What is it they say? Great minds often have great problems with conformity.
Hector Ortiz (master cartographer)
I’M NOT ASHAMED to admit that Astor is—was—my good friend. I’ve known him since I was six years old.
We went to the same school. The only reason I could go there was because I had earned a scholarship.
If you’ve got any good friends, Inspector, then you would know that real friends will stand by you not just when you’re on top of the world, but more so when you’re ground beneath its heel.
I come from a humble family, and it’s no secret that we struggled to make ends meet. He was from one of the wealthiest families in Madrid, but he and I became good friends. It didn’t matter to him that I was poor.
No, I never felt he was ashamed of me, or that he pitied me for not being able to afford many of the things he could. It’s one of the things I admired most about him. He refused to let status dictate his circle of friends.
Yes, he would often pay for me when we would go out. And no, I didn’t think he was trying to buy my friendship or loyalty. He already earned that when we first became friends.
Misguided? Heretical? That may be true. He always had controversial views. I think of him as a visionary. It’s another one of the things I admired most about him.
I know how that sounds, but it doesn’t mean I followed him like some lap dog. For one thing, I never agreed with his methods. I was very disappointed when word reached me about his activities in the colonies. I am a loyal citizen of Hispancia. And yes, you can remain friends even if you don’t agree on everything. But this isn’t an inquiry into my views on friendship, is it?
I’m currently the head of the cartographic division of the Royal Expeditionary Directorate.
Yes, I do have access to detailed maps of the colonies, including the Hinirang islands. It’s part of my remit to disseminate the maps and our analysis to interested public and private institutions.
I’m sorry, but my memory fails me. I’m sure you understand that there are far too many requests that go through my office for copies of the maps. There’s no way for me to remember where every map goes. I can present you with the logbook of requests, if necessary.
Yes, I stand by my statement that I had lost contact with him soon after we graduated from Salamanca and he entered the Ordo Mechanica. If you’re implying anything—
I have absolutely no idea. I don’t know where he—I don’t know where his body could be.
No, I refuse to say more. If you insist, I’ll need to see my abogado de oficio.
Vizconde Domingo de Roja (patriarch of House Roja)
I WOULD LIKE to start by thanking you for inviting me. As a loyal and respected member of the court, the last thing our House needs is to have our position undermined by a wayward child.
I am aware of the situation. I was privy to the details of the Machacar incident. It pains me to hear about the terrible cost of that encounter.
Let me just add that House Roja has donated generously to the efforts of both the Church and Crown. It is our responsibility to bring the light of civilization to the barbarous islands of the Pacific colonies. We have also begun many programs that—
No, I have had no contact with him since he left Madrid. I can also tell you that he has made no attempt to contact any other member of the family.
Do you have any children? Well, then you are blessed. You don’t know the disappointment I have been dealing with. I refuse to accept any blame for his failings. He made his choices.
Money? Consider it a father’s folly. When I bequeathed his inheritance to him, I thought it would be a new beginning, a chance for him to make something of himself. I thought he would outgrow his foolish notions. Instead he chose to betray his country and squander the money I gave him by travelling to the outer colonies and causing no small amount of trouble.
Please do not give credence to lies perpetrated by those who seek to profit from my misfortune. I have publicly disowned him and denounced his activities. I cannot tell you how often our good name has been unfairly dragged into reports of the assistance he provided to insurgents in the colonies.
Yes, I know you are not the kind of man who listens to such things. I do understand that you are doing your part to end this.
His body? Well, if you ever find it, you can keep it.
You have my gratitude as well, Inspector. I would prefer for this to be dealt with as swiftly and quietly as possible. I would consider your discretion a personal favor—one that I will repay in kind, when the time comes. House Roja takes care of its friends.
Ysabel Rubia (Automatician of the Ordo Mechanica)
WE WERE BOTH initiates of the Ordo Mechanica in 1801. De Roja and I finished at the top of our class.
Reports of our rivalry are slightly exaggerated. It was more along the lines of driving each other to excel. Our field is fiercely competitive. Much like advancement in many other respected professions, I imagine.
Romantic involvement? De Roja and I couldn’t stand each other! Outside of our work, we had nothing in common. He was far too idealistic, and naive. Maybe that would have changed if we had shared a bed, but since that never happened—
Yes, we were assigned to the Prima Automata program. We continued our friendly rivalry in the year or so that he was with us. I was the head of the research division that explored increased thermal efficiency for the steam engines, and metallurgical improvements for clockwork mechanisms.
I think he made a mistake when he chose to explore the use of phlogiston and the potential for organic materials in the construction of automata.
Why do I think it was a mistake? Let me put it simply so that you can grasp the ideas behind it. I mean no offense, of course, but the technicalities would no doubt bore you to tears.
Springs and gears, pinions and bearings that must run at a constant speed, all perfectly balanced—these are the things we must deal with for our automata to function. The delicate apparatus of our war machines need strong, durable materials both within and without.
