Authors: Emil M. Flores
But it wasn’t a joke. They were not bluffing.
There was a small pulse, and from the center a blue wave spread, like fire on a trail of gasoline. They burned the sky, in a way that we never could. They made the clouds boil
and rise, and light got so bent that there were suddenly two suns, the eyes of a celestial cat that did not care. Maybe we should’ve changed, just like they told us to. But this is us, a species
that always had trouble with authority.
Everything hummed. Nobody was praying now; everybody just cried and wailed. Everyone but us.
"It’s so pretty." she whispered, the wind sliding across her face and through her night-colored hair. She was squinting now. "I wish I could’ve met you sooner."
"I wouldn’t change a thing." I answer.
The
Bisitas
came in ships, glittering silver as giant fish peeking through murky waters. The skies parted and we saw the stars in broad daylight.
Helicopter gunships rose up to meet them, still adorned with banal posters of last month’s elections. “Thank you, Congressman Aurello” the posters said. They
were feeble and tiny in the face of the sublime power of their adversaries. They were gone in seconds.
The skies burned. The
Bisitas
burned it like we never, ever could.
She held my hand. Her breath smelled like roses. I never thought I’d be this lucky.
By Anne Lagamayo
She hasn’t been sleeping so well lately. At first it was because of administrative things, the booking, the catering, the reservations, the bureaucratic hoops to jump
over—the way it always is on the first leg of organizing the cruise—and then after all that, the station at M2113 calling to say there was a gas leak, could they please hold the trip
for one more week, and then Danny showing up in the middle of the night, holding the guest list, asking her if she was sure, really sure?
To which she’d replied, “Yes. You’re one of the best pilots out there, you can do this.”
She hasn’t closed her eyes for more than three hours, not since last night when the ship finally took off, so it’s no surprise that it takes a while before she
regains consciousness and feels someone shaking her shoulder urgently.
“Ma’am Ina? Ma’am, there’s been an accident in one of the first class cabins,” someone is saying. The voice is thin and reedy, a little boyish,
and hesitant.
She blinks at the dark disconcertedly and sits up, pushing off the comforter. The boy is shining his flashlight nervously, and brilliant displays of light are erupting in front
of her eyes. “What kind of accident?”
He shifts from one foot to another. Gino, she thinks, is his name—one of the squatters they bought from Quiapo. She remembers him distinctly because of the smell of cheap
gel in his hair as he stood in line, and the blue contact lens he was wearing on his right eye.
“Um, ma’am, I think you should see it for yourself, I—she’s on Sampaguita,” he replies.
She looks at the clock, wondering if she could get in some sleep before breakfast duty, and hides a sigh when she sees the time. “Thank you, Gino,” she says, and he
starts a little at the sound of his name, “I’ll be there right away.”
***
The ship is even larger at night. She walks along the deserted hallways that seem to swallow her whole and tries to remember what the fear of too-wide spaces is called, idly
wondering if anyone has known enough of wide spaces to fear it.
When she reaches the Sampaguita wing on the upper decks, she heads straight for the murmuring crowd gathered outside one of the doors, pushing her way through the throng until
she reaches the guard posted at the cabin, who nods and lets her in.
The room, built for one, is tiny, and the blood is everywhere. Splattered in patterns on the wall, on the floor, soaking the thick mattress and the white cotton nightgown of
the passenger seated on the edge of the bed. The doctor has his hand on the right side of her head while the other is holding a pair of forceps to the left. When she reaches them, she hears the
doctor make a triumphant noise as he drops a bullet fragment on a waiting metal pan.
“She’s all yours, Miss Ina,” the doctor says, squeezing her arm as he ambles past. “I’m getting too old for this.”
“Thank you, doc,” Ina replies gratefully. She stops in front of the girl, who looks like she’s about nineteen or twenty. Her skin is already regaining its
healthy tan color. Her own skin must seem old and dry and papery, as if it’s been forty for a longer time than it has.
“Hello,” Ina greets her, sitting beside her on the narrow bed. “I’m Ina, the cruise manager.”
