Philippine Speculative Fiction (3 page)

And it is then that I hear a sharp sound from somewhere near, not unlike the cackling of a cruel fire.
Has another gigantic banana fallen?
I think quickly.
But there is no other
gigantic banana plant such as this one!

I suddenly hear crying—loud, painful, somehow familiar. A growl that mellows into meowing. The sound quickly wrenches my heart for some reason—and I grapple with it. Only then does
it dawn on me that it sounds like Makahagad in pain.

I quickly grab my spear, which was a gift from the village across what had been once a great river, and I trace the crying to the far edges of the former river’s banks. I swallow the lump
in my throat when I see Makahagad breathing shallowly atop a flat, dry river rock. His whimpers are long and concentrated and I know quickly that he is dying. I run to the bearcat’s side, and
I see a large wound down his torso, blood everywhere. I bite my lips to keep from crying out loud, and when I try with some noble futility to examine his wound, I hear a rustling that signaled dark
danger.

I hide quickly behind a nearby boulder, carrying my limp binturong with one hand, my spear in the other.

Two figures gleam from across the muddy divide—strange creatures that look human, but towering in their gait, and monstrous in the way they sniff the air with an arrogance that angers me.
Are they gods of another tribe?
I think quickly. And yet they are completely unlike the depictions of gods I have known. They wear billowing clouds where their arms are supposed to be, and
there is a silver shell where their torsos should be. They have heads of what looks like stone, and they carry with them oddly-shaped spears.
They are demonic creatures
, I decide.

I stay behind the rocks, cradling my beloved bearcat.

I hear the demons—these pale creatures—talk in a language I cannot decipher. I sit in restive silence as the sound of their sloshing footsteps in the mud moves towards me. I have no
time to think, to plan. I lay Makahagad down on the ground, and his flickering eyes perhaps see me for the last time. I rein in the need for tears, and quivering, I place two fingers where his
wound is. I feel the heat of his blood of iron on my fingers, and quickly press them on my lips. His blood tastes sweet and strong, and I feel an energy rush through me. I kiss his forehead, and I
whisper to him, “Makahagad, do not die just yet. Your blood is made of iron. It will keep you alive. I will return to avenge you.”

I rise slowly and turn my head to see where the demons are.

I spot one of them, but he has spotted me first.

I try to hide again but a loud explosion shatters the top of the rock I am hiding behind, narrowly missing my head. My ears ring like a thousand high-pitched
kulintang
. I tell myself
not to panic. So I close my eyes, and from the ringing, I surge to listen to the sound of sky, tree, breeze. I suddenly hear sloshing closer to my right, and I clench my spear.

My heartbeat races, and then I release to thrust my spear.

A flash of red splashes across my vision. And then I see him, his eyes bloodshot and blue, the whole of him lying down in a stain of blood on the mud. I retract my spear from his side.

Bang.

There is that, and I quickly dodge the invisible blows from the other demon’s spear from hell. I hide behind the boulders again. I can smell the stench of the other demon’s anger,
his words seemingly curses to Magwayen. I gulp in fear as I hear him drawing nearer and nearer.

I hear two strong plucks coming from a distance, then two dashes of breath. A strong muddy splash comes from behind the boulder where I am hiding. I look at my shivering ankles, wading in the
watery mud. I wait, but there is nothing more. There is no sound.

Slowly, I peek out from where I am hiding, only to see the tranquil scene of dried-up river, bereft of the demon. It is face down instead in the mud, two arrows sprouting from the crevices of
its silver shell.

“The gods watch over me,” I mutter to myself.

And so it was. I see one of them now, a tall figure with a bow, emerging from the lush thicket.
The gods have come down from the mountains
, I think. This one is bronzed like an eagle.
His toes are like talons that clip over river stones. He looks radiant. The godly figure now lowers his bow and arrows, and draws nearer towards where Makahagad is.

The god kneels at the side of the dead bearcat, and starts to weep.
This god seems to have known my binturong
, I think.
He grieves with tears of lead
. I fiercely hold back my
own anguish, unable to understand what I am seeing. But my tears give way, and I too soon cry.
Makahagad is gone.

