RUIN & RESOLVE
*Pinoy SF for Charity*
Ruin and Resolve
Published by Rocket Kapre Books
an imprint of Eight Ray Sun Publishing Inc.
http://rocketkapre.com
Copyright © 2009 by Eight Ray Sun Publishing Inc.
All rights reserved
Produced in the Republic of the Philippines
First Smashwords Edition: December 2009
All events portrayed in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental. Every reasonable attempt has been made to identify owners of copyright. Errors or omissions will be corrected in subsequent editions.
Cover art by Artspice! Studios (http://artspice.blogspot.com/) © 2009 by Eight Ray Sun Publishing Inc.
Cover design by Paolo Chikiamco © 2009 by Eight Ray Sun Publishing Inc.
All stories© 2009 by their individual authors, save for the following:
"Wail of the Sun" © 2006/2009 by Vincent Simbulan. First appeared in The Digest of Philippine Genre Stories Volume 1, Issue 1, edited by Kenneth Yu (Kenneth Yu: Philippines).
"Snippets" © 2006/2009 by Kate Aton-Osias First appeared in Philippine Speculative Fiction Volume 2 edited by Dean Alfar (Kestrel IMC: Philippines).
"The Death and Rebirth of Nathaniel Alan Sempio" © 2007/2009 by Alexander Marcos-Osias First appeared in Philippine Speculative Fiction Volume 3 edited by Dean Alfar and Nikki Alfar (Kestrel IMC: Philippines).
"Strangelove" photographs, except Train Wreck at Montparnasse (L'accident de la Gare Montparnasse, 1895, public domain), © 2009 Chiles Samaniego.
Introduction and Compilation © 2009 by Eight Ray Sun Publishing Inc.
Rocket Kapre, Rocket Kapre Books, are © 2009 by Eight Ray Sun Publishing Inc.
TABLE OF CONTENTS:
Mouse and I - Rochita Loenen-Ruiz
Strange Salvation - Celestine Trinidad
Earthquake - Kate Aton-Osias
Designations - Patria Rivera
Firestorm - Erica Gonzales
Excerpt from Neomuros - Paolo J. Cruz
After the Flood - Nikki Alfar
Stairway to heaven - Patria Rivera
Wishgranters - Rod M. Santos
The Sparrows of Climaco Avenue - Kenneth Yu
Dreams after the Storm - Eliza Victoria
We End Up with the Same Thing Anyway - Crystal Koo
Before the Perfect Season - Catherine Batac Walder
Wail of the Sun - Vincent Michael Simbulan
Haya and Me - Erica Gonzales
Snippets - Kate Aton-Osias
The way a plague transforms the land - Patria Rivera
The Marriage of Sun and Moon - Sharmaine Galve
The Death and Rebirth of Nathaniel Alan Sempio - Alexander Marcos Osias
Cutis Marmorata - Celestine Trinidad
The Return of the Sun - Rochita Loenen-Ruiz
Strangelove - by chiles samaniego
Excerpts from News of the Shaman - Karl R. De Mesa
You ate my city - Patria Rivera
In the dark times, will there be singing?
Yes. There will be singing about the dark times.
—Bertolt Brecht
For the record, because memory is a fickle creature: in 2009 the typhoons Ondoy (International name "Ketsana") and Pepeng ("Parma") left more than 600 people dead, and caused damage estimated at close to PHP30 billion (http://www.typhoonondoy.org/). The devastation was staggering, but the Filipino community (and our friends from other nations) came together to render assistance to those in need. Within that larger ethnic community, smaller groups banded together to use their talents to help those who bore the brunt of the fury of the storms. We saw collectors hold auctions, artists offer commissions, and musicians stage concerts, for the benefit of the typhoon victims. Our callings and vocations are part of who we are, and enable us to give in additional ways, unique ways. Artists draw, musicians perform . . .
Writers write.
"Ruin and Resolve" is our way of using our talents in prose and poetry (of the speculative variety) to raise money for the Philippine National Red Cross (PNRC), one of the organizations at the vanguard of disaster relief efforts in the country. Every story and poem found here, reprint or original, was submitted to this anthology without payment, nor the expectation of payment. All profit and/or royalties from this anthology which would normally go to the publisher or the authors will instead be remitted into the Paypal account of the PNRC. In the case of this Smashwords edition, Mark Coker has informed us that Smashwords will also waive its percentage of the cover price in favor of the PNRC, and for that we are grateful.
We'd like to thank all of our authors who have been so generous with their time and effort, and also the crew over at Artspice!, especially Dado, for creating the cover art for the anthology, free of charge.
Most of all, we'd like to thank all of you who bought this digital anthology (for yourselves or for others). You'd probably have donated to charity even without an incentive, but we hope our stories and poems make you feel all the happier to have helped those in need.
- Paolo Gabriel V. Chikiamco
Editor, Rocket Kapre Books
Manila, December 2009.
Mouse and I
Around us, the jungle shivers with life. It moves, it creaks—its gears click and turn. Trees bend and sway, synchronized as always. Sun sets.
Shadows chase us through the foliage. Here we are, Mouse and I. The jungle rotates on its axis and hunters shift through hollow space and metal grass.
"Shhh," says Mouse.
We crouch behind night-dark bush and watch as light elongates and changes the shapes of hunters and hunted.
Mouse rolls behind rock shadow. His smooth steel skin reflects the darkness under the leaves. Close to the rock, he’s almost invisible. My skin is made of tin, there are orange stripes down my back, and I reflect no light. I’m glad for the give in my body as I try to bend myself to the shape of trees and moving grass. We lie still, and wait, and listen while drums beat, voices chant and hunters hunt.
It’s been like this ever since. Every morning, we wake to the singing of the gears. The bush comes alive with the cha-cha-cha of wind-up monkeys. Here, stranded birds flutter their wings in vain, while the last of the sinuous serpents creeps over the cold earth. In the distance, a tiger roars, but we know better than to be afraid of the tiger.
