the literary life magazine The Sunday Times


October 3, 2010


BY ARBEEN ACUNA


Dennis Aguinaldo, who teaches creative writing in University of the Philippine (UP) Los Baños, says that Arbeen Acuna’s “The Ouracle” offers two sketches of a dystopic future where the state—through pervasive information control and micro- scopic surveillance—has successfully reclassified “the activist” and other opposi- tion to the category of folklore. – Lit Ed


i. The Rendezvous Yup, I followed the subject all the way from


the town of Lost Banes to the metropolitan outskirts of Keiapho City as instructed, I whispered. I heard neither an affirmation of approval nor a grunt of disappointment. I waited for a while. Deliberately ignored the itch on my skin. Tried to appreciate the skies in greyscale, and I didn’t succeed. I received no response or whatsoever from her. Something’s wrong and I am very right about my carelessness, I thought. I groped my coat for the nanophone, which she archaically called “micromic.” It was not there. Perhaps out of the accumulated anxiety, I offhandedly sought the air for a chord—but later realized that the nanoph, my nanoph, was an experimental proto- type of grayfang wireless technology. I must have dropped it somewhere. Good thing the place is urbanized—and the ground is bolstered with heavy metal. Had I lost it at the campus it would have


been difficult to retrieve because of coppergrasstrand-carpeted turf of the University, I supposed. I found the troublesome “micromic” a centimeter away from the heel of my foot which was clad with plastic-leather—the fabric of my coat and everything I wore for the sake of this operation, in the fashion of a famous nursery prose called “The Emperor’s New Clothes.” I sighed upon noticing this desperate fact and stepped back. Something produced the tap, tap, tap, I thought as I heard it. I ignored the sound and bent over to pick my only communi- cation link to her, to Doctor Bleckes. And I saw something like a horse shoe seemingly landing towards my face. The hoof landed an inch near the microphone. The creature towered over me as it passed by. I was frozen like a cold blank stare fearing that it could have felt my pres- ence. It ostensibly glanced over its shoulders. I resumed after it carried on and rushed to call her right away. Doc, I think, something saw me doing something, I told him.


What does it look like, she asked me. How can you be so sure it saw you? What does it look like?


The Ouracle It is quite appalling, it is something of a


crossbreed of something, I answered while I kept haste of mindlessly tracking the subject down among the crowd. A hybrid? Oh, a Telemus? Don’t worry, she told me. There are a lot of Telemi there. The pagan, have you kept track of him, she asked me. You did, yes? I’ve never seen one in my entire life! Why didn’t you— Cut that out, dear. You had them, you had the files you need. Move on. On our business: Crap, I shut up. And you report?


Yup, I followed subject all the way from the town of Lost Banes to the metropolitan Keiapho City, I repeated. I am now in the, still in the process, of um . . . monitoring him. Contact me again once you saw Pope


Latin, she ordered. My sources told me that he would see Pope Latin. Once you saw him, contact me quick, alright? You have the pictures and the data files anyway. You could never mistake someone for being somebody, since you have their pictures and their lives. Okay? Aye aye Doc, I replied. Clutched my


leather-clad fist in contempt. Need I remember the reason why I am doing this, I asked myself as I scan through the faces of the people I do not know. Speculating whether they had any encounter with creatures deemed as non- existent by the revolutionary government I serve. I did the judgmental scanning half- consciously as I chase the subject, in utter physical secrecy.


My conviction was neither for my self nor for her, never for anyone but our nationalistic leader, I remembered. We had this peaceful revolution called an election, way before the worlds almost came to an end. But we did survive without any bloodshed, save for the blood of rebel sects. And to prevent further bloodshed, I remembered how I went underground as I descend into the city’s underpass. This pursuit for the target continued as I continue serving the people by saving them from evil groups of persona non grata. All these troubles, plus


they would plot the fall of the enlightened government pursuing the path that leads straight to change.


Change. Something they would not


a nagging old hag for a boss. A boss I loved not in the romantic sense. A boss I loved because of her love for the country. Like her, I am also doing this for my country and countrymen, I kept thinking as I did my job.


It just happened that I am under the people under the people our leader the president trusts, I deeply thought as I focus on feeling like I was getting nowhere along the wild baphogoose chase and on the doubt that the data files and pictures might either be plain wrong or intention- ally deceiving.


