The Manila Clipper
San Francisco, 2062
Three burly Yanks in blue windbreakers were standing by the dock. For half a delirious second, Jake Hill thought that they were waiting for him.
He recalled a recent story in the 'bloids about a daring crime. A Sino-Dutch syndicate had cleaned out the Museum of Modern Art in New York of its entire collection of de Koonings and Jackson Pollocks. The artwork was downloaded into a Deinococcus radiodurans bacterium disguised as a speck of dandruff on a courier's head. Once the courier reached his destination in Europe, the paintings were grown back to their full-size in easel-vats in an underground lab in Antwerp, and sold on the black artmarket in Findhorn.
Of course, they'd been duped so many times that it was impossible to tell which one was the original. There had even been some improvements in color and composition.
He was just being paranoid. U.S. Customs, that's all they are.
The senior officer was sandy haired, with piercing blue eyes and a blond handlebar moustache. He held an old-fashioned clipboard in one of his brawny hands and a ballpoint pen in the other. You'd never know it was actually an M-reader, which he clicked each time that a passenger approached. His job was to scan travelers to see if they harbored any illegal microorganisms in their bodies. A determined smuggler could easily carry out a recombinant strain of the state of Nebraska if they were skilful enough.
His two colleagues on either side were obviously data-sentinels. Blank-faced and tough looking, they hovered beside their sandy-haired colleague like pedantic wrestlers, idly fingering the stun-wands in their utility-belts, ready to neutralize any Trojan Horse micros with a blast of super-genotoxic rays.
As he crossed the gangway to board the sleek white Manila Clipper, Jake heard their official prattle. "Do you have anything to declare?"
One of the officers addressed him. "Good afternoon, sir. I'll have to ask you the following questions for your Customs declaration."
"Go right ahead," Jake nodded.
The Customs inspector began his spiel. "Are you carrying any genetic materials, fetuses, parts of fetuses, radiation-resistant vegetative cells or RecA protein patches, organic polyextremophile-platforms such as cow-dung or elephant patties, forbidden substances, or U.S. currency exceeding the amount of five thousand dollars in any digital or nanobic device on your person, or in the luggage accompanying you on your flight?"
"No," Jake shook his head. "I packed everything myself."
Jake was frazzled. He ached from the explosion of qi energy that Uncle Wen zapped him with. And now he felt queasy even before his flight had taken off. His stomach retched from the rumbling vibrations of the air ship's propellers. Suddenly the three-bladed props thundered to life. Vrooom. Vrooom. Vroom.
"Are you feeling all right?" the Customs man inquired. "You look pale. First time using your sea legs? You'll get used to it pretty quick. Sign here. It's just a formality."
As Jake signed his statement on the clipboard, he forced himself to smile. "I hope there isn't going to be any turbulence. I shouldn't have eaten that greasy chow-fun in the Old Walled City."
The officer smiled back. "I know what you mean. Stay away from those hundred-year-old eggs, they're real killers. They make you feel like you've swallowed Chairman Mao and the entire Gang of Four."
Jake Hill gagged.
"Easy does it, Mr. Hill!" The Customs man steadied Jake as he lurched towards the handrail and threw up the entire contents of his stomach into the swirling waters of the bay.
I hope you drown, you bastard, Jake thought to himself with the vain hope that he'd puked out his inner Butoh.
The two U.S. Customs data-sentinels became wary. The one with the M-reader stepped up to Jake. "I'd like to run this wand over you one more time. Stand up straight."
The M-reader went click click click click. "Negative," the Customs man said. "You may proceed."
The other data-sentinel peered into the bay at the floating upchuck of Jake's stomach. "Hey, Joe," he turned to his partner. "Scan that stuff." He had his stun-wand out ready to blast it.
His partner clicked on the vomit. "I thought he said he ate chow-fun for lunch. That ain't no chow-fun. No wonder he's sick. Negative on the effluent."
A Filipino steward wearing a flowery white barong Tagalog shirt helped Jake Hill board the Manila Clipper. "Careful, Mr. Hill, there's a step over there. Don't worry about anything, sir. We've got sensory hammocks and showers in the staterooms. I'll lead you to your cabin where you can rest."
