Diaspora Ad Astra (8 page)

“Maybe it’s because not everyone can afford this… good that you do. We can barely afford it.”

“Things that are worth it come with a price.” Mateo glanced shrewdly at David. “Wasn’t saving your wife worth it?”

David looked ahead and did not reply.

“Let me tell you a secret. A few years back, I couldn’t afford Bio Regain’s service, either. And that’s when I had my own business. Now, I’ve
saved up enough for my Resurrection. Even for my wife’s Resurrection. Well. Maybe not hers.” The Overtaker chuckled softly. “Now, I don’t have to worry about dying. Or
retiring.”

Mateo was right. He could now peddle Bio Regain’s miracle forever.

“I’m looking for more people, Mr. Lazaro. For my team. Maybe you’d be interested to join us. You can even keep your regular job and work with us part-time.
The commissions you’ll earn, combined with employee privileges, will take care of your wife’s LXR maintenance. And eventually, yours.”

“Why me?” David was genuinely amazed.

“Because you have a personal stake in all this. That’s the kind of commitment, the kind of passion I’m looking for. You can even ask your wife to join our
sales team. Being a Resurrectee, she’d be living proof to potential customers! Think about it Mr. Lazaro.”

Mateo dropped David off at the Buendia Station, and said that he would have driven him home if only he didn’t have a meeting in Alabang.

“Call me when you’ve made up your mind. By the way, I have new contact numbers.” Mateo handed David a data card.

Peter R. Mateo
District Manager for Sales
Megapolis Manila District.

“I got bumped up after a certain senator had a fatal cardiac arrest.”

David was certain that even without the holovision, he still would have heard about that kind of news. “There were no reports about a dead senator.”

“Exactly.” Mateo winked. “I’ll be expecting your call, Mr. Lazaro.”

Mateo’s words echoed in David’s thoughts as he made his way up the station, the case of LXR in one hand and the bloodied handkerchief in another. It was a tempting
offer. However, some clients would be just like Shelley and himself. They too would be hapless souls in Bio Regain’s vicious cycle of Debt and Resurrection.

Could he actually put other human beings through this?

On the other hand, could he afford not to? The Credits he’ll earn would certainly solve his problems. People would die. And when they did, Mateo and his sort would
certainly profit from it. Why shouldn’t he?

And besides, David told himself, he’d be providing a unique service. Wouldn’t anyone be glad to have a second chance? His old man would have welcomed it.

On the train home, David smiled.

The house was quiet when David walked in. He figured that Shelley and Sparky were in the garden. Though the naughty dog had made a mess in the dining room.

David shook his head at the streak of urine on the floor. He remembered that peeing indoors could be a dog’s attempt to draw attention. He decided to take Sparky out for
a walk after lunch.

He headed for the refrigerator, and placed the LXR in it while keeping the handkerchief on his brow. “Honey?”

David checked the handkerchief. The crimson stain had almost soaked through the white fabric. He realized how much trouble he had gone through for LXR. It was almost funny.
He’d chuckle at the thought if only his brow didn’t sting that much.

LXR.

The little wonder made up of… what did Doctor Victorino say again?

Proteins, oxygen, vitamins and minerals, glucose, and electrolytes in a saline solution,
David heard the good Doctor say in his head.

He looked back at the handkerchief.

These are all naturally present in the human body.

Refined and enhanced.

He remembered what Bio Regain’s most successful product was before they could resurrect the dead.

Synthetic blood.

It tastes like rust.

“Oh God,” he whispered.

“I’m sorry Honey,” Shelley spoke in a strange, choked voice.

David turned slowly.

Shelley stood by the dinner table. Her mouth, chin and nightgown were stained and spattered red. In her bloodied hands, she gripped a furry white thing.

It took a moment before David realized he was looking at Sparky’s limp, headless carcass.

“I got really hungry.”

By Isabel Yap

i.

The recording session done, Carmina found herself seated in a swiveling chair in front of a mirror with too many lights, while someone powdered her face and Carlie came by with
a long list of things to do. “Don’t forget how we rehearsed the interview.” Carlie glanced at a palette of eye shadow the make-up artist was showing her, and nodded briskly.
“Your dad used to be a drunkard, right? He died in a midnight traffic accident?”

