Philippine Speculative Fiction (22 page)

-Filomena Adyay, Life under the Silence-

IN MY DREAMS the Compassionate are nothing more than spooks who vanish at first light. Sarrat Norte is no longer among the living and his cronies hold no sway with the newly
established leadership.

In truth, his hand continues to manifest itself everywhere. Even if he no longer sits in government, his son speaks his words. In the broadcasts that come with regularity over the airwaves, I
hear his intonation.

There is no one left to gainsay him. We have been cowed into silence. Subjugated by terror and gone away into hiding.

IF ONLY WE could name the names of those who were lost in those jungle wars.

By the time the Leader-Elect’s term was ended, we had compiled a long list of names of the forever vanished.

Alina who never returned to us.

Bardugo, the valiant ferryman.

Fernandina, the spy.

Subing, the fighter.

Tuko, who crowed like a rooster.

Perdita, with the contagious smile.

Noknok.

Nonoy.

Pagong.

Evelina.

Dabid.

Diagan.

Mare.

Lozano.

Figuracion.

Planita.

Caloy.

Another Eva

Another Adan

Another Evelina

Another Nonoy

Another…

Another…

Another…

-From Names of the Lost Beloved by Piray Anjo-

“YOU CAN’T STAY here forever,” Nene says.

A week has passed since our visit to the registrar. I have studied the lists and when Nene went to work, I walked the streets looking for the old familiar places where we used to meet.

“This is a temporary lull,” Nene continues. “Quinto will tighten the cordons again, and even if they freed you, you will be captured once again.”

“Where will we go?” I ask.

“I can’t go with you,” Nene says.

I look at her sharply. It is only then that I see the signs of strain on her face.

“You must leave,” Nene said. “Your life was given to me as an exchange. But I can’t guarantee that they won’t take you away again.”

“What about you?” I ask.

She shrugs and looks away.

“Why was my life given to you?” I ask. “And who did you make this exchange with?”

Oh Nene. Oh Nene.

My little sister’s name repeats itself in time to the beating of my heart.

I am hiding in a corner of the balcony that overlooks the patio where Sarrat’s son sits with my little sister. He looks at her with heavy-lidded eyes, he touches her as if he already owns
her.

“Soon,” he says.

“Thank you for your generosity,” Nene whispers.

Her words fill me with grief and I want to cry because I am not strong enough to go down and strike him and tell him that I would rather rot away than surrender my sister to him.

“HE IS KIND to his women,” Nene says. “And I know he will be kind to me. But if I leave, you will surely perish.”

“I won’t let you
…
” I say.

“Listen,” Nene says. Her voice is fierce and her eyes are fierce and the sharp nails on her fingers dig into my skin.

“We will never be free if you perish, Piray. You died. You were resurrected. When the time comes, you will return and this thing that I do will not be in vain.”

“They will brand you a traitor,” I say to her.

“So what?” she says. “If the appearance of betrayal will save you and all that I hold dear, I will carry the title with honor.”

ON GAMELAN 2, the major houses have found a refuge. Here, the hand of the Compassionate does not hold much sway for the people of Gamelan trade and treat with the
Compassionate on equal terms.

Because of their position in the interstellar council, Gamelan is counted as a protected neutral state. No one may dictate to them and their policy of asylum may not be questioned by other
members of the council.

-Interstellar Law and the Gamelan States-

I suffered.

I died.

I was resurrected.

And now I am here on this strange world, looking up into a sky that is green and ever-changing as the sea.

“The allies are here,” Manong Patrice says.

Patrice is one of the remaining elders of the great houses. By day, he is a clerk in Parang’s shuttle bays. In the evening, he resumes his role as elder and the remnant of Luwalhati come
to him or respond to his summons for meetings.

My arrival in Parang had been broadcast to the community and we were already busy planning. More than anything, we longed to see Luwalhati freed from the Compassionate’s benevolence.

“We will speak together,” I say. “We may not yet be able to return, but our day will come and when it does we must be prepared.”

Manong Patrice grunts and mutters a prayer as he positions the four gods around the wheel of power.

“May the wisdoms come to us,” Patrice says. “May the gates of true freedom be opened and may we return to our homes and reclaim what was lost.”

I think of my little sister’s sacrifice and when we recite the litany of names, I whisper her name under my breath.

She gave her life in exchange for mine. Already, the denunciations have reached my ears. She allowed her old life to die so I might live. Even if I must die again, I will not fail my sister’s
trust.

“Who are our brethren on the other planets?” I ask. “If we combine our strengths, surely we will be able to raise enough power to fuel a revolution.”

THE REVOLUTION STARTED as a whisper in the back alleys of the places of refuge. The elder houses were gathering together their power and there were garda from other worlds
who joined themselves to our cause.

When the embargos were put into place, Sarrat and his son barricaded themselves in the Central Palace. The join boxes hummed with transmissions from Luwalhati to the Mothership and from
there to where the Compassionate held a base on Silhouette. Perhaps Sarrat and his council hoped for the return of the Pacifying Troops.

But they knew, just as well as we knew, there would be no stopping this uprising. A nation, once awakened, will refuse to sink back into Silence and subjugation.

On the third day after the first transmission, we marched out into the streets. We linked our arms and marched towards the Palace and the cordon.

We did not know if we would meet with death. We only knew we were going there.

Above the Palace, the colors of the Leader-Elect hang limply. The guards who blocked our way looked nervous.

We stood before them and raised our voices.