"Quickly then," Jake mumbled. He felt the Butoh's hand claw itself halfway up his esophagus. He'd better keep his mouth shut as much as possible from now on. It wouldn't look good for him to have those bony chalk-white fingers sticking out of his face.
Dark wreaths of clouds through the oval glass window in his stateroom: The snaking hills of South San Francisco, skyscrapers standing like joss-sticks in the urn of the city, Chinatown Wharf, the flashing beacon on Alcatraz Island, and the newly reconstructed Golden Gate Bridge with its hexagram-decker lanes. Then clouds again, and the dark gray Pacific with its unspoken thoughts.
Jake Hill washed up and decided to take a walk around the ship. His stomach felt more settled.
Johnny Hara must be taking a nap. The bugger must have been doing some Butoh stretching exercises earlier. 'Stamping,' that was it. Necroangel had taught Jake the moves back in the Z-Zone: 'Explode right knee to 90 degrees. Explode it down, stopping the energy before impact. Repeat, alternating between left and right.' No wonder I threw up!
Jake stood in the doorway of the softly lit Clipper Bar. His eyes swept the beige-carpeted room with its bamboo decor and comfortable chairs. There was some traditional Filipino music playing. A rondalla perhaps. He wasn't that familiar with the music from the islands but it cheered him up with its sprightly rhythms and comforting clack-clack-clack beat of a stick-dance.
There weren't that many passengers returning to the Philippines. He assumed they were business-types or wealthy landowners headed back to their plantations after a shopping holiday in the States. He walked past a middle-aged Filipino couple that was seated at one of the tables drinking Pina Coladas. The man had a smug expression on his pudgy face, and gold chains around his neck. His wife had a pouty look and was relating some gossip.
"One more thing, Bobong told me. Alam nyo ba? Did you know that 'jeepneymen' usually travel in pairs? Just in case one gets stopped, the other one can still get through . . . ."
She lowered her voice as Jake passed their table. 'Jeepneymen' were Filipino smugglers, Jake knew that. Now that the Philippines was part of New Nippon's East-Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere II, smuggling was a national past time.
He heard the tail end of their conversation. "Bobong said a jeepneyman can swallow anything. He knew one who even swallowed a miniature golf-set and got it through Customs."
While Jake eavesdropped, the steward stepped up behind him so softly that he didn't even hear his approach. He smelled of sandalwood soap, and had glossy black hair combed back neatly to show his handsome face. He held a small, engraved card in his hand.
"Mr. Hill," he addressed Jake politely. "We're serving cocktails in the bar before dinner, and Madame Moro would like to invite you to join her." The beaming steward presented him with her card.
"What?" Jake was caught off guard. He studied the writing on the card. "Madame Moro?"
"That would be Dona Emilia, sir. The wife of one of the leading ministers in our government."
"Oh, yes," Jake now remembered that the wife of the Filipino strongman Santiago Moro had boarded the Manila Clipper ahead of everyone else. He had seen her showy entrance at the check-in counter on a monitor in Wen Pu-Fei's back-room office.
"May I give her your answer, sir?"
"Oh, I'll tell her myself," Jake replied uneasily. "Where is she?"
"In that booth at the back of the lounge, sir. We keep it reserved for the Minister and his wife."
"Thank you," Jake replied. He wondered what the woman could possibly want from him. Screw Uncle Wen, that huckster. There was only one way to find out what was going on. By himself.
"Madame Moro?" Some instinct made Jake freeze when he reached the private booth in the dark corner of the bar. No, he wasn't imagining things.
The small dark man had one arm around the woman's shoulder as though he was consoling her. But his right hand was well inside the jacket of her cream-colored suit and he was grasping her breast, squeezing it hard. Her mouth was open and tears glistened in her eyes.
"Oh, my God!" she exclaimed in a startled voice when she saw Jake standing there with an embarrassed look on his face.
