Metro Manila: 2035

‘Rebuilding Manila’ by Charles Tan

MANILA, Philippines - Jansen knew his cousin Byron was serious: he was wearing his trademark polo and black-striped Mickey Mouse tie.

“I’ve come up with our slogan: ‘With great power, comes great responsibility,’” said Byron.

“Ang corny mo,” replied Jansen.  “If Meralco said that, no one would believe them.”

“But we’re not Meralco, we’re the Go Foundation, the company that rebuilt Manila after the 200-year quake of 2030.”

“We’re only halfway there. And the people still don’t trust us just because we’re Filipino-Chinese, just like they don’t trust the Sys, the Gokongweis, the Tans.”

“That’s why we have to earn their trust, one step at a time. This is the culmination of our various projects: building a new Manila on top of the old, devastated one; drawing tourists by cultivating Manila as a premier birding site; funding the electric-powered pedicabs for mass-transportation…”

“But we’re not yet done with those. The reconstruction is stalling due to permit requirements and red tape; birding as a hobby is still the subject of comedy bar jokes; and the oil companies are starting to fight back with legislation.”

“The first two will eventually solve themselves. As for the last one, it’s why our meeting at New Malacañang is going to be important.”

“I’m still not sure the President is sold on establishing a urine power plant at Port Area.”

“The technology has been proven in Brazil, Nigeria, the UK. Besides, we’re killing two birds with one stone: we not only solve the power crisis, but we’ll actually pay people for their ihi. And there are a lot of people in Manila.”

“Electricity for the people, by the people.”

“That might be a better slogan.”

“But what if it fails?”

“Then we try again, and again, and again.”

“Because there’s profit to be made?”

“Because we need this. We need reliable, sustainable energy if we want the country to develop and survive. I’m tired of hearing news about people dying due to floods, typhoons, and AIDS; I’m tired of hearing news about Filipinos still having to go abroad for jobs.”

“It’s your dream, isn’t it? To create an arcology — a self-sustaining city contained in one building.”

“I’ll call it Noah’s Arc. The construction will create jobs. Typhoons and flooding won’t be an issue. We can even call it the largest mall in the world. But we need a stable power supply. And it starts here, in Manila.”

“You’re an optimist.”

“Filipinos are among the top 20 happiest people on the planet. I want to give them a reason to be.”

“Good luck with your meeting. But let’s not use the Spider-Man quote as our slogan.”

“You’re right. That’s very colonialist. How about People Power?”

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Tweet the author @charlesatan.

‘The Bay Wall’ by Vince Torres

From the bobbing fanboat, Jessie took a last look at the apartment where he had raised his family for the past 12 years, and wondered if he should have bothered closing the gate.

The boat’s pilot spat into the water. “All set, Boss? It’s gonna be dark soon.”

Jessie watched the small waves steadily make their way past the gaping gate, and through the ruined front door. He knew that inside his home, there were eddies of water where the brown sofa had been, and in the dining room where the abandoned table still floated. This time of the day, the sea lapped at the third step of the stairs. “Yes.”

The pilot switched on the motor, and the huge blades that propelled the vessel roared and rattled to life. The fanboat surged forward, carrying Jessie, and the last of his family’s belongings carefully stored in plastic bins, away from the inundated apartment.

Neither of them spoke a word as the fanboat noisily made its way from the side streets, and onto what had been Taft Avenue. They passed grim adults wading in waist-deep water to load belongings onto rafts and bancas, and children splashing and swimming in glee.

Jessie turned towards the pilot. “Are we going through Santa Ana?”

“Santa Mesa. Slightly longer trip. But the way’s better.” 

Jessie nodded. His family was waiting for him at a relatively higher, drier spot near Santo Domingo Church. From there, they will make their way to their designated resettlement area in Rizal.

The fanboat turned left at an intersection, and headed towards Roxas Boulevard. What had been slivers of light partially blocked by dark stretches of abandoned buildings exploded into a full sunset.

Jessie blinked. “Why are we heading out to sea?”