She’d glanced at the cabin plans on the way out of her room—Hidalgo, it said, was the name of the occupant in 219, one of the rare guests who could afford a single
cabin. She was expecting an old man in black satin pajamas hanging from the ceiling, but not the young thing already folding in on herself, clutching her forearms and rubbing them furiously.
“Do you need anything, Ms. Hidalgo?” She asks. She notices the gun hidden in the folds of the girl’s nightgown and moves to pick it up without startling
her.
Ina turns to a small basin of water that the doctor had left by the carpet, and wrings the wet cloth inside. “It’s amazing isn’t it, all this space to move
around in?” She dabs at the girl’s cheek, wiping away the dried blood. “Back home, my husband and I used to put up a curtain in between our sides of the room when we got tired of
seeing each other.”
The girl blinks and swallows, turning to look at her for the first time. Ina waits for her to speak but she doesn’t, waits until the girl’s face is moist and clean
and all that’s left is to wash the blood out from her hair.
“I’ll send housekeeping over to change the sheets,” Ina says. “I’m sorry, we don’t have a spare room.” She lingers a little before
turning to leave. She reaches the door, and doesn’t know what makes her turn around and look at the Hidalgo girl again.
“I swallowed two bottles of Tylenol, the first time I tried to kill myself,” Ina says ruefully, leaning on the door jamb. “Don’t try it, it’s even
messier than a gunshot.”
As she turns around to leave, the Hidalgo girl murmurs quietly, “Raquel. My name’s Raquel.”
Ina nods without looking back, twisting the knob. “Good night, ma’am. The sheets will be by soon.”
***
“On behalf of the captain and the crew of the Stellamorien, I’d like to wish you all a good morning!” Meg chirps before turning off the speaker.
“You’re in a good mood,” Ina observes with a small smile as she closes the cabin door behind her. She heads straight for the small buffet table by the corner
and grabs a cup of coffee. She hasn’t had real brewed coffee in months, not since the last voyage. She’s delighted to find out that even the
pandesal
is real, nothing like the
clay-like substitutes they have back home, and makes a mental note to stop by the kitchen and congratulate the caterers.
“Not at all,” the young stewardess replies, rubbing her eyes and sinking down bonelessly into one of the armchairs. “But you’re a little right, I think.
It’s easier the second time.”
“I never said that.” Ina sips the steaming coffee—Barako, she thinks—and dunks the bread in the liquid. “I said it became more
possible.”
“Isn’t that the same thing, boss?”
“Not at all, Meg. Coffee?”
“No, thanks, ma’am. Frances and I drank a whole jug earlier.” Meg flushes.
Ina starts to think that Meg really is as young as she looks like. Her résumé had said that she was twenty-three, though at first Ina couldn’t really be
sure of her true age, and supposed it would be rude to ask.
“Anyway, I was assigned to the lower decks last night,” Meg continues, twisting the pearl button on her uniform sleeve. “There are thousands of them,
aren’t there?”
Ina nods. “Yes. There are thousands of guests on the upper decks, too.” She drains the last of her coffee and gives Meg a small grin. “I should know, I get a
thousand complaints every hour about someone’s dog ending up in someone else’s cabin.”
Meg shrugs good-naturedly. “I don’t envy you your job, ma’am.” She stands up and pulls down one of the plasma screens. “What do you feel like
seeing today? Sunny day, overcast skies—”
“Not overcast skies, please. I want to live through lunch without my phone ringing off the hook.”
“Sunny day it is,” Meg says. By the time she pushes the screen back, sunlight is already streaming through the windows and the cabin is filled with the sounds of
waves crashing and seagulls calling overhead.
Ina closes her eyes. She knows that if she looks outside, she will see the faint outlines of the archipelago in the distance. It’s always been her favorite weather
design.
“Oh, ma’am?” Meg calls. “You told me to check who booked Ms. Hidalgo for the cruise? It was her grandson Michael.”
Without opening her eyes, she nods and starts tracing patterns on her mug. “Thank you, Meg.”
***
By the fourth day, she’s developed a migraine that threatens to make her keel over on the deck, so she weaves her way through the crowded pool and the hallways littered
with children to the staff cabin. There are considerably less people and less noise, and she is even more grateful when she opens the door to the cockpit and is greeted by cold and darkness, a
welcome respite from the near-blinding sun shining from the artificial windows.
