The God Equation and Other Stories

BOOK: The God Equation and Other Stories
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For Yayie

 

The God Equation and Other Stories

Copyright © 20
06, 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: [email protected]

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 ma
dness

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 depe
nd 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 int
imately familiar with the area?”

I nod, but he doesn

t see me.


This wil
l 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 co
mes 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 w
hat

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 wh
o 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 in
tel. 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.

BOOK: The God Equation and Other Stories
8.63Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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