Philippine Speculative Fiction (21 page)

Suelo, Piray’s father, was well-respected and honored in the community. He had been decorated for valor in the struggle against the Chaos, he was a boyhood friend of Sarrat Norte who
was now Leader-Elect.

Seven thousand five hundred and seven days had passed since the Compassionate had granted us the right to self-governance, and our Leader-Elect spoke of nothing else than the vision he had
received for a new society. True, there were those who did not see eye to eye with the Leader-Elect—Piray being one of those who said that this vision only served to continue the work of
suppression and eradication which the Compassionate had begun. (And yet, for all that she called him tuta, she did not advocate the violent protests that broke out in the week before the Silence
fell upon us. Her diatribe against the bombings that resulted in the death of innocents was effective in stemming the rage of the people at the increase of taxes levied on us all.)

On the morning before the Silence, she announced the arrival of the Leader-Elect in her studio. Perhaps, she saw it as an opportunity to lay before him her own platform for this envisioned
society. For months, she had been gathering feedback and input from outlying provinces and from the common who were more in number than the elite.

“
And we are honored today,” Piray said. “Here is his excellency, our Leader-Elect Sarrat Norte.”

Did Piray know that it would be the last time her voice would come to us over the soundwaves?

Ah Piray. If you could see how we are scattered across the vast reaches of the star system, you would weep.

-Filomena Adyay, On the Advent of the Silence-

“LOOK,” NENE SAYS. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. There are no spiders lurking in the corners and there are no rats. I cleaned the house myself and I
know every inch of it.”

I have not yet grown accustomed to the light and I can’t help but feel a pang when I notice how neatly the ruff has been excised from its natural place around my sister’s neck. Is it my
imagination or does Nene seem much older than I think she should be?

By my counting, I was in the belly of the Mothership for one hundred and fifty-two days.

I count them inside my head and stare at Nene.

“You were only a child when I left you,” I say to her. “One hundred and fifty-two days cannot account for the fact that you are now a grown woman.”

“It was more than a hundred fifty two days,” my little sister says. “I am no longer a child, Piray. It has been eleven years since your incarceration.”

I don’t know what else to say. It’s as if there is this big hole inside my head and I don’t know why I can’t remember the rest of it.

All I see are the one hundred fifty two stripes that I drew on the wall while I listened to water dripping and waited for the rats to finally lose their fear of me.

There are tears in my little sister’s eyes and her lips tremble. I touch the scar on my own neck—if they had left us with the things nature gifted us with, I would not need words to
convey to her the depth of my sorrow.

“Don’t worry,” I say to her. “I must have forgotten. I’m sure I’ll remember when I have had time to sit down and rest.”

“Yes,” she whispers. “That sounds like a good idea. I’ll just go and get you something to drink.”

And like that, she leaves me alone in this space that is wide and high and open and filled with so much light I must squint because it feels like my eyeballs will explode from the brightness of
it.

We are in Bato-Balani and this house is a temporary refuge. Nene tells me it was offered to us by a friend.

“It has an open plan,” Nene said. “And it faces the sea. You won’t feel hemmed in.”

If anything, I feel as if my spirit self will cut loose from the anchor of my body and fly up and around with the joy of freedom.

“
I HAVE GRANTED the Pacifying Forces full authority to act,” our Leader-Elect said. “Ours is a government that wishes to ensure your safety and your
peace. Even now, there are dissidents and subversives who would like nothing more than to bring the Chaos to our shores.”

As our Leader-Elect spoke, the air was filled with the sound of sirens.

“
We must work together to achieve the vision passed on to us by the Compassionate,” Our Leader-Elect continued. “We must show ourselves to be a race of intelligent and
reasonable beings. We have known the benevolence of those who sheltered us. It is fitting that we return our gratitude and our thanks by supporting this vision of an orderly new
world.”

We heard shouting in the background, and the broadcast broke up into static as Piray’s voice came to us in frantic soundbytes.

“
Whatever you do,” Piray said. “You must remember…”

Piray’s words were cut off. There was a high shrill sound and then utter silence.

-Filomena Adyay on the Advent of the Silence-

I stare at the words on the page and I tremble. A memory comes to me of one of the soldiers of the Pacifying Forces. A mild-looking creature with a slick silver coat of fur cascading all the way
from the crown of his head to the end of his tailbone.

“Recant,” the creature says. “If you recant and declare your support of the Leader-Elect’s decision, you will be free.”

“What is there to recant?” I say. “I only spoke the truth.”

“You speak so lightly of what you don’t understand,” the creature says. “Truth belongs to your betters.”

And as he speaks, his face stretches wide, the surface of his skin bursts into two and from between the fissures the teeth of a carnivore emerge. I hear snarling inside my head, cold air washes
over me and I tremble.

I have crushed the pen in my fist and the broken ends dig into my skin. From a distance, I see the pinprick of blood. I have seen that red before and inside my head I hear a voice
screaming—a high constant pitch that goes on and on.

I fold the letter into a neat square and tuck it into the right hand drawer where the other letters lie. I am glad they never found Alina. If they had, they would probably have cut off her
wings, declared her an abomination and made her repent the circumstance of her birth. As if who we are is a sin.