The hairspring assembly, for one, is usually made from the finest brass filaments. The reason we use brass is because it is a substitutional alloy—one which combines the properties of copper and zinc to give it a low friction rating. This makes it ideal for maximizing the efficiency of our clockwork mechanisms.
De Roja planned to substitute organic materials, primarily wood, to replace the traditional metals and alloys we use. On top of that, he was fascinated by the use of phlogiston as a power source and as a weapon. The notion of using combustible materials along with the volatility of phlogiston would be considered insane at best. He did make some progress with his research, but his files all went missing when he left. As far as I was concerned, he wasted his time and our resources with his foolishness.
You can imagine my surprise when I was presented with a copy of the Machacar incident.
Gaspar de la Cuesta (master artificer, War Machine Machacar)
NO, WE WEREN’T scheduled to be on the field, but our airship was the one designated to that sector so we responded to the reports of insurgent activity. The Fuego is a war dirigible, so we were fully equipped to handle any threat posed by the indios.
Yes, of course I inspected the Machacar before it was loaded onto the Fuego. We had just finished our routine maintenance check before we departed from the airbase in Guadalajara. I have the logs if you want to review—
No, it had never been in combat before. But it underwent the standard battlefield testing and was declared fit for service. It’s the standard Taurus-class war machine that’s been in service since 1812. As part of the Fuego’s ground support complement, it’s more than capable of eliminating conventional troops as well as other combat automata.
What? Of course I’m upset! I don’t like what you’re implying, and yes, I take it personally. The Machacar was one of the best war machines I’ve ever handled. And if you knew anything about the relationship between a war machine
and its designated artificer, then you wouldn’t be surprised by my reaction.
We reached the drop zone just before dusk. Machacar led the way, while the rest of our soldiers followed close behind. I monitored their progress through the optics systems of the war machine. After making some adjustments to the magnification of the Oculus, it immediately registered two things. One—the insurgents were led by none other than Alastor de Roja, a known indio sympathizer we had been hunting for some time. The second, was—well—I can only describe it as an odd clockwork avian, a much smaller automata than the Machacar. Smaller and faster, giving it a decisive advantage in the combat that followed.
Odd? Because it was made entirely of polished wood, carved with a precision I’d never encountered before. As it flew closer, I saw a series of coiled vines which I surmised acted as a mainspring. It had layers of leaves for wings, allowing it to glide through the air. It was nothing like the lumbering juggernauts that our automata are in the battlefield. Because of that, I misjudged the threat it posed.
I directed the Machacar to attack the massed natives. They scattered, so I was able to unleash a fusillade from the rear mounted cannon. I think that was the shot that killed Alastor de Roja.
No, I can’t be sure. Our ground troops opened fire as well.
Our initial bombardment was a qualified success. The indios were in disarray, and our troops were able to capture several of them who were trying to reach Roja’s body. Then, the wooden bird swooped down, evaded our countermeasures, and unleashed what I later learned was a new form of phlogiston bomb. It was not an incendiary device, but something that had a volatile, corrosive reaction with both the outer and inner alloys of the Machacar. With one stroke, it reduced one of our finest war machines into a useless lump of rusted metal.
Surprised? That would be an understatement. It took me a few moments to recover from the loss. By then, most of the natives had retreated. Our men managed to drag the prisoners, along with Roja’s body, aboard the Fuego. The Machacar was totally immobilized, so it had to be left behind. It was later recovered by another war dirigible. The Dominador, if I’m not mistaken.
Of course I have. I filed a detailed report with the Ordo Mechanica as soon as we returned to base. I’ve also made my recommendations on the necessary metallurgical improvements that would prevent this disaster from happening again.
Let me tell you, Inspector, the next time those barbarians try something like that again—the outcome will be very different.
Padre Martin de Joya (chief administrator, outer Pacific colonies)
NO NEED FOR formalities, my friend. We are here to celebrate the removal of a thorn that has plagued us for too long.
Thank you. I applaud the thoroughness of your investigation. As you know, I was there when the Fuego landed and I was among the first to receive a full accounting of their confrontation with the insurgents, as well as the death of Alastor de Roja.
I do not know how the body disappeared. I personally saw to it that it was shipped off to Hispancia the very next day. He may have been guilty of many crimes against the Church and Crown, but he was still the scion of a prominent and respected family in Madrid.
No, I am not one to indulge in political games. I fulfilled my duty and assigned Padre Gaudencio and Padre Velazquez to accompany the body back to Hispancia. I followed protocol to the letter. When the body was reported missing, they were immediately cloistered pending the results of our investigation.
I understand that you have to ask me, though I admit to being astonished that you would insinuate that there is—
Yes, I know that this is a highly irregular incident. Bodies do not just disappear into thin air. But what does it matter? The man is dead. I was there when the representative of the Ordo Medica examined the corpse. I stared at Alastor de Roja’s cold, dead, face.
Perhaps it was the work of sympathizers, or, unlikely as it sounds, one of the natives may have managed to board the dirigible and take the body. I am certain there is a perfectly rational explanation. Our investigation is not yet complete. You can call for Padre Gaudencio, or Padre Velasquez, if you wish.