"Excuse me . . . ." Jake Hill turned to leave. What on earth had he walked into? Some vignette in a Filipino soap where the wife of the second in charge to the diktador was being groped by one of her minions?
"Oh my goodness, you must be Mr. Hill!" Madame Moro laughed out loud. "Come back here immediately! I won't devour you, I promise!"
Jake's eyes widened again. The scowling man removed his hand from Madame Moro's blouse and dropped a piece of gray inert matter onto a handkerchief that lay on the table. He folded it over, all the while keeping his stony eyes fixed on the American.
Madame Moro quickly straightened herself and buttoned up her jacket. Then she grasped Jake's hand in hers and pulled him towards her.
"You mustn't be shocked!" her merry eyes teased Jake. "Jako's hands don't wander unless they're in search of a cyst or a tumor or something that's crying out to be removed."
Madame Moro unfolded the handkerchief and glanced at its contents briefly. "What a mess!" Then she beamed at Hill again, and patted the empty seat next to hers.
"I wasn't expecting you quite so soon. Jako was just giving me one of his spontaneous healings. It seems that I'm filled with all sorts of corruptions."
"I received your card from the steward," Jake coughed politely. "I'm Jake Hill. And you must be Dona Emilia, the Minister of the Interior's wife. I've heard a lot about you."
Jake glanced around the bar to see if the beautiful stewardess he'd seen on the vidmonitor in Wen's office was part of her entourage. No such luck.
"It was kind of you to invite me to join you for a drink."
"Of course, I know who you are!" Madame Moro feigned surprise that Jake should play at being such a stranger to her. "I received a cable in San Francisco from my husband's office this morning. He advised me that you were traveling on the Clipper, and that I should extend 'every courtesy' to you."
Madame Moro beamed at Jake. She was a very attractive woman, he decided. She was in her mid-forties, with a slender figure, and an undeniably vivacious personality.
"You're on your way to Tokio to receive an award, aren't you?" she clasped her hands together. "May I be one of the first to congratulate you?"
"Thank you very much," Jake smiled as he began to relax.
"You must call me Emilia," Madame Moro insisted. "And this is Jako. Jako Benitez. My personal physician."
Jako didn't look up from the table. He was still concentrating on what lay inside the folded handkerchief. Jake saw his lips moving silently.
Madame Moro batted her eyelashes at her companion. "Jako, be so kind as to catch the waiter's attention. In fact, why don't you get Jake a drink? Will you have one of our national drinks?" She asked Jake. "Cuatro quantos? Our local gin with a little tonic and a squeeze of kalamansi, our island citron."
"Sounds wonderful," Jake replied. "I'll try it."
Jako rose from the table and headed for the bar leaving the two of them alone in the booth together.
"And while he's gone," she breathed into his ear. "You and I will get acquainted, won't we?"
Jake smiled at her. "That sounds wonderful, too."
Madame Moro looked at him with mock severity. "You must tell me everything."
"Everything? What do you mean?"
"Yes, everything. Tell me all there is to know about your life, your dreams, your ambitions-fulfilled and unfulfilled-your work, your ideals, your wives, your girlfriends . . . ." She brought her face close to him. He could taste her citron-flavored breath mixed with gin. "Everything. I'm simply fascinated by writers."
"It's only a fifteen-hour flight," Jake Hill flinched. "Anyway, there's not much to tell. I'm probably the most boring person you've ever met. Most of the time, I'll run into myself at breakfast, lunch, or dinner, maybe exchange a few words then I'm off again . . . I hardly know myself. That's the truth. I'm just barely acquainted with me."
"You said you go off again?" Madame Moro sounded perplexed. "Off where?"
"Oh, you know--wherever it is that writers go."
"In my country, they frequently go to the Loag Jail, Jake. But I'm sure that's not what you meant."
"Sometimes, it does feel like I'm in prison," Jake confided to her. He barely knew the woman but she had already assumed the role of a confidante in his life. "Writers are sort of like inmates, in a sense. Always petitioning the higher powers for their release."
"It's that bad?"
"Depends on how I'm falling . . . I mean, how I'm feeling."
"How are you feeling now?"
