a token of his own awakening.

He takes one of the pages in the box, a sketch of a bird, and climbs out of the hole one last time. He opens the lantern, exposes its naked flame, and sets the page on fire. He drops the burning page into the hole. The other manuscripts, which he had strewn and scattered about, immediately catch fire. A more skeptical mind would have questioned the efficacy of burning paper at the bottom of a pit since there would not be enough oxygen to sustain an even blaze. But the bright blue flame does not seem to mind.

He watches the fire grow as dawn approaches, and he continues watching until it consumes all the paper, including the wooden box, and the leather straps that once held the lid in place.

He looks at his right ring finger. The wound, somehow, had completely healed, leaving a faint scar around the base.

He takes his spade and begins to fill the hole.

Somewhere in the distance, he hears a child laugh.

* * *

“Often the sorrowing pilgrim is envied / Circling the globe like a seagull above / Little, ah, little they know what a void / Saddens his soul by the absence of love.”

- Dr. José Rizal, “El Canto del Viajero,” 1896

December, 1896.

It is a cold morning on the field of Bagumbayan. His master stands several yards away from the rifle squad, his back toward them, dressed impeccably with his black trousers, coat, and bowler hat. Despite the rope that binds his elbows to his sides, his master cuts a noble silhouette to all the witnesses present.

“Fuego!” came the order, followed by the near simultaneous report of gunfire.

His master turns to face his accusers one last time. Then he falls; a martyr to his contemporaries, a hero to a generation yet unborn.

Not much is known about the exact fate of his mistress. Some say she fought in the Revolution of 1898. But most say she went on to marry a prominent Cebuano, and settled in Hong Kong, where she gave birth to a daughter. Yet the girl hardly knew her mother, for she was barely two years old when her mother passed away on the Ides of March, 1902.

Doña Josefina Abad, as she now calls herself, lies on a simple cot in a Hong Kong hospital. “Consumption,” was the word the doctors had used to describe her malady. They had also instructed her husband to keep their daughter away from her. The disease, they cautioned, was infectious, caused by bacteria in her lungs.

But she did not want to die alone, so she called for a priest. Her confessor, her friend, the boy who became a man. The doctor allowed him to stay with her only if he agreed to wear a medical mask.

Father Spada, as he now calls himself, sits by her side. He had just been ordained the previous year. She holds on to his warm, familiar hand, the same hand he had cut years ago, softer now than when she first held it.

She asks him if he can read her the poem he had rescued from the grave.

“I remember it by heart,” he says.

She tells him that she truly loved his master. That she loved him deeply, but his destiny would not allow him to fade like the others. She is glad to have found another.

Father Spada removes his mask, touches her forehead, kisses it gently. He then whispers the last poem into her ears. She closes her eyes just as he reaches the end:

Adiós, mi dulce extranjera / mi amiga, mi alegría

Adiós, queridos seres / morir es descansar.

Silence follows. He sits with her awhile. Father Spada then removes his rosary and lays it on her chest, placing her cold hands over it.

He stands up, inspects the room, and sees her waiting for him by the doorway.

She is a young girl, seventeen or eighteen years of age, with smooth alabaster skin, chestnut blonde hair, and rich blue-green eyes that stare out between forgetfulness and forever. She wears spider silk robes and a crown of emeralds and gold.

She is, will always be, exquisitely beautiful.

“The Sweet Stranger” copyright © 2008 by Michael A.R. Co. This story was a Gregorio Brillantes Award Finalist for prose fiction.

Afterword

It was my first time in Boracay back in 1997. It was a different beach back then: less commercialized with a lot more nudity.

Many foreign ladies, from Europe mostly, had no qualms about removing their bikini tops. They loved our balmy Philippine climate, they loved exposing themselves to the sun, and we welcomed their strange customs without complaint.

I approached one of them as she sunbathed near the shoreline. Of course, she didn’t have a top on. Her name, which she spelled for me in the sand, was “Laurence” and she pronounced it “Law-Rahnss” because she was French. I asked her why she was topless, and she just shrugged. She then asked me what I did for a living. And I said, “I’m a writer.”

That was true. I was a professional writer. I did newsletters, brochures, and occasionally some ad copy. But I never wrote fiction. Yet there I was, concocting an elaborate piece of verbal fiction just so I could maximize my time ogling this sweet stranger. I thought it would impress her.

Ten years later, when my first story “The God Equation” won first place in the Philippine Graphic/Fiction Awards, I discovered that I might indeed have the talent for telling written lies.