“No,” Carmina answered. “He got hit by a sugarcane truck.”

“Oh! Oh yeah. Silly me.” Carlie smiled in her distinct
whatever
way. “Right. What’s the Filipino word for sugarcane?”

“
Tuba
, but Miss Carlie, I—” Carmina found her voice softening, as she shut her eyes to let the make-up artist brush shadow over it. “Um, I
don’t really want to talk about it. I don’t think my mom would want me to, either.”

“Of
course
not, dear. Hold on a moment.” Carlie gestured impatiently at an assistant who was standing idly by the door. “God, I really hate working
with someone else’s crew. How hard is it to find a blow dryer? Sorry—look, you don’t need to. Only if they ask you about it, okay?”

Carmina made a noncommittal sound.

“More importantly, you have to be ready to close the show. They’ll
love
the new song!” She sings the first line of the chorus with an exaggerated,
gaping mouth. Carmina smiles politely. “Did you practice with the synthesizers?”

Carmina hesitated. “Yes, but—Miss Carlie, I was thinking, um. I can sing all the notes. You don’t have to use the media techs.”

Carlie laughed. “Don’t worry, honey, we’ve got the best engineers. They won’t screw up. It’s national television, after all.” She squeezed
Carmina’s shoulder excitedly. “You’re a
star
now! Isn’t this incredible?”

“Well, I know, but—I think my voice sounds a little weird layered over with synth.” Carmina found that her hand was curling into a fist. “I can hit the
notes on my own.
Really
.”

“I’m sure you can, Carmina, but you don’t have to.” Carlie was scribbling on her clipboard again. She sounded annoyed—or bored. “I’ve
told you before, the producers don’t even want you to. It’s not the current
sound.
” She tapped her pen against her chin. “Anyway, it doesn’t really matter.
You can sing it however you want to. The technicians will make it good no matter what.” She looked up, winked at Carmina’s reflection in the mirror, and walked away. Carmina remained in
her seat, allowing the make-up artist to paint over her eyes, ignoring the whir of a blow-dryer next to her ear.

She wasn’t going to complain about this. They’d gone over it too many times already. And maybe Mama wouldn’t really care, now that she had a condominium in
Serendra and an ad campaign extolling the virtues of flab-removing lasers. She had stayed in Manila for that. “You’ll be fine,
anak,
” she cooed on the phone last night.
Maybe that was true. Maybe Carmina could sing badly, and no one would know the difference. She was fifteen, wide-eyed, and could be the next Whitney/Celine, according to the LA Times
and
the chatty hosts of Star Talk. That was supposed to be enough. She wasn’t going to start tearing up—if her make-up smeared she’d have to sit here even longer. Instead, she started
to sing, under her breath, quiet so that nobody else could hear. Not that anybody would listen. It was too much trouble.

ii.

It was too much trouble for Jennifer to follow the rapid chatter of the boy beside her. He went
on
and
on
and just wouldn’t stop. Sandy blonde hair,
blue eyes, skin white except for the spray of freckles across his nose. If the girls back home saw her
alaga
now, they would exclaim, “
Ang gwapo-gwapo!
” Give him a few
years and he’d be so hot, he could go to the Philippines and become a star right away: Bench modelling stints, blockbuster films, three girls to switch love teams with. Right now, though, he
was just a six-year-old that she was having trouble feeding lunch to. That was a problem. His mother had said, grave and commanding, that he
had
to finish his whole lunch.
Had
to.
Or else he would have tummy problems. “Buh-bye, baby,” she had added to Jeremy, wagging her fingers at him before she departed. Jennifer found herself wondering if his mother
couldn’t have spared time to have lunch with him herself—or hug him goodbye, at least. Then again, she never really understood foreigners.

“Jeremy,” she said, for the nth time in the past half-hour, “Eat your food.”

“So then the mountain exploded BOOM and the soldiers were like doosh doosh rat-tat-tat and the car was like eeyoh eeyoh eeyooh!” He waved his hands in the air.
“And then they all went DOOOOSH and they were all dead. Bleh.” He closed his eyes, stuck his tongue out, and let his hands go limp in the air.