Certainly not, I refuse to entertain superstitious nonsense. Alastor de Roja was just an ordinary man. If you wish to explore the opinion of heathens and charlatans, you can knock on the doors of the Ordo Arcanum.
I do not mean to make your work more difficult, but I really do not think—
Yes, we transported the indio prisoners here for further questioning. There was a woman among them, one of their leaders—or at least someone of authority. I can tell you now that she is a follower of their pagan religion. They worship something they call Lama—no—what was it?
They call it Lumawig.
Amihan (captive insurgent leader, Katao native) [translated text]
HE IS A good man. He cared about us. He respected our way of life. He worked with us and showed us that there are those of you who understand that we are all children of Lumawig.
Why should I answer your questions? You can try to force your false god on us, but the anito will defy you, and show you what true power is. True power is not in your machines, it is in the spirit of my people, the spirit of our land.
You think you have killed him? Where is his body? You will never understand, because he is not dead. He is beyond your reach for he is now one with Lumawig. Though he was born on your land, he has seen the injustice of your ways.
The Adarna was just the beginning. Send more of your machines and we will destroy them. We will use what he taught us to defeat you and drive you from the land of our ancestors.
You can kill me now, but that will not change things. One day soon, Hinirang will be free.
Nikki Alfar
TG2416 from Mars
Nikki Alfar has fought fire seven thousand feet in midair and killed a snake with a flip-flop. Confoundingly, she’s found it much harder to earn a few Don Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards for Literature, a couple of Bewildering Stories Mariner Awards, a Manila Critics’ Circle National Book Award, and selection as one of twelve ‘Filipina writers of note’ by the Ateneo Library of Women’s Writings. Nevertheless, she perseveres, somehow getting fiction published nationally and internationally (There’s an updated bibliography on her Facebook timeline), including her short story collection, Now, Then, and Elsewhen (UST Publishing).
AMI IS HAPPILY arranging newspapers when the whole ownership drama begins.
As purser, she knows she should really put a stop to it right away—well before Lin and Marisol’s currently-furtive bickering gets loud enough to bother the flight crew—but she’s enjoying her task and, besides, continues to entertain the wavering but still somewhat optimistic hope that, one day, at least some of her colleagues will arrive at the realization that they are grown women.
She is, after all, heading up the cabin crew on a commercial flight from Mars, so it is far from unreasonable to say that stranger things have happened in the history of the world—worlds—possibly not less plausible things, but certainly stranger ones.
Besides—she rationalizes to herself—the newspapers are important: just the kind of old-fashioned touch pax love, even though it’s exactly that authenticity that has kept newspapers and all other PromptPrint items off of commercial flights for the entire four years since the interplanetary runs began; the digipaper is so genuine in texture that there was concern over transmission of potentially hazardous microbes between planets.
But in the first place, scientists have decided that the majority of microbes are more helpful than harmful—it turns out that the human body is neither so much ‘human’ nor ‘body’ as it is a host of cells, ninety percent of which are bacterial, fungal, or otherwise nonhuman.
This is a finding that horrified Ami when she initially read it—in, yes, a newspaper, the PDI, the last time she was back home—and she was still more horrified when she related this tidbit to Cara and Enrique on her next flight out, only to then spend the entire trip trying in vain to explain what a mi
crobe is, to people who didn’t actually give a toss.
Not for the first time, Ami reflects that she really ought to look into a career change, except that this is an entirely whimsical, indulgent train of thought, when she has parents, siblings, nieces, nephews, and an apparently unending mortgage to support.
In the second place, anyway, the successful deployment of the new nanoscanners has effectively lifted the moratorium on PromptPrint, which is why Ami is pleased to be serving aboard one of the very first flights finally offering newspapers to TransGalactic passengers, which makes a welcome change that she relishes in the otherwise unvarying routine of inflight service, which is why she really ought to go and shut Marisol and Lin down, before they take all the fun out of being able to offer something new.
It’s not as if fixing newspapers actually takes any time at all; there’s a trick to it—she’s heard this works just as well on traditional paper as on digital—you simply stack them in a neat pile and administer a sort of karate chop in the center to make them all fold, after which you can fan them out neatly, quickly, and professionally on a glidetray.
She does this one more time, just to be sure—admittedly, really, just to savor one more quiet moment to herself prior to showtime—before re-fluffing the scarf that discreetly hides the Orlan safety collar around her throat, and heading off to manage the infants that she has to work with.
THERE’S AN ART to telling off self-centered young women who know for a fact that they are pretty because, after all, it was one of their primary job qualifications—you have to be able to do it with, simultaneously, a warm smile and the type of unquestionable authority normally attributed to heads of state.
Otherwise, like anyone else who happens to annoy them while being unfortunate enough to share the same oxygenated cabin with them, it’s diarrhea-inducing eye drops in your drink, ‘accidental’ bumps and thumps against your seat when you’re trying to sleep, or soy sauce in your shoes, should you be foolish enough to take them off and leave them lying around where sly, photon-manicured little hands can get at them.
Philippine Speculative Fiction Page 20