The tiger is not the hunter.
At night, we listen to grass and bushes bend, we listen to the mournful cry of whomever, and we cower away as the ripping sound of metal tears into the quiet fabric of dark. We tremble because we know survival isn’t a guarantee.
Daylight offers temporary reprieve. In the day, there are no knives and spears. There is no clamor of drums, and no pounding of feet, there is no thrum-thrum sound of a heart going mad.
Out on the plains, the sun shines hot, white, and pure. Scattered remains tell us the story of Eland’s demise.
Mouse beckons and we join the search for nuts and bolts and bits of wiring. Eland was our friend. I think of her leaping through the air, sun glinting off her gold-edged flank, and I know we won’t find much of her skin.
"Here," Mouse says. He stuffs Eland’s key into my paw. I nod and tuck it into my pouch. Keys are necessary for survival.
By the time the heat grows unbearable, there’s nothing left on the plain and we head on out towards Umberto´s hut and the oil slick.
Umberto looks almost like the hunters, but we know he isn’t one of them. For one, his body is made of the finest steel, and when he oils himself, he gleams all over. Like us, Umberto must wind himself up everyday.
Umberto travels far. Sometimes he’s gone for days and when he comes back he’s always got a pack filled with metal strips, odds and ends, nuts and bolts and tiny screws, and keys to fit any notch you can imagine.
When we get to his place, Umberto’s hut is deserted. We mill around and wait. Maybe he can put together the bits and pieces we’ve got and resurrect Eland. I think of my own resurrection; if not for Umberto, if not for Mouse, I’d still be scattered about in the wind. I´d be nothing but gears and metal rusting away under the heat of the sun.
"Do you think he’s gone walking to the edge of the world?" I asked Mouse.
Mouse shakes his head and looks worried. Soon it will be night, and when dark descends, the drumming starts. We can’t stick around Umberto’s hut for long.
Mouse and I talk about the drumming.
"Maybe the jungle is sick," says Mouse. "Maybe it’s wearing down, and soon we’ll all fall prey to the hunters."
"But we can’t let that happen," I say.
Mouse sighs.
"There’s nothing to be done about it, Fant. We all wind down sometime, and there aren’t any spare parts left to keep the jungle from falling apart."
"At least we could try," I reply. "Maybe Umberto can help us fix the jungle."
Four days later, when we go down to the slick, we see that scavengers have been at work. There’s almost nothing left of Umberto’s hut. There’s nothing except an oil rag that he used to wipe his face with.
"Where’ll Umberto stay when he gets back?" I ask Mouse.
Mouse doesn’t reply. His eyes shift and he looks away towards the East. He looks out towards where the jungle ends and the plain begins, where the hunters come from when dark sets in.
"We can’t just wait for the jungle to fall apart," I say. "We can’t just wait for the hunters to come with their sharp knives and their twisty hands. This is our home, damn it."
"It’s the way it’s always been," says Mouse. "Hunters hunt and we hide."
I wish Umberto would come back soon. I want to see the sun glinting off his steel frame as he strides towards us. If Umberto were here, we could make plans. Maybe we could even trap the hunters. If we strip off their skins maybe we’ll find the solution to the jungle’s illness.
There’s the remainder of a word on the skin of my back. Umberto shaped my new skin from strips of metal he’d found on one of his journeys.
"F-a-n-t," says Mouse. "Fant. That’s what we’ll call you from now on. It’s your resurrection name, short for fantastic."
Umberto taught Mouse to read, and I envy him this gift. But when Umberto brought me back, when he turned the key in my side, it was Mouse’s turn to be jealous.
I turn the key now, and I jump far and high.
"Come back," Mouse calls. "You can’t go jumping about all by yourself. Think what will happen if the hunters catch you."
"But if I jump far enough, they won’t be able to catch me," I reply.
Mouse crosses his paws and looks annoyed.
"You’re not jumping without me," he says.
"I’ll take you in my pouch," I say. "Maybe if I jump far enough, we’ll find the center of the jungle. Maybe if I jump strong, we could jump clear out of the jungle into another place all together."
I shiver when I say those words and I wonder if there is indeed another place beyond the jungle. Is there a place where Mouse and I can live without the fear of hunters coming after us when darkness falls? Will we still hear the clicking of gears and the beating of the jungle’s heart when we’re so far away?
Dark descends quicker than before. The drums beat slower and a slice of dread causes my heart to miss a beat.
"It’s the jungle’s heart," Mouse whispers. "It’s slowing down."
From far away, we hear the hunters shriek. We hear the sound of metal on metal, and we fall silent.
In the morning, we awake to the chattering of the monkeys. They make such a clamor that everyone runs out into the clearing.
And there’s Umberto. He’s lying by the slick with rivers of black pouring out of him.
"We found him," the monkeys cry, hopping up and down in agitation.
Mouse shakes his head, as if he can’t believe it. I tiptoe forward and call Umberto’s name, but he doesn’t seem to hear me. His eyes blink open and shut, his fists open and close, and the black keeps pouring out of him.
"Someone’s taken his key," Mouse says.
And we know Umberto’s dying and there’s nothing we can do about it.
"Is this the end?" we whisper to each other.
We can’t bear to strip Umberto. These metal hands have helped us all. We’ve seen him gather bits and pieces of what the hunters left over. We know his patience and attention to detail.
Besides, what’s the point of stripping him? Of what use are spare parts when none of us knows how to put them together? We can’t bring the dead back to life.
I lift one of his hands between my paws.
"I’ll miss you," I say to him.
"It’s those damned hunters," Mouse says. "Why can’t they leave us alone? Just because their hide isn’t made out of metal, just because they aren’t keyed--do they think they’re better than we are?"
We sit and wait until sundown’s hostile glare turns the slick into a fiery lake. Soon the drums start beating, and we’re up and running towards the shadow of the jungle, towards the shelter of bushes and the maze of vines and tangled weeds.
