Philippine Speculative Fiction Read Online Free Page B

noted with surprise. I hadn’t seen real soap in decades. I decided it was probably a
skeuomorph
, a digital anachronism designed to make people more
comfortable being digitized.
    What the hell is this place?
I wondered.
    After a while, I staggered out of the toilet. Night had fallen and I looked around the deserted alley, wondering where I was supposed to go. A bicycle had been propped on a wall just in front of
the lavatory entrance. As soon as I stepped towards it, the bike began to flash its lights, illuminating layers of advertising graffiti with a frail white fluorescence. The lights kept blinking
until I put my hand on its bamboo handlebars. A message popped on its digital odometer.
    Thank you for choosing a Shimano Intelligent Bicycle
Mr. Salas
Mr. Salazar. The seat has been automatically adjusted to your height.
     Your route has already been pre-selected. Please climb aboard and simply pedal.
     
    I heaved myself up to the gel-padded saddle and kicked off. The bike guided me through the dark and narrow alleys that snaked through the labyrinth of tenements. Everything in New Tundon lay in
the shadow of its sole skyscraper, the neon-lit Torre Paraiso.
    I passed through the slums like a ghost. Through the yawning windows I saw people leading seemingly normal lives—playing mah-jongg or the card game
pusoy dos
, eating dinner or
simply gathered around their living rooms, plugged to a legion of electronic devices. This was a town of old people, permanently idled; permanently trapped in the amber of unstructured time. Not a
single child was in sight.
    Somehow everyone seemed happy, or at least, content. I wondered how many of them were actual,
real
people, not background sims or in-memoriam programs. If they were human, I wondered if
this was their idea of heaven.
    The bicycle took me away from the maze of small streets to a wide, tree-lined boulevard bustling with shops and post-modern apartments. My ride stopped in front of a garishly-lit clothing store
called The Way We Wear. There, an oddly-dressed man waited for me expectantly.
    “Welcome to New Tundon, Mr. Salazar,” he said softly. The old man was wearing a circus ringmaster’s outfit. On his head was an elegant topper with large aviators that hung
carelessly from its brim. A strange metal watch, encrusted with many dials, covered his left arm like an armature of eczema. I imagined it could keep time for the entire multiverse.
    “I have been asked to dress you and guide you to Paraiso.”
    “This looks like an expensive place.” I replied, as I stepped in to view his merchandise. The store smelled of spikenard, incense and myrrh, the stink of gods and rich people.
“I’m not sure I have enough credits.”
    “Don’t worry about that, Mr. Salazar,” he reassured me. “Your re-skinning has already been paid for.”
    Inside the store I realized that there were no actual clothes, just an infinite library of paintings, photos and video screens displaying clothing styles from every time period and from all over
the world.
    “Now then,” he announced theatrically, “This is a place where heart and mind are one.
Paraiso
checks for broken souls and will frown on your second-hand clothes. I
will use your Nanotex canvas to craft a new outfit that will map the man you used to be. I will cut it from the cloth of your pain, that buried fabric spun from the love you’ve lost, and sew
it with the dark threads of your doomed consummations. Finally, I shall embellish it with the future fruit of your final, bittersweet meeting. Does that sound about right to you? After all, our
clothes are guideposts to our feelings. Now your outside will match what is inside. How are you feeling now Mr. Salazar?”
    “I don’t know,” I answered. A swarm of 3D printers, buzzing like paper wasps, stripped me down to my bare Nanotex frame. There was absolutely nothing underneath.
    “You are dressing me with emotions that I have spent a lifetime forgetting.”
    “Ah,