Debatable Space

Brandon

“Captain?”

“Yes.”

“Are you okay?”

“No.”

“Can I help?”

“No.”

“What did Alliea say to you?”

“She had a request. I granted it.”

“Good.”

“Not good. Fuck off, please.”

“You shouldn’t get so melancholy, Cap’n. It’s bad for morale.”

The Captain stares at me. “Brandon,” he says.

“Yes?”

For the first time ever in dealing with the Captain, I fear for my life. There is a rage in his eyes that is less than sane. But he visibly chokes back his berserker rage.

“Leave me be, Brandon,” he says wearily.

“Yes, Cap’n.”

Lena Are you brooding?

Mulling. Reflecting. What about?

About love. I fear the Captain is madly, dangerously, obsessively in love with me. What? I mean, oh yes, I’m sure you’re right.

He tries to hide it of course. He always speaks roughly to me, and he has perfected an ornately sarcastic style with me. “Yes, Lena,” he’ll say, “we are your humble servants, unworthy to polish your slightest witticism.” Or: “How can we serve to further exalt you, O beloved mistress, in a manner that leaves us even more abased than we already, most wretchedly, are?” It’s all sham, of course, a show of rudeness to conceal an inner awe and longing. Indeed.

It does get wearisome though. Recall how I played my new concerto to a selected audience in my cabin, an inspired piece created as a homage to superstring resonance theory. Yes, you…

Indeed, I devised my own scale based on the string resonances of atomic structure; the first note is electron, the second note is electron-neutrino, the third is up quark, and so on and so forth. The parallels I created between musical resonances and particle resonances are, I concede, a little contrived. But I do consider it to be a profoundly revealing musical artefact.

But for days afterwards, Flanagan kept humming the melody. “Dum dum dum dum DUM DAH DAAAAAAA AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAh.” But it wasn’t meant to be a tune! It is a musical symbol of the hidden structure of the Universe. I found it to be magnificent.

Thank you. And for all the flaws of my composition, it is better by far than those interminable bluesy dirges he plays. Repetitive three-chord transitions, sung in a grating pseudo-labouring-classes voice. How utterly pretentious and pathetic is that! Very.

Indeed. But I have to keep reminding myself – Flanagan is a relatively unsophisticated human being. I, by contrast, have lived on Earth; I have mastered two dozen languages; I have attended classical concerts in Prague and Vienna and New York; I have seen at first hand the great paintings of Picasso, Beril, Marotti and xander P. I am a cosmopolitan woman of the Universe.

Am I not? Sorry. Yes, indeed you are!

Flanagan, by contrast, grew up in a cave, and has spent his life in the company of pirates. He’s quite widely read, I concede, but essentially he’s a philistine.

But curiously, this is the quality that’s beginning to attract me. His rough-hewn, artless, naive nature. I feel that he is clay which I could mould. I could make something special out of this shaggy-haired foulmouthed kidnapping fool.

And we do have a wonderful banterflow. He insults me daily, and I mercilessly mock him back. “You need a shave,” I tell him, with devastating irony. Or: “You’re such a clod,” I argue, with rapier-sharp wit. Or: “Oh shut the fuck up you patronising cs mf!” You observe of course, my mastery of rhetorical irony?

He does have an annoying smile though. More sneer than smile, really. And he constantly doubts my version of history. He argues that Heimdall was authorised long before my tenure as President of Humanity. He points out that Hope was run by a collective of scientists and philosophers and was by no means my private fiefdom. But I never said it was! It was merely my obsession. Yes, of course, my child had many fathers; but I was still her mother.

Also, Flanagan nagged me for ages to have a baby to swell the ranks of the pirate army. This, of course, I could not endure. Am I a brood mare? I will not be demeaned in such a way. And besides, the very idea of my eggs being fertilised by some man’s sperm feels to me a violation akin to rape. At my age, sex itself is something of an ordeal. Conception is entirely beyond the pale.