Around us, the jungle comes alive. The gears click-clack and the trees move in slow motion. The landscape changes, and Mouse and I, we’re caught in the glare of the hunter’s moon.
"Run!" I scream.
The hunters pound behind us. The jungle whirls away, it gyrates, it spins. I can almost feel the pain of those twisty hands tearing through my skin. I remember falling into darkness with the sound of my gears winding down to silence.
"Run!"
I run towards the bush, towards the shape of trees and grass.
"We’re safe. Mouse, we’re safe."
But Mouse isn’t anywhere.
Out under the moon, Mouse faces the hunters. He’s up on his hind legs, his paws stretched out, his teeth bared.
"Mouse."
He doesn’t even turn.
Dammit, Mouse.
My voice is a sob in my throat. My key’s wound down and my hands have lost their strength. I beat the ground with my feet. But the hunters won’t be distracted. The moon shines full on their faces. They gnash their teeth, they snap their fingers, and I howl when I see twisty things appear where hands should be. There’s that whirring sound. High and keen, I’ve heard it before.
"Mouse!"
I watch as they close in. They’ve found his key. Metal screeches and tears, and Mouse is on the ground. He’s kicking, he’s fighting, his voice turns shrill as they strip off his skin to reveal the gears turning underneath.
Day is a thin light in the East by the time they’re done. All that’s left of Mouse are strips of metal, tiny cogs, and nuts and bolts scattered every which way. The hunters rise, and I rush out into the open, waiting for them to tear me apart.
"Kill me too," I want to say.
But they just pass on by, without looking my way.
Mouse is dead. Mouse is gone.
I scrounge in the bush until I find his key. I put this in my pouch next to Eland’s key. I go and sit beside the spot of black where Mouse’s life leaked out of him, and I think long and hard.
Eland’s dead. Umberto’s dead. Mouse is dead. I could be next and there’ll be no coming back this time. I take Mouse’s key out of my pouch, and I think of our conversation:
"If I jump high enough, do you think I could jump clear out of this jungle into another place?"
"Who knows? But you’re not jumping without me."
I hold his key in my hands, I think of the smooth sound of gears whirring and turning inside the compact casing of his skin.
"I’m not jumping without you," I whisper.
I twist his key into my notch. It’s freshly oiled and it fits just like an old friend. I feel my springs wind up into a tight little ball. I close my eyes, listen to the sound of the key whirring and turning, and I jump.
Strange Salvation
The child stirred when Lena set him down, moaning softly in his sleep. She froze, watching him closely for any signs of waking. But he was quiet after that, and all she could hear were the sounds of the rushing floodwaters, punctuated by the occasional screams and muted cries of people like themselves who had fled to the rooftops for safety, for now. She sighed in relief, and for a moment she moved her hand away from his eyes to brush a few strands of hair away from his mouth.
"It's so cold," he murmured. His eyelids fluttered open. "W-what—"
Fighting back panic, she placed one hand over his eyes, and cradled his head on her shoulder.
"Go back to sleep, boy," she grunted.
The child did not struggle, and only slid closer to her. "What happened?"
"There was rain," Lena said. "Lots of it. Then the river overflowed, and there was a great flood . . . you were almost swept away."
"You saved me." Karl grabbed her hand to try and look up at her, but she kept her hand firmly on his eyes, at least until she was presentable.
"I now wish I hadn't," Lena muttered.
The child did not hear. "I remember now. I know you," he said. "You're Magdalena. The crazy witch."
"Excuse me?"
"That's what we all called you," the child continued. "Even some of the parents did. Because you were really weird, and all that. I was even glad my mom never got you to wash our clothes."
Lena gritted her teeth. "Yeah. So?"
"I was mean to you," the child said. "We all were. Remember those kids who threw those garlic bits at you last week, while you were at the Garcia house? That was us." He shook his head underneath her grasp. "We were also the ones who ruined Martin's clothes and blamed it on you."
Lena almost strangled him at this point—to hell with the fact that she had just saved him—but she bit her tongue in silent fury.
"You must have known, right?"
"What? Do you think I'm stupid as well as crazy?" Lena retorted.
"Well," the child said. There was a trace of shame and self-loathing in his voice. "We did. Before. You must hate us so much."
"You think?"
"I'm sorry," he said. He sniffed. To her surprise, her hand over his eyes was wet, and his cheeks were now streaming with tears. "We were really horrible. But you still saved me. Why?"
"Do you want me to throw you back?" Lena said, her voice irritated. "I really, really want to, you know. I don't know why I did it, either. I do hate you, all of you kids. But you were screaming, and the next thing I knew—
He threw his arms around her shoulders, still sobbing. "Thank you. Thank you so much."
Lena almost choked on her own saliva. "It was nothing." She tore herself away from him, and clamped her hand on his eyes firmly. But he did not stop crying, and she said, in a pained voice: "Stop. Please stop, Karl. You're embarrassing yourself. Don't be such a baby. I only saved your life, that's all."
"But—" He swallowed. "Are Mom and Dad okay?"
"Yes," she said. "I'll take you to them now, but you have to sleep first. All right? Promise me."
The child nodded. "I'm really sorry, Ate Lena—can I call you that?"
"I really don't care what you call me," Lena said. "Just go to sleep. Rest." She hummed a soft lullaby to help him, and soon, he relaxed, his breathing slowed, becoming more regular.
"Damn it," she muttered. She still did not know why she saved him, why she should even care what would happen to him. She had never thought that his life would be worth risking discovery.
With one free hand she rubbed the many painful scars on her skin, which had burned weeks ago at the touch of garlic cloves. She looked down at herself, wondering what would have happened if she had not been so quick to cover the child's eyes. What would he have thought if he had seen that Lena's lower torso was missing, and that bat-like wings sprouted from her back?