“Your time is over,” we said. “Let those who love Luwalhati prevail.”

The guards raised their weapons and for a moment we were silent. Then, a wave of voices rose up from behind and around us. If the guards shot us down, we had no defense against
them.

As we stood there, we heard a high shrill sound. It was that fabled being, the one the Compassionate had gifted to Sarrat. We watched it descend from the skies above us, and we wondered if
we would all be erased with a blink of its eye.

We stood there, ready to accept our death, but the being did not turn toward us. Instead, it surround Sarrat and his son in a ball of light. It pulsed once, twice and then another high
shrill sound brought us to our knees.

When we looked again, Sarrat and his son had vanished.

-Filomena Adyay, The Fall of The New Society-

IT WOULD BE more comfortable to indulge my grief and retire from public life forever. Sometimes, I curse whatever gene it is that makes me choose the path of struggle. Why
can’t I take the easy road when others have no trouble taking it?

I have mapped out my proposals as I remember them.

Here I am raising my voice again. Here I am, joining my lot with Luwalhati’s dreamers. We who are from a generation who saw a vision of what our lives could be (you would think all our
dreams had died in the pits of suffering and anguish) we still hold onto our vision of freedom.

This is our heritage.

We say this to all the young ones.

We sit down with them and teach them the forgotten expressions. It is not their fault that so much has been excised from their memory. It is not their fault that they have no remembrance of who
we were and where we came from.

Come home.

We send the call out to those who have left.

We need you.

Surely those who share in our love will read the message within the words.

Reconnect.

Return.

Remember.

Crystal Koo was born and raised in Manila. She is currently in Hong Kong writing, teaching at a university, and playing the guitar in a band. Her recent
short stories are published in or are forthcoming in
The Apex Book of World SF 3, Maximum Volume: Best New Filipino Fiction, Philippine Speculative Fiction 8, International Speculative
Fiction,
and
Abyss & Apex.
Her work has won the Hong Kong Top Story Competition, the Don Carlos Palanca Memorial Award for Literature, and the UNSWeetened literary competition from
the University of New South Wales. She maintains a blog at cgskoo.wordpress.com and tweets @CrystalKoo.

LUZ USED TO be a marcupo and covered herself up in human form. Like other anthros, the urge to shift back sometimes came in the most terrible moments—a meeting, a
date—and she’d have to dash to the toilet or a dark alley. She applied for an H. Anthropomorpha–Right
ToAppearPubliclyInNaturalForm–LimitedWorkPermit–LimitedHealthcare– ReproductionSubjectToApproval–NoRightToInternationalTravel–NoRightToRunForPublicOffice license but
it was rejected. The threat level of a marcupo was considered to be Very Severe. This meant that if she didn’t want to be arrested, she had to keep up a human disguise in public at all times.
She could tell people what she was but that was up to her, and really, who’d want to tell anyone anyway?

Not her. Two years ago, Luz found Dr. Cardoso, who masqueraded as a gastroenterologist and used his private clinic as a gateway for mutagenic operations. The procedure was totally irreversible,
deliciously illegal, and turned Luz entirely into H. sapiens.

That same afternoon, Tai was in a rally at a park in Quezon Memorial. She was listening to Dominic, the head of the anthropomorpha union, talk about streets full of anthros, about leaves from
the trees falling on their scales, their feathers, their leather skin. A day when the license to exist was no longer necessary. He stood in natural form for the duration of the entire speech under
broad daylight.
Siokoy ako
. It had been daring and symbolic. Tai signed up with the union that day, determined to be in garuda claws and feathers at his side when that day came.

THE GIRL DRESSED in human form introduces herself to Luz as a garuda. It’s part of Luz’s job as Dr. Cardoso’s secretary to know that garudas are also classed
as Very Severe, so Luz makes sympathetic noises and gives the woman a medical form to fill. A wakwak is preening on the left.

Tai stays by Luz’s reception desk and studies the document. The berberoka next in line groans loudly but doesn’t say anything.

“So were you always sapiens or did you have the operation too?” Tai asks Luz.

“What would an original sapiens be doing here?” Luz smiles at Tai. “You can sit down now, miss.”

“A lot of sapiens groups out there are saying mutagenic ops should be legalized,” says Tai. “Eradicate anthros unless they join the human fold. You could be supporting the
cause.”

“The only cause I support is getting you to wait by the sofas,” says Luz, her smile tightening, “and I’m afraid you’re holding up the line.”

“Don’t you miss it?”

The berberoka is now listening intently. The solicitousness in Luz’s voice thins. “Miss what?”

The back of Tai’s skin shatters open, like clouds in a monsoon. Brown feathers throb underneath, and long, luscious wings, her
largeness
, fly open across the room. Claws break out
from the webs between her fingers; she bristles her feathers and every muscle in her young, sinewy body is clenched.

“What we should be more concerned about is
all of us
being able to walk around the streets exactly the way we are.” Tai raises her voice and it trembles. “Not having
to shift into human form when we’re in public so people wouldn’t suspect anything. And God forbid, not having permanent operations to become sapiens. This is all backwards!”

“If you’re having second thoughts about seeing Dr. Cardoso,” says Luz, “you can schedule another consultation. Please keep your voice down.”

“One time I tried to walk out in public in natural form,” says Tai, undeterred. “I tried midnight. I thought maybe there’d be less people to ‘offend’. I
walked out and ten seconds later, someone was yelling at me. Turn around and show me where your hole is, he said.”