Philippine Speculative Fiction Read Online Free Page A

into something more androgynous.
    “
Aiyoh
. H-I, Haptic Interface, It allows you to touch me,” he/she explained. “Anyway, we spoke at Golden Acres. I’m your caseworker, at least for the next few
minutes. Sorry for the rough landing, this is my cheapest loading program. You did travel by steerage after all. Welcome to New Tundon.”
    I threw up.
    “Isn’t it wonderful? That’s your system getting rid of unnecessary information,” Pai Kia said, as he/she took a drag from a long Djarum Black. “Feels so real,
correct or not? This place is almost the real universe. You won’t see any pixilation, not even on the quantum level. This hack is
that
good. You
gone case
uncle. But soon,
very soon, you won’t even remember transitioning.”
    I kept throwing up until my knees gave way. My face slumped onto the dirty sink, straight into the puddle of my own vomit.
    “Listen, I’m paid by the second, so listen and listen closely.” The strange man/woman said. “Your algorithm’s still unfinished, but she wants you to find her. This
time there’s no bullshit, no restraining orders. Find her. She’s waiting for you.”
    Pai Kia fished for something in their pocket and tossed it to the floor. It was an old Casio Data Bank watch.
    “Tundon’s a Hacker Town, a galaxy of parasite
Gimokud
hidden beneath one of the New Cities. Since you’re not in the 1%, you have to wear one of these. Your identity
and your credits are inside until you’re re-skinned. Don’t lose it or you’ll be purged. If you need more credits you’ll have to sell something. If you got nothing, sell
yourself. Good luck.”
    “Wait…” I whispered hoarsely, struggling to get back on my feet. “Please wait.”
    When I finally managed to stand, the strange man/woman was gone. Only the smell of clove cigarettes remained, pungent as rotting fruit.
    I moved to a clean sink and washed my face. When I looked into the mirror, an impossible face stared back. Somehow I was young again, probably 20 or 21. That was about how old I was when I first
met Esperanza. I was sure it was no coincidence.
    Damn it. Why is she torturing me? Why now, after all these years?
I asked myself, feeling a familiar flood of pain and self-loathing.
Why did I even come?
    In my old age I had tried my best to forget about her, to erase what had ripped my heart out. It took a very long time, but over the years I honestly believed my nightmare was behind me. I
thought that time had dulled my heart, like alcohol dulled the mind.
    The thing was I never told anyone that I still loved her. How could I? Not after what we had, not after what we went through. I guess I’d always be stupid that way.
    But life continued, oblivious to pain, oblivious to heartache. It simply lumbered on, despite our personal damage. Our love broke me to the point where I couldn’t deal with relationships,
not anymore, perhaps not ever.
    Eventually I came to terms with growing old by myself. It was more comfortable that way. Being numb and alone was safer, especially at the end of all things. Yet in my heart of hearts, all I
wanted was to lock away the memory of our last perfect day, fragile as the dawn, when youth and love seemed infinite.
    I opted to misremember everything else. Memory was never perfect anyway, and false memories were just as good as real ones, if you wished hard enough.
    I dried my face on my shirt of
piña
cloth, a luxurious
barong Tagalog
reserved for weddings. The telltale static of Nanotex fabric on wet skin told me it wasn’t a
real shirt. I put on the watch she’d left me and checked its digital signature. Every single thing I was wearing was pre-owned. They were her husband’s hand-me-down downloads.
    A message scrawled across the
calado
embroidery on my shirt cuffs, a helpful reminder of my indigent humiliation.
    Good evening
Mr. Salas
Mr. Salazar this shirt is best washed with Mr. Clean digital detergent. Removes vomit and all simulated organics.
     
    A detergent ad?
I