They had called her many things in the past, but none of those names had ever come close to what she truly was.
She felt the child stir, and he said, sleepily, "You have wings, don’t you Ate Lena?"
Shit. Lena cursed inwardly. "You're just dreaming," she said, trying to keep the desperation from her voice.
"Hmm," the child murmured. "I know what you are now."
Lena tensed, as her heart sank. She really had made a fatal mistake. She looked down, and saw the floodwaters rushing onward below them, fast, strong, entirely unforgiving—her last hope for salvation. Maybe she could throw him hard enough so the impact would break his neck, kill him immediately. Then her secret would be safe—
He suddenly yawned. "You're my guardian angel." Then he dropped back to sleep.
Lena blinked several times, then shook herself. Dawn would be breaking soon, and she had much to do—back to the warehouse rooftop for her lower body, then to find the boy’s parents.
She flew up into the air—but before she left she hovered above the child for several moments, marveling at her conflicting emotions. The hatred was still there, but—
"Guardian angel," Lena said. "What do you know. . . " And her lips broke into a smile, a smile she could not completely suppress.
Earthquake
What does it mean to move on? Is it a concept as high and mighty, as wide and encompassing as love? Is it as deep and unfathomable, as primal and inevitable as pain? Or is it as simple as placing a different address on a box, closing it with tape and waiting for the movers to take it away?
FRAGILE, I write on top of the box and continue with THIS SIDE UP because it's important to know my bearings, even if I'm lost, even if I'm tired, even if I really don't know where I'm headed and where you want to go.
"Lila, did you feel that?" you ask.
"It's just an earthquake," I reply, unfazed, because we are in Tokyo after all.
The earth shakes, shudders, then stills.
"It's stopped," you say.
"It's stopped," I agree.
I return to my reflections. Lately, it seems that everything in my life is in the form of a question. How much tape does it take to reinforce a box? (Five layers for big balikbayan type boxes, at least three for the smaller cardboard containers.) How many boxes will it take to disassemble a life? (Twenty-five balikbayans, mostly filled with clothes that no longer fit, and ten small boxes filled with photographs and knickknacks including a tacky shepherdess porcelain figurine your mother gave me.) Which of the furniture are mine? (You were particularly despondent that I got the antique Chinese medicine cabinet which I had hunted down at a flea market using your money.) Where will I go? (Manila is the obvious if unappealing choice.)
Outside, a distant explosion resonates and the glass windows tremble.
How long will it take for me to get out of your life, and for you to get out of mine?
"Lila, what was that?"
You're still there.
"It's just the new condo." Things have been falling, crashing, whizzing the past few months.
"That didn't sound like something from a construction site."
I don't reply.
"I hope no one was hurt."
For a few moments, the room is silent, and I almost believe you've left.
"Lila—"
I don't look up.
"I just wanted you to know that, I really did value our years together—"
"Don't mention it," I cut you off as I take a newspaper-wrapped frame from the floor. Despite the covering, I recognize the size of the frame (It’s the one taken in front of Mt. Fuji where your eyes were too big and my face was too old). Unceremoniously, I insert it in a small space inside the box.
"No, really, Lila. I don't know what I would have done -"
"I said don't mention it," I say underneath my breath, because there are some things that need to be said but shouldn't be said anyway. I take another frame, this one with us against the Swiss Alps (You have a thing for mountains.). Beneath the newspaper you're smiling widely (almost maniacally) and I'm smiling softly (almost sadly), two ghosts frozen in time. It was just last year.
"—and I'm really sorry that this had to happen—"
"Are you?"
"What?"
"Really sorry?"
Silence.
"Lila, let's not go through this again," you say, "what happened, happened. We were both unhappy."
This time I feel it first: the ground beneath us subtly shivers, the motion slowly gaining intensity until hairline cracks begin to manifest in the floor. You don't notice it, too busy making excuses for inexcusable things.
"Sooner or later, you'll thank me for this, for—"
"Thank you?"
With a sudden growl, the world fragments as an abyss erupts between us. You stand still, caught between panic and fear. Inside, I shatter.
"I'm not furniture, Danny! You can't thank me, ship me off and expect everything to be all right," I slam another picture frame into the box. "And what do you want from me anyway? Do you want my friendship? Do you want me to say nice things about our marriage?"
You get down on your knees as lamps crash and the oak cabinet full of things that used to matter threatens to fall. I don't think you're listening to me.
"Well, I can't, Danny! I can't! I can't pack my things and stop hurting! I can't step out and forgive you and forget you, not after all these years, not after I've followed you to every damn place you wanted to go. And you know what? I hate mountains!"
You slowly crawl towards a wall away from me. Outside, the screams of the people are cut-off by the overwhelming sound of explosions.
"And I can't stop—" I say, but you're no longer there.
I stand up.
I start walking out of the room, skating the deep chasm that has swallowed the boxes I was painstakingly filling up. I trip once. I stand up. I trip again, and this time, I find myself struggling to hold on to pieces of the floor, a fiery abyss beneath me.
For a moment, I consider letting go.
The moment passes and I struggle, before hoisting myself up. I walk again. I pass you by, huddled in your little corner, wide-eyed and panicking. I want to stop and say something but you're not really looking at me, just staring off into the distance. I continue toward the door, all the while trying to convince myself that moving on is just like grief, that if only you can survive the all-consuming emptiness before you reach your destination, if only you can get out of the darkness and walk away from everything you knew and loved, you'll be all right.
Finally, I'm at the door. I turn the knob and step outside.
The earth stills.
Sunlight blinds me for a brief moment. A few moments later you come rushing out, grabbing my elbow.
"My God, Lila, you all right?"
I turn toward you but your face is blurred by prisms of light.
Designations
Extremely hungry birds bit off words in the old campus,
in the country whose vegetables were planted in the middle of nowhere,
agitated by the gossip caused by a shoe found outside the front
chamber where the Latin scholar refused to thaw iced scones.