"Like I'm on some sort of a strange flight," he laughed. He glanced at the handkerchief that Jako had left on the table. "Nothing serious, I hope," he nodded at the bundle. "Whatever it is your faith healer pulled out of you. I don't see any blood or chicken gizzards, at any rate."
Madame Moro laughed. "Oh, Jako's no faker. Anyway, you don't want to know. I'm not that interesting either."
"That's hard to believe!"
"Then we must both be lacking in faith. We need to have our faith restored."
"I guess so." She was really drawing him in. Jake felt at ease with her, as though he'd known her forever. He loved charming women.
They were silent for a moment. "That place you go to, Jake-where writers go," Madame Moro corrected herself. "Isn't it dangerous to be gone for such long stretches of time?"
She offered him her profile. Her auburn hair that swept down to the collar of her elegantly cut suit, her delicate Asian nose and the high Castillian cheekbones, telltale signs of a mestiza mix of native Malay and Spanish blood.
Her skin had a pale ivory tint with sandalwood undertones. Even if she were twenty years younger than her husband, the Minister of Interior was, she must be in her forties, Jake thought. But she looked like a sensuous woman in her early thirties. Or even younger . . . His thoughts were beginning to wander.
"You're not there now, are you?" Madame Moro asked him.
"Where?"
"In that faraway place. You look so contemplative. Really, you must tell me more about it . . . ."
"Why do you want to know?" Jake suddenly became wary.
"Because I'm fascinated by you."
"Oh come on, Madame Moro-I mean Dona Emilia . . . ."
"Emilia to you."
"I'll have to get used to calling you that," he laughed at her suggestion nervously. "Isn't it high treason to get so personal with the wife of one of the most powerful men in the Philippines?"
"Only if you don't give me what I want." Her laugh was husky, but there was a dark weight to it. Jake wondered if there was a lot of that dark energy inside her that needed to be pulled out by a psychic surgeon. Or by a lover . . . Or by some other nasty collision with the world. Pain had fingers, and its fingers could dig deep into any corner of the body or the mind.
"I write bio-mangas," he said as he lit one of his djarums. He blew out the smoke. "You know what they are?"
"I don't dream very much, Jake. I'm an illiterate when it comes to dreams. Tell me."
"You know that much about them then. People subscribe to stories that dream tellers write. That's what I am. A dream teller."
"Listen, Jake. You think I'm a glamorous woman, no? That I lead a privileged and, therefore, most likely an empty life. My husband has opened many doors for me, it's true. But before I met him, you know what I was? A publicist. I've lived on both sides of the fence."
"You were a publicist?" Jake Hill shook his head incredulously. "I could use a publicist."
"That's why I'm here, Jake," she squeezed his arm. "Take full advantage of me. Please. Use me!"
"You're a very funny woman."
"I'm not kidding," she said as she fit one of her cigarettes into an ivory holder. He lit her cigarette for her, and she blew a plume of smoke into the air. "I'd better finish this before Jako gets back. He'll be upset with me for smoking . . . Yes, when I was younger I was a publicist," she gave him a strange look. "For dance troupes."
"Dance?" Jake felt a sudden zinging in his ear as if something had popped out of a stopper in his head. A whoosh of air.
"Filipino Butoh. You know what Butoh is, Jake?" her eyes narrowed. She wouldn't take no for an answer, would she?
He didn't answer her right away. When he did, it was with a sense of wonder that things were getting a little out of hand a little too fast.
"I wasn't aware that there was such a thing as Filipino Butoh."
"Oh, yes, definitely," her eyes studied him with mild amusement. "Does that surprise you?"
"Maybe."
"It's a bit different than the Nipponese version, of course. Which is so stiff. Or the various Western offshoots. So cerebral. Ours is much more languorous, seductive even. It must be the influence of the tropics. Butoh was quite a passion of mine when I was young. Oh, look-" she stubbed out her cigarette quickly. "Jako's come with your drink, and a refill for me! How nice!"
As he sipped his drink, Jake heard Madame Moro talking to the faith healer in some unfamiliar dialect. He felt disoriented. Maybe it was a combination of Wen's qigong tea and drinking alcohol. He didn't know what was happening to him.