The man, the god, drops his bow in the mud and seems to have lost his strong stance. He crouches forward with the weight of loss, just as much as I.

We both grieve.

In our shared agony, I find that the god is nothing but an ordinary man. He is scarred in places, his hair is in tatters, his presence is shaken. He approaches me, still distressed but carried
it off with stoic composure. He clears his throat.

“My village has lost an ally,” he says.

“My village has lost family,” I tell him.

Silence.

The man looks me in the eye, his mouth tense. And then he speaks:

“Do you know Magpanabang? My name is Maayuput.”

Victor Fernando R. Ocampo is a Singapore-based Filipino writer. His work has appeared in publications like
Apex Magazine, Expanded Horizons, Lakeside
Circus, Strange Horizons,
and the
World SF Blog,
as well in anthologies such as
Fish Eats Lion: New Singaporean Speculative Fiction
and
Philippine Speculative Fiction
(Volumes 6 and 9).
His story “Here Be Dragons” won first prize at the Romeo Forbes Children’s Literature competition in 2012. Visit his blog at
http://victorfernandorocampo.wordpress.com/ or follow him on Twitter @VictorOcampo.

I WOKE UP in a dirty public toilet, white noise fogging my head. The stink of urine and cigarettes choked the dead air. A broken sink in front of me lay thick with organic
crust, ashes and ancient spittle. Overhead, an incandescent bulb flickered uncertainly.

“Mr. Salazar?” a voice behind me asked. “Try not to move so much, you’re not complete yet.”

I glanced up at the mirror and saw the reflection of a woman in a tight white jumper, slender and tall like a huntress. I knew immediately that something was wrong. Her face was familiar, too
familiar. It was a face that I had seen hundreds of times before, the 1970s screen siren Marrie Lee. She looked as if she’d stepped out from the movie
They Call Her Cleopatra
Wong
.

I balled my hand into a fist. I knew she couldn’t possibly be real.

“No need to fight Mr. Salazar. Your reaction is all the confirmation I need,” the strange woman replied. “Cigarette?”

“Who are you?” I asked, gagging at the assault of cesspool smells. “Where am I?”

“It’s me, Pai Kia,” the woman said, her voice dropping suddenly to a baritone. “Let me adjust my HI.”

“H… HI?” I stammered, as her body morphed into something more androgynous.

“
Aiyoh
. H-I, Haptic Interface, It allows you to touch me,” he/she explained. “Anyway, we spoke at Golden Acres. I’m your caseworker, at least for the next few
minutes. Sorry for the rough landing, this is my cheapest loading program. You did travel by steerage after all. Welcome to New Tundon.”

I threw up.

“Isn’t it wonderful? That’s your system getting rid of unnecessary information,” Pai Kia said, as he/she took a drag from a long Djarum Black. “Feels so real,
correct or not? This place is almost the real universe. You won’t see any pixilation, not even on the quantum level. This hack is
that
good. You
gone case
uncle. But soon,
very soon, you won’t even remember transitioning.”

I kept throwing up until my knees gave way. My face slumped onto the dirty sink, straight into the puddle of my own vomit.

“Listen, I’m paid by the second, so listen and listen closely.” The strange man/woman said. “Your algorithm’s still unfinished, but she wants you to find her. This
time there’s no bullshit, no restraining orders. Find her. She’s waiting for you.”

Pai Kia fished for something in their pocket and tossed it to the floor. It was an old Casio Data Bank watch.

“Tundon’s a Hacker Town, a galaxy of parasite
Gimokud
hidden beneath one of the New Cities. Since you’re not in the 1%, you have to wear one of these. Your identity
and your credits are inside until you’re re-skinned. Don’t lose it or you’ll be purged. If you need more credits you’ll have to sell something. If you got nothing, sell
yourself. Good luck.”

“Wait…” I whispered hoarsely, struggling to get back on my feet. “Please wait.”

When I finally managed to stand, the strange man/woman was gone. Only the smell of clove cigarettes remained, pungent as rotting fruit.