It was time for sweet corn, the water was warm and without river current,
even the good birds had the urge to join up, fired up by the proposal
to raise nothing and to put meaning back into circulation.
They gathered round the pack horse like wild cats in comical capers,
each one an expert in pompously inflated language,
each marked by class distinction, each obstinate and vexatious
and uncompromising. They knew thought is the foundation
on which depends all that comes later. By sheer force of thought,
they finessed the red brown soil with their duplicity,
knowing that not everyone is set for an outburst,
but would rather tiptoe round the emotional centre,
knowing that the heartless with swords in tents ruff and play the edges.
They buried words in rows of exactness,
kneading each small, biting letter in the way of suffixes,
congealing each riddle with subtle distinctions,
willing each word to be second-to-the-last.
Firestorm
The words of Melancho of northeast, fire programmer.
I watched the soldiers take up their battle positions, some on foot, others on travel clouds in groups of two or three. They cheered the Crimson Master as they passed him; some saw me with the master and cheered for me as well. I don't think they understood why I frowned at them in reply.
Invasions from Selatan—the ice-bound region to the south of our country Pendi—were rather common, occurring as they did whenever their king was dethroned. Of course that did not make Selati invasions any less devastating; it merely made the average Pendika better prepared for attacks, more experienced in defensive formations and evacuation procedures. This was the first attack where I would be directly involved, along with the newest generation of licensed programmers. During the last invasion I had still been living at home with my parents; by the end of the attack, I no longer had either.
I grasped the memory ruby strung to my neck. The Crimson Master had made it for me, when I finished the apprenticeship: all the programs he had taught me, all the code sequences, all the deactivation commands, they were all there. It was heavier than it had any right to be. Maybe it was the weight of responsibility. He said that I, too, could now be called a Crimson Master. I felt no more worthy to possess that title than I did to have soldiers salute me.
All life and all things are controlled by programs. Programmers are merely given the ability to manipulate these programs. Every generation produced fire programmers by the dozen, but only one Crimson Master. As far back as I could remember, that master had been Corespasa of northeast, the man who now considered me a worthy successor.
The Crimson Master had one special program in his or her arsenal, a program only the master had the power to wield. My master could create the Force Field, a program that could enclose the entire capital in a fire dome, an impenetrable defense against Selati ice spears and ice daggers. The Force Field was a combination and culmination of programs which controlled fire within the earth.
"Lan."
He no longer called me his apprentice. I gulped. "Yes, master?"
"You will make the Force Field."
"What?!"
"The time has come to move beyond practice. Show Pendi their new Crimson Master."
In my eyes, there was only one Crimson Master, and that was Master Corespasa. While people might think differently—clueless soldiers and optimists like Beika—I was not him.
The words of Beika of northwest, heal programmer.
The futuretell programmers had warned the capital about the impending siege from Selatan, and everyone was on the alert. Commoners were escorted to underground shelters, shops were bolted down, and the infirmary building—one of the largest and best-equipped buildings in the capital—was made ready to receive the inevitable casualties.
My father walked the corridors of the infirmary’s surgery division, speaking to a group of heal programmers that walked behind him, nodding at his every word. I could barely hear him. I was at the end of the line of healers who followed him, in recognition of a hierarchy that valued seniority over the fact that I was the daughter of Clemente of northwest. Still, I couldn't help but feel honored. Moments when my father walked through the infirmary were considered rare opportunities to follow a great healer, and healers of all ranks counted themselves lucky if they could experience it.
I had always wanted to be like him. Now I had a license as a heal programmer, just like he did. It was a good start. I knew I had years of training ahead of me, but if my father could do it, so could I. It was in my blood after all.
My father never forced me to follow his footsteps, nor did he do me any special favors. He would tutor me on the rare times he was in the capital, but he made no requests for favorable treatment on my behalf. Both he and I were inordinately proud of my scores—they were barely above passing, but I'd won them fair and square. My father was proud of me, and that only made me want to do better, to become his equal, no matter that my grades made that seem unlikely.
At the head of the line, my father stopped to talk to the senior healers, giving them final instructions, before turning to the young heal programmers who had just received their licenses, encouraging us to do our best, to keep learning.
Finally, when the other heal programmers had left, he faced me. He faced me as a healer, not as my father. As our eyes met, the records chart I held in my arms slipped from my grasp. I grabbed for it, but the papers inside all spilled out, and I had to spend half an eternity picking them up from the floor. Here I was—a licensed heal programmer—making a program trainee’s mistake. It was embarrassing enough in front of a superior, not to mention one who was my own father, too.
But he smiled and patted me on the shoulder. "You’re just nervous because I’m here, Beika."
I sighed and looked up, although my eyes could not meet his. My gaze wandered past his plain programmer tunic and fixed itself on the memory topaz around his neck, watching the play of light across its surface as he continued to speak.
"I am proud that you are a healer. I am proud of you."
Of course that embarrassed me more than dropping the papers had. My father was like that. He even reached out and embraced me, right in the hall, where everyone passing could see us.
"I love you, my daughter."
But he felt warm and wonderful, I could not deny that. "I love you, too. Thanks for getting me here."
That’s when the alarm went off.
Lan
The south tower raised the first alarm. Selatan was near.
"Get ready," my master said. He stood behind me, gave me one final pat on the shoulder, one final nod of confidence.
His long scarlet hair, his gentle face, his warm smile; the long cloak that blanketed his back, that swayed as he walked; I would always remember those things about him. If I closed my eyes I could see them clearly in my mind without needing the sensory recordings of a memory jewel.
Soon the central square was deserted as the commoners moved to shelters, and as the soldiers and healers arrayed themselves along their pre-assigned positions. I saw Beika with the other healers, and I sighed as I saw her wave.