There were dead bodies everywhere in his head. Filipino Butoh dancers were doing warm-ups and stretches on the running track in Luneta Park. Mottled waves in Manila Bay had snouts like water buffalo. His brain felt as if a ton of spice had been forced up his nose, but he couldn't sneeze. His synapses were frozen.
Her voice was a quiet buzz now. They were both looking at him in a strange way. Of course, he thought to himself lazily. How classical-and classically stupid. Monumentally, classically stupid . . . .
From his first taste of the bitter gin, before he could even swallow the liquid down, paralyzing flashes had begun to assault him.
Hammering sounds whacked at his cortex. Someone was beating the dust out of the carpet they had unrolled from his psyche.
Jake's body slumped in the booth, but his shen, his soul, was a million miles away circling some emerald-green rice paddy mesmerized by the diamond refractions of light.
Madame Moro tipped the steward on their way out. "My friend is ill," she declared. "It's a good thing I'm traveling with my 'manghihilot.'"
"Yes, ma'am," the steward replied wide-eyed as Jako marched Jake Hill down the corridor. "He's a very lucky man to have found you. Good luck, ma'am."
"See that we're not disturbed," she snarled as she brushed past the steward.
The interior of the cabin was dimly lit. Madame Moro's unopened suitcases were on the floor. There was a tooled Spanish leather valise on her bed. The bedcovers were a rich damask yellow. A vase of flowers-hydrangeas-stood on a low table. The clouds outside the porthole sailed by like schooners with gray sails.
Dona Emilia's toilette case had been laid out by a servant on the vanity stand. Jake could smell her perfume. An earthy, silky jasmine. He imagined her naked in his arms. But she wasn't the one who was naked.
Jako had removed Jake Hill's jacket and was unbuttoning his shirt. Madame Moro cleared the bed and Jako laid him down on it.
So this is how it's done, Jake Hill thought to himself from a distance. Genuine psychic surgery from the Philippines . . . .
Jako's right hand felt Jake's bare chest up and down. His hand was very hot, his fingers were like hot tongs. Then Jako grunted and propped Jake up against the pillow. His hand was halfway inside Jake's chest. Jake looked inside his own cavity as if he was witnessing an oddity. What did the faith healer see in there?
Jako's hand went into Jake's chest as far as his wrist. Then the forearm slipped in like a spatula. What was he fishing around for? Jake wondered. His heart? No, of course not. What did they need a heart for?
Madame Moro asked Jako impatiently. "Are you able to reach it?" Then she asked in an astonished voice. "What is that?"
The faith healer plopped Jake's anime hero, the debonair "Tao" Smith, a wriggling pink-fleshed mangaloid, onto a crisp white handkerchief. But "Tao" didn't go down without a fight. His miniature form kicked and slashed at Jako's hairy knuckles with a fury that made the catatonic American bio-mangaist proud.
"You swine, I'll see that you pay for this!" "Tao" Smith jumped to his feet from the handkerchief. Jako Benitez was taken aback for a moment, then smashed his fist down on "Tao" until he was nothing but pink plasm.
Oookay, Jake thought to himself. I guess I'm not in a "Tao" Smith episode after all.
"They call that literature?" Madame Moro snorted derisively. "What else does he have inside there?"
Jako Benitez was too absorbed in his work to reply. He was busy foraging in Jake Hill's psyche, scattering all the major and minor characters from the American's past serials over the bedspread like so much confetti.
Some of the 'toons Jake Hill hadn't seen in ages. The ruddy-faced Major Saddleshot from Episode 24 of "'Tao' Smith Goes to Rajastan'" . . . The villain Nero Palance from Episode 6 of "'Tao' Smith Locks Horns with the Minotaur . . ."
Then Jake saw Belinda Moon's voluptuous white thighs fly past in a blur, along with assorted body parts belonging to ladies from his checkered creative past. Michelle Meringue from "''Tao' Smith in Dystopia" . . . Leopoldina Laffet from "''Tao' Smith Defies The Odds and Evens" . . . Sofia Stamboul from "''Tao' Smith Settles Down."