Danny doesn’t look up from his papers. He is standing in front of the console, bent over pulled-up images of maps and graphs. The only light comes from the multitude of
blinking buttons on the control panel and the constellations of stars speeding by in plain view from the large glass panel in front of them.
“Have you decided on a stopover yet?” Ina asks, lightly gripping the backs of one of the chairs.
Danny makes no move to acknowledge her question. After a moment of prolonged silence, he tosses his stylus on the table and runs a hand across his face. The first telltale
signs of stubble are running along his chin and cheeks. “No, obviously. I know you think I can do this, but I think you’re nuts.”
When he doesn’t continue, she replies, “Okay. That’s alright. Show me what you have so far.”
He wordlessly drags a map out on the screen. She comes closer until she’s standing shoulder to shoulder with him, and peers at the image.
“There,” she says, pointing. “Good oxygen levels. Sustained plant life. And nearly half the planet is covered in water. The beaches would be
gorgeous.”
Danny shakes his head, zooming in on the stats. “We can’t. It’s US territory. Nearly everything I’ve come across is US territory. We really
shouldn’t have signed over the Andromeda XI.”
“Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time,” she murmured.
He looks at her, his mouth turned upwards. “I can’t believe we’re actually looking for a marketable vacation spot. And I still don’t know why you chose
me for this,” he says, sobering. “I understand why the last captain quit. What I don’t know is why you keep subjecting yourself to this.”
She gives a half-shrug, randomly tapping and enlarging galaxy maps onscreen. Danny, if she remembers correctly, was four years younger when they first met. He has wrinkles
around his eyes now, and some grey in his hair. He could be thirty-eight, or maybe forty.
“Were you a freshman back when we met in that political science org?” She frowns.
“In college, way, way back then?” He grins. “Yeah. I remember you as a senior.”
“I remembered you having the stomach for ethical dilemmas,” she replies.
“No. You’d notice I actually ended up as a pilot instead of a politician. And it’s funny,” he adds, “I wouldn’t have said the same thing
about you.”
She turns to him and smooths out the wrinkles on his uniform, patting his shoulders. “And as to why I keep subjecting myself to this, I like seeing their faces when they
get on the cruise for the first time. As if they have all the space in the world.” She finally looks up at him and gives him a smile he doesn’t return.
She drops her arms from his shoulders. “And it’s my job. I’m obligated to do it. Page me when you find anything,” she says, walking out of the room and
leaving him in the dark.
***
Ina pays a visit to the lower decks the next day in search of the doctor. Her insomnia has gotten worse lately—she had two hours of sleep last night, and a few stolen
naps in the staff room—and she hopes the doctor has brought sleeping pills with him.
It is in the middle of afternoon and the weather design has the skies in bursts of orange and red and the water in calm, lulling waves. Nearly all the passengers are out in the
hallway, lazing on the floor or leaning on the windows. It’s a tight squeeze but nobody seems to mind. Things are much worse back home, after all. Ina has a distinct memory of being stuck in
the office once during a thunderstorm. She’d had to sleep on her work table with David from accounting, who’d eaten a burrito for dinner. The food was synthetic but the smell of his
breath was real, and she stayed awake all night with the smell of bell peppers and onions puffed across her face.
After she flashes an apologetic grin at sidestepping a sleeping toddler stretched out on a blanket, she comes across the doctor speaking quietly to a thin, pale girl.
“Seasickness,” the doctor informs Ina, chuckling when the girl runs off. “I tell her the water’s not real, and there’s no actual motion, but the
body believes what it believes.” He pats her hand genially. “What can I do for you, Miss Ina?”
She smiles sheepishly. “I haven’t been sleeping so well, doctor. If you could spare some sleeping pills, it would really help.”
“Yes, yes, I have just the thing.” He rummages into his bag, his beard catching on the handles. “By the way, I spoke to the girl in 219, Raquel, I think.
She’s doing much better and has no plans of blasting her head off anytime soon. I confiscated the gun to be sure. Though God knows we’ve all hoped to get the hell out of this life at
one point or another.”