Beika was an acquaintance, from my first year as a program trainee. During the first year everyone took basic programming in one building, and I'd been content to sit apart in the farthest row of the class. Beika apparently saw me as someone who could accompany her to food shops and cake stores after class. Even when I went to the fire programmer guildhouse and she became a trainee of the infirmary, she kept pulling me aside to shop for candy apples, or to listen to music programmers practicing. She calls herself my friend because she has being doing this for years now, but I still think she’s rather annoying.
I was glad that she was part of a large contingent of other healers, not with me pulling at my programmer tunic’s sleeves, telling me how great I was and disrupting my concentration. Nonetheless, she was a familiar face, one that was a welcome sight in the midst of all the tension, all my concerns.
But at the center of the capital, the open area beside the fountain, it was just the master and me. Healers, soldiers, fire programmers, we all had our roles. Beika's role was to deal with the injured by repairing lifecodes. Mine was to make the Force Field.
Master Corespasa had finished teaching me the encode sequence. I had practiced it many times by now, and he said I was ready. I wished I had his certainty. I don't even know why he'd decided to let me encode today, an important battle. Did he feel weak today? He did not look sick. Did he just believe in me too much, like Beika? Or was it a sign rather of pessimism, an acknowledgment that the day might come when—
"Begin, Melancho," said my master.
I kneeled, as I had been taught, as I had practiced in trial exercises both large and small. I felt my hand grow warm as the start programs prepared for the code.
Encode. Establish range.
The range lines left my hand, running in two directions away from me. After several tense moments of concentration, the lines locked into place and formed a circle around the capital.
Establish dome.
I saw flame lines rise from the ground and continue upward. The flame lines remained inert, harmless to anyone, my concentration keeping their power in check. If I could keep my focus, the lines would meet at the center, the first threads in the protective dome the program would establish over the entire capital.
"Good, good, Melancho," I heard the master say behind me.
Solidify field.
More flame lines rose to strengthen the dome, up and up in rapid, powerful motions, toward the center. Almost done, almost done . . . I began to feel the surge taking its toll on me. There were so many lines over the capital, lines that remained inert and harmless only because of me. I needed to control them, keep them from activating before the right moment, but each new line taxed my concentration that much more. There were so many . . .
I felt my master's hand on my back, felt him focus his own power on the lines, not taking over my task but guiding me, calming me.
As long as I had the master at my back, I could complete that dome. I would prove that he did well in teaching me. I would show him my thanks that way. I would not fail him.
Beika
The second alarms sounded as my group got into position at the main square, alongside other healers. Those of us from the infirmary were assigned near the fountain, folding clean sheets for use when tending to the injured, and from our position I had a clear view of Lan and Master Corespasa.
The government offices just beyond the fountain were now silent. The grand library over to the left—a symbol of our country's love for knowledge—was heavily guarded, and the windows in the guildhouses were bolted down. The newest programmers of the various guilds took their places for the defense, many of whom were eager to prove themselves.
For many of us, those who had been too young in the last invasion, it was our first chance to make a difference. Lan, my friend Merina, and myself . . . we were but a few of the new programmers licensed early this year. This would be our opportunity to show how much we loved Pendi, how much we loved the capital. We would not fail the land that was our home, nor those who taught us how to defend it.
At the center of the city square, brow furrowed in concentration, Lan kneeled, the Crimson Master standing behind him, supporting him.
I saw the guide lines run from Lan’s hands through the ground. I watched the flame lines rise from the ground and up to the sky, their light subdued in their dormant state, but still striking against the gathering dusk. The program was magnificent, and powerful . . . and so was Lan. While everyone else had their eyes raised to watch the dome weave itself, I kept my gaze on him. I was so proud of my friend.
I was prouder of him than he was of himself. Lan was so good he often did not have to encode whole program sequences, they just fell into place. But the drawback to so much power was that it was difficult for him to control. The natural state of a flame line was that of activation and it took a lot out of him to keep them inert until the time was right.
Maybe that's why he held himself apart from others. I knew Lan was always afraid of harming people. As a heal programmer though, I guess the prospect of bodily harm just didn't worry me as much as others. And he always looked so alone, I couldn’t help but do something. No one should be so alone. At least now he had the Crimson Master behind him.
And then I realized—it wasn't just the Crimson Master behind him. A young man—where had he come from? —was running toward the center of the square. A messenger? For the master? No, that wasn’t the messenger uniform. I tried to place his face, his sandy hair, his forehead sash . . . wait a minute, nobody wore programmer sashes here, because sashes were worn by . . .
"Selati!"
My shout cut through the air but was drowned out by the clang of the third alarms. A few of those nearby turned to look at me, but Lan was too focused, and I was too far. I dropped the sheets I was folding and ran.
A Selati within the capital walls before the attack even began just did not make any sense. People watched me run to Lan, confused and waiting for further orders, not knowing what they should do. I didn’t know what I was doing either.
The Selati raised one hand palm outward toward the Crimson Master. I opened my mouth to warn him, but the name that emerged revealed my true fear:
"Lan!"
Lan
At the sound of my name I turned, and saw an ice dagger pierce through my master’s chest.
I dropped to the ground as the dagger passed through Master Corespasa, cold and red. I saw a young man stab two more ice daggers into my master’s chest.
Selati. The enemy was here, had been all along.
I stared at my master’s back, dark red blood spreading through the holes. He had turned to face the Selati. He fell to the ground, falling backward, still facing the Selati. The Selati’s face was splattered with my master’s blood.
I could not move my hands. I could not encode, I could not burn him. I could only look at the young man as he ran away.
My master was on the ground, bleeding to death.
Beika
The horror of what had occurred rocked me back on my feet. But the terror on my friend’s face was even worse.
When I reached them, I placed my hand over Master Corespasa’s heart. But the ice daggers had destroyed the heart, pierced the chest so the blood filled the lungs, ruined the other organs. Even my father would have been helpless in the face of something like this.
"Beika, do something. Do something! Anything!"