Sweet Sofia! "Tao's" first fiance! She of the immortal line: "Everything I want is reasonable . . . ." Their engagement had never been consummated. A jealous rival had poisoned "Tao's" condom with cobra venom. How many protests from indignant REM-subscribers had Jake's Mangaspace rep received! Tens of thousands! The good old days!
"For God's sake, Jako!" Madame Moro snapped. "Can't you hurry up? If you don't get him quickly, Colonel Tanaka will be terribly upset."
Jako shook his head. "It's too tricky."
Her eye was an inch away from Jake's fogged lens. Her finger ready to speed-dial a red lacquered nail into his eyeball. "Just how conscious IS he?"
"Not very," Jako shrugged. "I've got all his make-believes. The other one-the one whom we seek-is much more difficult. He moves away whenever he sees my hand come too close."
"Too bad then-" Madame Moro replied in a foul temper. "Ikaw na lang. Keep trying."
There was a victorious note in Jako's voice. "He's stopped struggling. I've got my thumb on his bald head. He's laying there as still as a dead baby."
"Bring him out."
"I don't trust him. What if he's booby trapped?"
Madame Moro swore at her manghiliot. "You can't spend the entire flight with your finger up his ass! Our orders are to interrogate him-and then eliminate him. If there are any more of these Butoh killings, we'll all be held responsible. My husband will be selling duck egg embryos in Makati. The Tokko will see to that."
Jako Benitez cracked his knuckles. He bent over Jake's body and whispered into his ear. The words that came out of the faith healer's mouth were in Tagalog, but the delta-translation was immediate.
"Remember when you were the Hombre Grande? The conquistador of everyone's dreams? Don't you miss those days? I can help you recapture them. They belong to you, not to him. He is not worthy. You are the one they call the 'Manga Man.' You hold the real power. Not 'The Hanging Butoh.'"
Jake groaned and twisted on the bed. Jako turned to Madame Moro. "I think we're getting somewhere. Hold on--"
He bent over Jake again. "What are you remembering now, Senor Manga Man? Those first buds of your potent glory? Delicioso, no? You can still seduce the darkness if you want. Share your genius with us. We who are your most devoted admirers . . . ."
Frozen inside, Jake was actually rooting for the faith healer. Yeah, fuck Johnny Hara! Get him! He's fallen. He's gone. I'm my own man. Finally! In fact, I'll get so trashed that I'll forget all that crap. I'll make my own art. My own life. A brand-new beginning! Fry the fucker!
"I believe he's warming up, Dona Emilia!" Jako exclaimed fervently. "He appears to have bypassed the shadow that is blocking him. He can only go deeper now. Without any further obstruction."
"I'll believe it when I see it." Madame Moro had her REM-recorder out. "Take him as far back as you can. All the way to his childhood, even earlier if possible. Then bring him up to the present. We want a complete record of everything. All his kills. And the ones he may be planning. A full list of his accomplices. Most important, we need to know how he does it. The secret of his death-technology. Walk him through the entire spectrum, Jako. But watch out for any tricks."
Madame Moro sneered at Jake's scrawny body on the bed. "It's hard to imagine that certain people in high places consider this pathetic fool to be the most dangerous person in the world."
Jako placed the palm of his hand on Jake's moist brow. "You can tell us everything now with all the artistry at your command. The shadow whom you fear is no longer in the audience to frighten you. You are free to begin."
Jake's pictures came to him easily. He was back in his prime, at the top of his game, ready to entertain all the Sleepers who were tuned-in to his synapses.
They lived inside him just as he lived inside them. What more could he ask for except that they not entertain him with the tales of their own pain?
Then he heard his viewers cough impatiently as they waited for him to begin his story. If he had to begin somewhere, then he had better start at the very beginning before he became the shadow known as Jake Hill.
When his name was still Rizzako Taszetus and he had just met Johnny Hara and they became brothers.
Before Salamanderella came into their lives and drove them apart. Before the Falling began.