“Taft’s blocked with fallen posts, Boss. We’ll turn right at Luneta.”

Jessie didn’t reply. Instead, he looked towards the Bay.

He could see the line on the water where the Metro Bay Wall was. Spanning the entire mouth of the Bay, it had been built a decade earlier. It was hailed as an engineering marvel by some, and called a concrete monstrosity by others. Whatever people had thought, the Bay Wall eventually failed when the sea levels rose, and the waters of Manila Bay flowed up the Pasig River.

Jessie sighed.

“Well,” he thought, “at least the cursed Wall no longer ruins the view of the sunset.”

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Tweet the author @_vincetorres.

‘The Social Civil War’ by Joseph F. Nacino

The past was dead, the future was unimaginable.  â€” George Orwell, 1984

From Wikipedia:

There are many local historians who have their theories on when or why the Social Civil War broke out from within the sprawling mix of towering business-commercial districts and urban decay that was the megalopolis of Metro Manila in 2035.

However, the Social Civil War started seven years before with a crowd-sourced civil disobedience movement created by the hacking group Incognito Army (whose roots can be traced to the early 2000 Anonymous and Occupy groups, combined with those from the Lulz network).

President Dante Marcos IV’s so-called Civic Republic — which supposedly cited as influence the 1970s’ Bagong Lipunan — answered these acts of civil disobedience with the Youth Patrol Act of 2032, also known as the Pinoy Big Brother Law …

[PAGE CANNOT BE FOUND]

Just as he lost the Internet signal, 13-year-old Rey Agustin heard the sound of the whistling birds and keyed his WiFi off on his cheap, China-made tablet. The whistling was a code that everyone recognized to mean that local authorities were nearby.

From where he sat on the sidewalk beside The Philippine Star building in Port Area, he could see a roving police car. These patrols were supposed to detect not only illegal WiFi signals but also those accessing proscribed free sites like Wikipedia.

Rey tried to look bored: a first-year high school student in public school uniform waiting for his father to finish his shift at the Star. He supposed he could have just accessed the WiFi from the relative safety of the Star building.

However, the Internet signals emanating from the sprawling palengke around the newspaper company was stronger, faster — and in their multitudes. The Muslim traders, with stalls at the palengke who dealt directly with the ships moored at the port area for their goods, preferred to use their own makeshift WiFi modems. Sometimes it got to the point that the stronger signals would overpower the weaker ones.

With the police car gone, he turned his WiFi on again and immediately received a message: the “I” logo reminiscent of the power button and the symbol of the Incognito Army. He read the message: “Steal fish from a passing truck now and throw it at the police car.”

He smiled and stood up. This was going to be fun. 

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Tweet the author @banzai_cat.

‘Peripheral (An Excerpt)’ by Dodo Dayao

The blood was drying now, losing its color. Small consolation for the  doyens of the Transit Authority, damage-controlling their first scandal since the newly-refurbished train lines, spread out across the country like a network of veins, became operational. They could use one less PR lynching, at least until after the holidays. The press does come around, sure. Like they did on the Japanese gum controversy, when it justified the staggering cost by actually cleaning up the rivers. Even from the new tracks that cross Pasig River, you could see how blue the water is. You can’t fake things from that high up. And it did stop the flooding for good and no flooding means no traffic. Not that traffic’s been a problem. Not since the culling. Still, a suicide’s different. This suicide, in particular. This is the sort of crisis you just wait out until it subsides into amnesia. And the blood wasn’t drying fast enough for some of them. Two days gone and it was still too red, too severe, too off. The first bloody mystery of the  stain that shouldn’t be there. The  blood of a girl. The blood of one of their own. Divine Lee, their fledgling press liaison, who, two weeks ago, stepped over the edge of the MRT platform in San Pablo and into the midnight world of her own invisible terrors. All that was left of her was the terrible weight of a question that refused to be answered and a small, sad parade of left-behind friends. That, and the blood on the tracks.

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Tweet the author @dododayao.