I moved to a clean sink and washed my face. When I looked into the mirror, an impossible face stared back. Somehow I was young again, probably 20 or 21. That was about how old I was when I first
met Esperanza. I was sure it was no coincidence.

Damn it. Why is she torturing me? Why now, after all these years?
I asked myself, feeling a familiar flood of pain and self-loathing.
Why did I even come?

In my old age I had tried my best to forget about her, to erase what had ripped my heart out. It took a very long time, but over the years I honestly believed my nightmare was behind me. I
thought that time had dulled my heart, like alcohol dulled the mind.

The thing was I never told anyone that I still loved her. How could I? Not after what we had, not after what we went through. I guess I’d always be stupid that way.

But life continued, oblivious to pain, oblivious to heartache. It simply lumbered on, despite our personal damage. Our love broke me to the point where I couldn’t deal with relationships,
not anymore, perhaps not ever.

Eventually I came to terms with growing old by myself. It was more comfortable that way. Being numb and alone was safer, especially at the end of all things. Yet in my heart of hearts, all I
wanted was to lock away the memory of our last perfect day, fragile as the dawn, when youth and love seemed infinite.

I opted to misremember everything else. Memory was never perfect anyway, and false memories were just as good as real ones, if you wished hard enough.

I dried my face on my shirt of
piña
cloth, a luxurious
barong Tagalog
reserved for weddings. The telltale static of Nanotex fabric on wet skin told me it wasn’t a
real shirt. I put on the watch she’d left me and checked its digital signature. Every single thing I was wearing was pre-owned. They were her husband’s hand-me-down downloads.

A message scrawled across the
calado
embroidery on my shirt cuffs, a helpful reminder of my indigent humiliation.

Good evening
Mr. Salas
Mr. Salazar this shirt is best washed with Mr. Clean digital detergent. Removes vomit and all simulated organics.

A detergent ad?
I noted with surprise. I hadn’t seen real soap in decades. I decided it was probably a
skeuomorph
, a digital anachronism designed to make people more
comfortable being digitized.

What the hell is this place?
I wondered.

After a while, I staggered out of the toilet. Night had fallen and I looked around the deserted alley, wondering where I was supposed to go. A bicycle had been propped on a wall just in front of
the lavatory entrance. As soon as I stepped towards it, the bike began to flash its lights, illuminating layers of advertising graffiti with a frail white fluorescence. The lights kept blinking
until I put my hand on its bamboo handlebars. A message popped on its digital odometer.

I heaved myself up to the gel-padded saddle and kicked off. The bike guided me through the dark and narrow alleys that snaked through the labyrinth of tenements. Everything in New Tundon lay in
the shadow of its sole skyscraper, the neon-lit Torre Paraiso.

I passed through the slums like a ghost. Through the yawning windows I saw people leading seemingly normal lives—playing mah-jongg or the card game
pusoy dos
, eating dinner or
simply gathered around their living rooms, plugged to a legion of electronic devices. This was a town of old people, permanently idled; permanently trapped in the amber of unstructured time. Not a
single child was in sight.

Somehow everyone seemed happy, or at least, content. I wondered how many of them were actual,
real
people, not background sims or in-memoriam programs. If they were human, I wondered if
this was their idea of heaven.

The bicycle took me away from the maze of small streets to a wide, tree-lined boulevard bustling with shops and post-modern apartments. My ride stopped in front of a garishly-lit clothing store
called The Way We Wear. There, an oddly-dressed man waited for me expectantly.

“Welcome to New Tundon, Mr. Salazar,” he said softly. The old man was wearing a circus ringmaster’s outfit. On his head was an elegant topper with large aviators that hung
carelessly from its brim. A strange metal watch, encrusted with many dials, covered his left arm like an armature of eczema. I imagined it could keep time for the entire multiverse.

“I have been asked to dress you and guide you to Paraiso.”

“This looks like an expensive place.” I replied, as I stepped in to view his merchandise. The store smelled of spikenard, incense and myrrh, the stink of gods and rich people.
“I’m not sure I have enough credits.”