I guess this is where inspiration comes from: talking to beautiful women in tropical beaches.

Or perhaps, reading British novelists. Tolkien, Fleming, Gaiman.

In 2006, Neil Gaiman (yes, the Neil Gaiman) had sponsored a writing contest with a local bookstore chain. It was called the Philippine Graphic/Fiction Awards, and the top prize went as high as US$2000. It was, by far, the biggest cash prize for any literary contest in the country, including the prestigious Palanca Awards.

I knew I had to give it a shot.

I had an idea percolating in my brain for at least ten years. Fear had kept me from committing the words to paper, and laziness prevented me from even trying. Thankfully, greed took me in with open arms.

I feverishly wrote the story about the angelic assassin over a two-day period. I submitted my entry minutes before the deadline. It would take many months before the winners were announced. When the time came, Neil (I like to think we’re on a first name basis) couldn’t attend the awards night, so the organizers played a video recording of him saying swell things about each of the winning stories. He described my story as “muscular” and he thoroughly enjoyed it. That’s all a 145 lb guy needed to hear.

I’ve written more stories since then. Two of them (“In the Eyes of Many” and “The Sweet Stranger”) were also shortlisted in subsequent Philippine Graphic/Fiction Awards. Through the gentle and persistent prodding of my wife, a novelist in her own right, I’ve decided to share some of these stories to a wider audience. I’ve re-edited them slightly for this edition.

“The God Equation” came from a simple premise about the nature of faith. I think that at the heart of all belief is the secret fear that everything is a lie, and one overcomes this fear not by seeking answers but by acceptance: whether it’s accepting Jesus as their Lord and Savior; accepting the cycle of reincarnation as the path to Nirvana; accepting that Sisyphus will always roll that rock; or accepting that the universe is filled with big questions beyond the sound of one hand clapping. And it is these questions, not the answers, which drive us to keep on living.

“Waiting for Victory” sprung from my interest in the five-century-old Magellan expedition. When I was in grade school in the U.S., I was taught that Magellan was a great explorer, and that he was killed by “unfriendly natives.” When I returned to the Philippines, however, I was taught that Magellan was a villain and he was killed by the country’s first hero, Lapu-Lapu, the chieftain of Mactan. Just like the relativity of time (Julian, Gregorian, Einsteinian) it just shows that history will always be written by the victors. But individual characters do make major historical impacts, whether you believe in butterflies or not. For those unfamiliar with Philippine politics, we have a president, not a prime minister. You might want to read the story again.

“The Off Season” was my attempt at writing a Christmas crime story. Not having a criminal mind, I decided to focus on the consequences. It was a fun story to write, inspired by the notion that Christmas began as a pagan holiday and that “Old Nick” was also the nickname of the Devil. He might even have worked for the CIA. Choose what you want to believe.

“In the Eyes of Many” is a personal favorite. It’s surprisingly prescient, the way SF is supposed to be. I think it’s one of my best, although “The God Equation” seems to have its share of fans. I wrote the story before Twitter became popular, and I was tempted to rewrite the story to include the site, just to keep things up-to-date. What a futile exercise that would’ve been. Wikileaks, anyone? The right to privacy is one of Man’s greatest lies. (Although some would blame the serpent.)

“The Sweet Stranger” is an East-meets-West fantasy. It’s also a coming of age story with a love triangle involving Dr. José Rizal (the Philippine national hero), Josephine Bracken (his Irish mistress), and one of his students. History does mention a “Father Spada,” but I’m sure he never was a student of Dr. Rizal. Apologies to his descendents.

I come from a nation of performers. We sing, we dance, we make up stories. We take inspiration from our perceived pasts, painful presents, and fantastical futures. We enjoy wordplay, in native and foreign tongues, and we take inspiration from the both classics and clichés. Our skin comes in many shades, and you can find us working in many lands. We are often misunderstood, and it’s no surprise that we often misunderstand ourselves.

I guess this could also describe other nationalities.

Perhaps that’s what fiction is for: a way of sharing how similar we actually feel about the stuff in our world and beyond. Little lies to help us see bits of truth, with a small letter t.

Believe me. I’m a writer.

Michael A.R. Co

December 30, 2010 (Rizal Day)

Table of Contents

Dedication

Copyright

THE GOD EQUATION

WAITING FOR VICTORY

THE OFF SEASON

IN THE EYES OF MANY

THE SWEET STRANGER

Afterword