The God Equation and Other Stories (6 page)

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 P
hilippine
M
ilitary
A
cademy
. 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
list
ed 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,
conquistador
e
s
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.