The infidels must be eliminated, I further took into account as if swearing to whoever I thought I heard in my head. I kept on wondering whether these people dwelling under these enlarged metal pipes of underpasses are with them, in their fanatical underground, and they function as their “town’s people,” as if in a theatrical play, to protect the protectors who claim their protection. Can’t these impoverished godforsaken people dig that the dissidents are nothing but religious fanatics who would cause another revolution, I wondered. I ascended and left the downtrodden tunnel of an underpass that reeks of rust and despair, and tastes of tapped polluted water that streaks a heartfelt slit along the throat. It was a good thing that I only spoke speculations in my thoughts, I noticed upon my exit from a hell where oxidized iron coexists with people suffering from corroded minds—since I have committed blasphemy against Science and Logic. I mentioned “god” and “hell,” even of they were just figures of speech. But some higher-ups up our ladder use those words during extreme situations. Situations such as these dark days where rebels organize a sick, regressive revolution. Situations such as these dark alleys where we would exhume the dark forces behind the curtains of an outdated insurgency. An insurrection that might push progress further back is what they are pursuing, I convinced my self as the target enters the alley. He looks left, and then right as if foolishly signalling elite surveillance units such as my self that he was right there at the rendezvous point. The place where


really like, something they would never ever celebrate, I confirmed. I also con- firmed the target’s patron as I move nearer. Like a voyeur, I peeped through the doorway using my nanoscope. I compared the apparent patron with the one engraved on my photolithograph touch screen tablet. Hooded visage, check. Black tunic, check. But nothing was wrapped around the waist, so I supposed he was just another unimportant under- ling. From where I stood I saw him shook hands with the subject. He looked over his shoulder, turned the other way and, I could ascertain that he is nodding to someone inside another room. I ought to refocus my nanoscope, I told my self. I did so, but all the vision it could perceive for me are blurry images of the cloaked thing, the plainly cloaked thing, whispering something—probably the arrival of the target, to another cloaked entity that I suspect must be the patron. I slipped my hand inside a sidepocket. Groped and got the Box of Eyes. Opened it. Took the microbox set from the Box of Eyes, and placed the nanoscope to refill the vacancy. Now, how does this ‘Rightwing Gnat Set’


work, I read with my eyes. Much might be going on in there, so I hurriedly opened the ironclad box. Dipterous nanomachines swarmed towards my face and left a mircobinocular in the box. They remained anarchic until I wore the microbies like eyeglasses. And I could then see what they see.


It has a limit of 15 metres only, and


remember that the contraption is still under further development, so do “gnat” use it if not necessary, if you would not conduct surveillance on somebody beyond 10 meters, she told me in my mind as I remember her silly sermons. I should still be careful, however. She said that these nanomachines automatically lock them- selves to metals when their batteries are losing power. They charge their batteries with available metals and in effect oxidizing the metal they cling on—making their utilization very limited, depending on the availability of metal. How does this work, I inquired. But, of course, I had the query answered to no avail. It took me around 10 minutes to get used to the gadget. I just hoped I didn’t miss anything significant. Where did the other guy go, I asked my self as the RGnats positioned themselves


b


in the Pope’s conference room after I assigned coordinates. I then noticed that the master and apprentice were talking and all I had was an optical aide. I could hardly tell what they were talking about. But then, I am quite sure he is the Pope Latin—one of the criminals charged with blasphemy to Science and Logic—with that hooded visage that conceals a twisted grin of sharp teeth and the jet-black tunic that seems as dark as his heart. I tried to make sure by comparing him again to his cyberportrait. Neopagan Tboolean iconographies that glimmers like constellations on the cloak, check. Grand neopagan Tnalak fabric that lines and designs the Ancoult belt. Sheathed Cabaxxo dagger hanging from the Hellot metal belt. Even the copper accessories, they were all there: multiple Nomonic dangling earrings, Hegelef necklaces, Kalai bracelets, Sinlic anklets and Psying rings. Is it me, or they really aren’t moving and they are waiting for whatever they are waiting for, I speculated. The Dark Pope’s vivid existence, which was then artifi- cially before my goggled eyes, disturbed me for quite a moment. His dark awful presence decreased me to an unholy awed ponogophran that wanted to further isolate itself deep beneath the pits of the oceans of the dark shadows that hid me then. I snapped out of the paralysis spell when their cups of something that smells like radiated cappuccino was served by another black robed nobody. They talked, I panicked. Now, where is it, I thought. I searched for my portable tablet and transcribed what I could make out of the way they opened their mouths and how their lips moved. And here is my account of their conversation, with my very own comments in parenthetical remarks:


—Bloody hell, what took this so long?


(So that is how the nationalistic and pro- people High Liddum acts?) —Apologies, our Greatest of all Liddums of the Mayari. (Underling!) —What is this? And why have you summoned me, Mr. Bum Ignacio? (Noted.) —Don’t call me that! The authorities of this world might hear and identify me! That, by the way is the specialty of the House. The famous Cremated Ash Espresso of your late father. (That is sick!) —I mean, what is this meeting, getting-


to-know, whatever, all about? Please tell me more about the recent death of my father, Mr. Ignacio! I beg you! (What a tough looking queer!)


To be continued


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