I have had to take some steps to stamp my authority over Flanagan. As I keep reminding him – I am the leader of the pirate horde, he is merely my trusted aide-de-camp. I am the hero of the hour; he is the sidekick. I think he takes the point. And, every day, I make a point of addressing the entire fleet via the intercom with one of my poems, reflecting some vital point or other about our mortal existence. These go down very well; I am frequently congratulated for my day’s illuminating broadcast. “Keep up the good work, Lena!” I am told by ugly cut-throats. “We love devastating use of litotes!” The dykes seem to like me too. I think for them I am a role model of robust yet sexy femininity.

But ohmigosh, I wish they wouldn’t wear those external clitoris rings.

I do feel a certain trepidation about the forthcoming battle. And I have begun to seed possible escape routes to cover the inevitable moment when we are doomed and facing certain death. I have instructed my remote computer… That’s me.

I am addressing my readers and listeners, please don’t interrupt.

… to send out distress beacons which are carefully calibrated to start transmitting after the battle is lost. That way, I can escape by liferaft and claim that, after all, I was all along a hostage of these evil pirates.

I do not consider this a betrayal. I am, after all, throwing in my lot with them. I believe in their ideal; I yearn for a peaceful and democratic society. I yearn for the overthrow of the Cheo’s dictatorial regime.

But I yearn to live for another millenium. There is so much I haven’t done, so much I haven’t seen. Indeed, I have a folder containing details of everything left for you to do.

But there’s more, far more! There are things you haven’t thought of, that you could never dream of, being a mere, as you are, machine. I stand corrected.

Indeed you do. Oh and I have, by the way, and I trust you have not been eavesdropping upon these moments, compelled Flanagan to have a sexual relationship with me. I explained to him that my psyche requires validation and support, and that it is his duty to support me. Naturally, of course, he readily agreed, despite a playful grimace and a curse so foul I had never actually heard it before. So now we have fantastic passionate sex on a daily basis. But you thought/said just a moment ago that sex was repellent to you.

I have mellowed since the beginning of this chapter. Besides, I was curious. Is he good?

Satisfactory. And you? How would you rate your skill as a lover in your own, so to speak, humble opinion?

I am magnificent! I am sensuality incarnate! Eros deified! Though I must admit, I do have a habit of falling asleep immediately afterwards. And sometimes, during.

So, you have been spying on me? Of course not. I am careful to respect your privacy, by disengaging at any and all intimate moments.

Oh, I don’t mind, feel free to watch me rogering the Captain. You never know, you might learn something. With respect Lena, I am a molecular computer the size of a pebble with pre-programmed emotions and a 300 gigagigabyte hard drive. Tantric sex holds little appeal for me.

You’re being snide again. No, no, not at all. It merely seems that way, because you programmed me with your own razor-sharp sense of humour.

Hmm. You were telling me about your sexual congress with our Captain?

Yes, so I was. Ah, what bliss, what ecstasy. I never thought I would once again experience the joy of being in love! You should write a poem about it.

Or a concerto. Stick to poems, they hurt less.

What did you say? I said, a concerto written by you and inspired by love would be a joy to hear and a boon to humanity.

I get muddled sometimes. I could have sworn you said… Are you sure you’re logging all this for posterity? As always.

It’ll need editing. I shall do that for you.

Do you really think he likes me? He adores you. You are magnificent, he has never seen a woman like you.

Why isn’t he nicer then? That’s merely his bold piratical style.

I sometimes fear he is faking his orgasms. How could he? The physical evidence is…

But he takes so little joy in the act of love. For me, it is an adventure, a ballet of the senses. For him it’s… Wham bam thank you ma’am. That, I believe, is the correct idiom.

I deserve his love and his passion. Indeed you do.

For he needs me. Without my leadership, this whole doomed expedition would be… Doomed?

Yes. You know what I mean. You should rest.

Why? You’re getting cranky, and incoherent.

I feel tired. I feel I carry the world’s burden on my shoulders. You are a goddess.

That’s putting it too strongly. You are a goddess.

Or perhaps not. You are a goddess, and I worship you.

I can live with that. Sleep. Sleep. Sleep.