Free The God Equation and Other Stories by Michael A.R. Co

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 300 0 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 bu t did not confiscate their cell phones. 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