“Is that how it ended?” she asked, twirling the pasta around his fork purposefully. This food seemed genuine, not like medicine at all. It squelched like actual
noodles and had an innocent, cheesy-tomato smell. Maybe it was steroids, not medicine. Those weren’t safe to feed kids, and Jeremy seemed perfectly healthy. But how could she tell Madam? The
agency would be upset if
too opinionated
showed up in her record.

Jeremy remained fake-dead for a few moments, then dropped his hands and opened his eyes. “Yeah that’s how it ended,” he said. “You wanna know the next
episode?”

He was referring to his latest TV show marathon, which he had completed in their room the previous night, wearing the 3D headgear and multisensory gloves. Jenny had stayed on
the couch, reading her email, looking up whenever he cartwheeled and landed with a louder-than-usual thud. Why he had a room separate from his parents, she wasn’t sure – he was only
six, after all. The suspicious noises from across the connecting door were a minefield for theories, but she didn’t really want to think about it. And she didn’t have any right to
complain—
they
were the ones missing Jupiter’s big red, the rainbow lights of Saturn’s rings, the eerie, flashing stars. It was a good thing she never got motion sickness.
This orbital hotel could get seriously swishy at times.

She made another effort, and said in a solemn voice, “If you don’t eat your food, the
mumu
will come and punish you.”

“Moo moo?” His eyes rounded with interest. Jeremy was
such
a cutie pie, though he could sometimes be a handful. His parents needed to spend more
time
with him. “Is that a cow monster?”

She smiled. “Eat,” she repeated, “And I’ll tell you.”

iii.

“I tell you, this heat, it’s going to kill me.” Nora was in the middle of her rosary, but she couldn’t help saying it. The wind that brushed her face
after the last Hail Mary felt like a blast from a broken stovetop. She fingered the next bead, then gave up. She turned to her grandson who was squatting on the floor, playing with marbles. He was
staring at her with a little grin on his face, probably because he had never before heard his lola use the word
kill
.

“Mico,
hijo
, please go to the sari-sari store and buy me some fresh air. The kind in a plastic bottle with a straw.”

Mico held out his palm expectantly.

She sighed and felt around in the pocket of her blouse. Why was this summer so horrible? If she kept on treating herself to fresh air every day she’d be broke by the end
of the month, and there was still awful, humid May to go. But Mico would want a little compensation for his services. She pressed a few crumpled bills and coins into his hand, and told him he could
buy himself some ice cream. Or candy. Whatever. He nodded and gleefully shot out the door. Comforted by the idea of the soothing breaths she would soon take, Nora continued her rosary.

She did it every afternoon, all four mysteries, as an act of pious generosity. She was praying not only for her old, aching lungs, but for the whole city – everyone
suffocating under the sun. For the little girls she’d seen choking, clutching their mothers’ hands while they peddled shriveled flowers on the street. For their babies with their
makeshift, plastic-cup gas masks. For the smell of burnt skin that permeated the market place.
Susmaryosep,
if Manila wasn’t hell on earth, it was certainly purgatory.

She was already on
The Carrying of the Cross
when the door burst open. She craned her head in relief, but it wasn’t Mico at the door. It was his father.

“Welcome home, Michael,” she said dutifully.

“Hi, Ma.” He looked at the scattered marbles on the floor. “Where’s Mico?”

“Buying me some fresh air.” She let out a pitiful wheeze. “I simply can’t
breathe
in this heat. I needed it.”

“I
told
you, Ma, that whole fresh air thing is fake.” Really, Michael got annoyed too easily. She worried about his blood pressure – his father had
the same sickness, after all. “You should stop buying it. You’re encouraging those cheats.” He crossed the room to stand next to her, eyeing her rosary warily. Michael went home
so early in the afternoons these days. When was the last time he had held a proper job? Was the job market so awful, or was he just lazy, doing light work while Mico’s mother paid for
everything with her teaching job abroad? He wasn’t being a man, and he knew it. Without Maria to push around, Michael got so irritable. He criticized every little thing Nora did.

“If you keep on making Mico buy those things for you, he’ll believe it too!”

She refused to be lectured to. “Well, get some airconditioning then!”