My hands warmed as I started the program. "Encode. Advanced Heal. Activate!"
I tried, I swear by the One who controls all programs, I tried. But the wounds were too large, the damage too great, the blood loss too much. Too many lifecodes were damaged, and my programs were as useless as I was.
"I’m sorry, Lan, I’m sorry. It’s a mortal wound. I’m sorry." It was all I could say.
The master gave out his final breath . . . and it was only when Selati ice spears filled the sky that I realized that the Force Field was incomplete.
Lan
I forgot what to do next, forgot the programs, forgot the Force Field, forgot it all. My master was dead. My master was dead!
The flame lines activated, exploded, burst open in the sky. Burning pieces of death began to fall, pieces of the incomplete field, and I could not stop any of them.
All fire programs, deactivate. It would have been as simple as saying that. The lines would disperse, the flames would disappear. But I had no voice, no will.
My master is dead, and I did nothing to stop it. My master is dead and I did nothing. My master is dead, and I have failed him.
I stared as the wind took the updraft, caught the flames and scattered them on. I watched as the fire rained down on the buildings, on the towers, watched as roofs burned, as fireballs dropped to the streets and roasted flesh. I heard people shouting as they ran into houses and shops, as the winds spread the blaze even farther.
What have I done?
Beika
"Lan! Deactivate the program!"
But his voice was dead, his eyes blank. "What have I done?"
I should be asking that question, I thought to myself, not you! I was the one who could not stop the Selati, who could not heal your master, who made you lose focus . . .
Flame continued to rain down around us as Selatan continued its attack, ice daggers and ice spears sparing neither soldier nor commoner. As the Selati penetrated deeper into the capital, a group broke off and headed toward the central area, toward us.
I programmed a travel cloud, then I pulled Lan on to it, flying as high and as fast as I could go, away from the battle, from the capital, from that bloody, lifeless, body.
I brought the cloud down as we reached the trees beyond the capital, and lay my friend on the grass—he’d collapsed as soon as we passed the gates. He had expended a lot of power preparing the Force Field, even more when the flame lines activated . As I placed my hands over him, I saw the tears streaming down his cheeks.
I set up my heal programs—first basic, then advanced—but this much effort, all at once and so soon after my desperate attempts with the Crimson Master, left me just as sapped as Lan. I fell asleep beside him, too exhausted, too shaken.
Father, I couldn’t do anything. Not for Lan, not for his master. Some healer I turned out to be.
The sun had just risen when I awoke, but Lan was already gone. Beside me, I saw three words scratched on the ground:
Leave me alone.
Lan
My feet dragged me back to the capital. I needed to see, somehow, what had happened.
I saw the smoke rising in strings and columns from all over the capital, dark, sooty columns and white, wispy strings of smoke. The wall was in ruins where it had not already been reduced to ashes. There was the scent of smoke on everything, the fumes of objects turned to ash, of . . . animals . . . maybe people . . . roasted before they could escape, or after having taken a shard of ice through the heart. Pools and puddles of water were everywhere, the melted remains of ice shards that should never have reached the capital at all.
No Selati were in sight, not living ones at least, as the city was littered with bodies in the blue livery of the enemy. The lack of an occupying force could only mean that the invasion had been repelled—yet it was quiet in the capital. There were no sounds of victory, nothing but the low shuffle of people trudging through the rubble, the muted wails of mothers, the sobs of old men in front of stores.
The fire programmer guildhouse had not been spared. The infirmary building seemed to have collapsed into itself. The basic programming hall had a gaping hole in the roof. The main assembly hall no longer had a roof.
I reached the central square. The blood stains were still there. My master, his body, was gone. Someone must have taken him away.
My master is gone, my city in ruins, and it was my fault.
Beika
Unable to summon enough energy for a travel cloud, I ran back to the capital, all the way to the infirmary, hoping to find Lan there. At the very least, my father was sure to be there, and he’d know what to do.
The destruction was great, but I was in too much of a hurry to notice anything more than the fact that the entire capital was in shambles —even the infirmary. I found a makeshift tent standing where our building used to be, filled with heal programmers and patients on beds. I saw my friend Merina with the other healers in my group, and I made straight for them.
"Have any of you seen Lan?"
Merina and the other healers turned to stare at me, eyes going wide. Murmurs spread through the heal programmers, even some of the patients, but what worried me was that I could not see Lan in the tent. Come to think of it, my father wasn't there either.
"Have you seen my father then?" I asked, my eyes scanning the crowd. I heard a gasp.
Merina’s jaw had dropped open. "You still don’t know. Oh, Beika." She hugged me and wept into my shoulder.
"What? What?"
A senior healer, Teacher Kasper, came up to us. "Let me do this, healer Merina." His face was very somber as he led me to a chair.
I realized then: I had run off on everybody, just to save Lan. Were they expelling me? Was my father so terribly angry he wouldn’t even face me? "I’m sorry, I’m really sorry, I can explain—"
"Healer Beika. It’s about your father . . ."
"No, you have to listen to me, I can explain—"
Teacher Kasper bowed his head. "The infirmary collapsed inward because of the firestorm. Clemente was still inside . . . when the infirmary collapsed . . . when it burned. . ."
I stopped comprehending, or listening. "Where is he?" My voice grew shrill. "Where is my father?"
The teacher took out a piece of cloth and unfolded it. Inside was a memory topaz, strung on a gold chain. I would know it anywhere.
"I am sorry, Beika."
Life stopped. I knew I lived, I existed, but that was all. I felt nothing, saw nothing, remembered nothing.
My father is dead, and it is my fault.
Lan. I think I understood then why he just stood there.
Lan
I walked back out of the capital, out of the gates. I did not want to see any more.
People in carts and horses trudged away from the capital, so numerous that they practically covered the main road. All was tatters, and soot, and tears.
They did not deserve this, did not deserve to be so violently separated from their homes, from the lives they'd known.