Alina. I am glad she never knew captivity.

IN OUR YEARS under the Compassionate, we had absorbed their rote of being “civilized”. We learned their speech patterns and read their literature. We wore
prescribed articles of clothing and eschewed the lighter and colorful wear that was more fitted to our physiognomy.

“
They can be trained,” the Compassionate envoy used to say. “And when they are trained, they will make good and loyal citizens.”

They said these things in our presence, as if we were deaf to the meaning of their words.

On the day of Sarrat Norte’s inauguration, we had given reign to our true selves. Such dancing in the streets, such rejoicing in the corriders. Finally, finally, we could be as we were meant
to be.

But we did not see the strings that tied Sarrat Norte to the Compassionate. It is only in looking back that we understand. Power is a lure. Power is a poison.

We understood this all too well when the Silence fell upon us and we were left scuttling for shelter—running from the persecutions of one we had claimed as our champion.

-Efficacio Mendoza, A Critical look at the Legacy of the Compassionate-

I KNOW THERE were others who were incarcerated at the same time as I was and I want to know if there are others who were freed and if I can find them.

“There are still remnants from the network,” Nene says. “I can take you to Manang Juling. More than that I refuse to know.”

I stare at her, not comprehending.

“Why?” I ask. “Why do you refuse to know?”

“It’s not safe,” she says. “It’s better that I don’t know.”

She pins a badge on my coat and she brushes her hands along the top of my shoulders. When her fingers touch the scars on my neck, I feel her tremble.

“In the reformatory, there were only children,” Nene continues. “Some of us knew our parents had been taken. Some of us were simply plucked from the streets. We helped each
other, and even now we continue to keep in touch. Who has found a parent, who has lost one, if a sister was granted asylum in another colony… that sort of thing.”

I let her make a fuss about my clothing and my hair. I can hardly believe that I have been freed, but I am also afraid. Have all voices of dissent fallen into silence while time slipped away
from me?

Our pod flows smoothly through Central’s streets. It is so quiet and so ordered, nothing at all like the Central that I remember. When we arrive at Main Offices we are deposited smoothly
onto steps that scroll up into the building.

“Alina’s name will not be here,” Nene says. “She was never captured.”

I nod.

This Central is so strange to me. How can a city change in so little time? Towering pillars hold up a protective dome and along the pillars moving elevators carry passengers from one level of
the city to the other. I wonder what has happened to the blaring horns and to the loud music and to the dancing in the streets.

“Who is in-charge now?” I ask.

“Sarrat’s son,” Nene says. “His name is Quinto.”

“But all of this,” I say. “Who is responsible for all of this?”

“The Compassionate,” Nene says.

There is resignation in her voice and as we climb up the stairs to the Registrar’s office, I feel the urge to break out into loud chants. I want to dance on the steps and to twirl about. I
want to find a transmitter and shout out a message that will shake everyone out of this bland uniformity. But I don’t know what words to say.

So instead, I watch the quick march of these others who look like me and yet who are not like me. In their orderly dress they march up and down the steps. They are so efficient, so impersonal,
so joyless—so unlike kin, so disconnected.

“Juling is waiting for us,” Nene says.

I turn to her. I want to ask her if she mourns the loss of that expressive part of our selves. But my words die before I speak. There is a look on Nene’s face that makes me want to weep. In that
unguarded moment, it is as if she has lost all hope and all will to live.

My throat aches and I touch the sides of my neck where my own scars linger. If Nene were upset her missing frills would quiver and shake and turn violet—the deeper her disturbance, the
deeper the color. Now, I can only gauge her feelings by her words and the look on her face. It is not enough.

THOSE WHO SPOKE the loudest disappeared from the landscape. Rumors came to us of refugees who had made it to Gamelan 2 where they were granted political asylum. Those who
chose to remain went into hiding. Many went into the jungle to fight alongside Taruk the second. Many of the winged went there and were never found again.

Some say the Compassionate lent the Leader-Elect a being that could liquidate an entire squadron with a simple blink of its eye. Perhaps this being was deployed in the jungles. The struggles
that took place there are unrecorded, but we hear snatches of story from those who dwelt on the peripheries.

Of the Garda who were loyal to the houses of the elders many were eradicated.

Almost immediately, the rewriting of history took place.

Those who were not aware of the struggles in the capital swallowed everything the media told them as truth. Children who grew up in the shadow of the Leader-Elect were taught these things:
he was a great man—a visionary marked by the gods. Evidence was paraded on visual transmissions and image transfers. Everyone could see the seven golden suns that marched across Sarrat
Norte’s brow.

Central became the Leader-Elect’s showcase. He hired the best architects and the best city planners and within the space of three years, the face of the city was changed.

In the transmissions between worlds, the Compassionate declared themselves well-pleased with Sarrat Norte’s diligent labor.

Order was the Leader-Elect’s byword. In accordance to the will of the Compassionate, he ordered the excision of all extremities that did not belong to the image he desired to present
and his entire coterie were made to carry the sigils of his house. In this way, the age of the New Society was ushered in.