I'd failed them all. I'd failed my master. I'd failed myself.
I am not the Crimson Master. The title ends with Master Corespasa.
I have gone where no one will find me. As if anyone would even want to find me.
Because I know how the firestorm started.
It started with me.
Beika
When I returned from the funeral, the capital had been restored to some degree of calm. All the buildings were still in disrepair, but the makeshift infirmary was no longer filled to the brim.
My fellow healers treated me gently . . . and that pained me. I just wanted to feel normal again, to feel that that horrible day had never happened, that it had all just been a nightmare that I would soon forget. But when they were so concerned about me, I knew my loss was true.
Of course, many of them had suffered losses, too, but not as terrible as mine—or so I felt in my heart. Many lost homes, businesses, a few had had lost parents or siblings as well. And yet I felt they passed all their sadness and loss to me whenever they hugged me, or shed tears that mirrored my own. I drowned in their sympathy but could not reciprocate. I did not deserve to share their grief, if they could not share in my guilt.
If only I had dealt with the assassin, if only I could have warned the Crimson Master, or found a way to heal him, maybe then Lan would have finished the Force Field, maybe my father would still be . . .
It was Lan who needed their sympathy, not me.
I had to find him. No one had seen him since the battle, not anyone who I'd asked. My mother had the people of northwest, who could share in her untainted grief after I returned to the capital. The fact that I could not do so meant that I was free to do what I wanted.
I have packed my few belongings and my father’s memory topaz and set off. Living or dead, I will find Lan. I will ask him to forgive me.
Because I know how the firestorm started.
It started with me.
Excerpt from Neomuros
Greetings from sunless Neomuros!
08.21.64 PA || 23:42
Here is what most educated Luzonistas know about Neomuros, from their basic high-school curriculum:
Some time near the end of the Christian Era, a major property and real estate developer—whose once-storied name has long been made irrelevant by time—decided to build a towering, self-contained micro-city, consistent with its promise to keep on building, while ordinary citizens keep on dreaming. It would be named Neomuros, enclosed by walls that soared up towards the heavens, from which it could be readily defended by a private security corps against most forms of enemy warfare (most likely airborne viruses, street-level mobs, and hijacked commercial planes, given the nuances of that blighted period).
Indeed, this was no ordinary building complex—it was a sprawling development covering the entire area of a disused military base in Upper Bicutan, multiplied by its skyward growth. This was a veritable urban ecosystem, with its own internal transport networks, financial hub, living spaces, commercial areas . . . Even the flora and wildlife were carefully engineered to achieve optimum biodiversity. The sheer amount of planning alone meant that it would take decades just to complete the initial stage of building.
Neomuros was the very embodiment of burgis ideals: convenience, security, hygiene; the logical conclusion of a process that started long before you and I were cum-wads in our daddy’s nutsack. There was no semblance of democracy about it, but that was fine—most of the residents paid lip service to the Protestant ideals of due merit and sariling sikap. One could make a convincing argument that they had earned their place within its imposing walls, as long as you were able to spin it right.
However, in a situation typical of most Filipino endeavors of its day, the funding ran out before the second phase of construction was ever completed. The developer basically imploded under the weight of various financial scandals in which its parent company had become embroiled—the usual mess of government sweetheart deals, horse-trading, and routine corruption that people had become accustomed to.
Other land developers briefly considered taking over the project, but it was a logistical nightmare any way you looked at it. Besides, it would soon be a moot point. Once the Third World War broke out, a vanity effort like Neomuros seemed less important than capitalizing on the needs of "our boys".
After civilization was done reeling from the shock and awe of Mass Destruction, political borders were redrawn, and Life As We Knew It carried on, much in the same way it had before. Many people who saw their livelihoods ended by the dissolution of the Philippine Republic flocked to the Metro to start over.
As one might guess, Neomuros became a popular destination for squatters. Many deluded themselves into believing the squalid conditions were a temporary hardship. It was a sentiment often expressed by vagrants trading hard-luck stories, as they queued up for rations of lugaw and Soylent Verde in the food-lines set up by charitable organizations like the Order of St. Bono, and the Heart Evangelists.
However, more pragmatic folks began responding to the circumstances, taking advantage of resources that had not yet been destroyed or looted. They used whatever skills they had to fulfill specific needs, on all levels of the massive city-complex.
Incredulously, this colossal monument quickly became over-crowded, as Neomuros began to provide refuge to stateless "ex-Filipinos" from all kinds of life-ways. T’Boli Nano-Shamen set up shop next to amateur Lagunese fecomancers. Faux-Negrito gangsta bugawz pimped their discount anbling-anbling, regaling onlookers with folktales of mad thug life in the Cordilleras. Things became increasingly violent, as they often do, under such circumstances. Moorish pearl-sellers would designate informal prayer areas, only to be crowded out by vendors hawking pirated Sangleynovela box sets and hard-light reproductions of Presidential scandal videos. Riots were a frequent occurrence, sometimes due to ideological differences, but just as often for the heck of it, for lack of anything more productive to do.
So, in the thirty-septh year of Pax Amerikkkana, the newly-reformed Metro Manila Development Authority made the controversial decision to seal off Neomuros, blocking access to the city at all entry points, in the hope of containing internecine violence. All communication signals were cut, as were supply lines to the outside world, including the establishment of a 50-meter no-fly zone above the walled city. A de facto embargo was placed on Neomuros.
As expected, this was met with fierce resistance from people on both sides of the Blockade; let’s just say that the border patrol stuffed a lot of body-bags, in the years immediately following. Many of these corpses were shrink-wrapped in biodegradable exo-suits, and left hanging from the sturdy buttresses at the lower levels of Neomuros, to be fed to the growing population of carrion birds. The public eventually got the message. The clamor died out, and for several decades, Neomuros quietly became the imposing elephant in the otherwise tidy living room of the State of Luzon.
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