Debatable Space

Book 11
Lena

The stars glisten with a rich unknowingness. I am the first human being to venture so far into the depths, into the bleak yet heart-enriching void of space where no human craft has ever… No.

The stars glisten with a rich unknowingness. I am the first human to ever venture here, I am the deflowerer of… No.

I am the first to venture here, my mind imposes on the virginness of space that ne’er before has… Absolutely not!

We have travelled a long way. Ten years have passed. I have built a new space yacht, and I sail the deep, fathomless, awe-inspiringly vast oceans of space into a region that has never before been perceived by a human consciousness. I feel I am a footprint set in fresh snow, a tiny imprint in an eternity of white which marks the end of wilderness. That’s good! Very good! Vividly expressed, and you end on an excellent metaphor!

Bollocks to that. That metaphor clunks like tin cans tied to fornicating cats. Don’t flatter me, tinbrain. I told you not to do that any more. I happen to like the metaphor! Am I not allowed an opinion?

No. Fair enough.

I spend a lot of time reflecting, and ruminating. I believe there is hope for Earth now. Flanagan made a vid of our murder of the Cheo, which we left in the care of my remote computer for Earthwide distribution. It features a full account of the battle of the pirates against the dictatorship of the Cheo, and includes a powerful and chilling documentary account of the depravities of the Cheo’s reign. I am convinced that after watching this film, the citizens of Earth will be informed enough, and humble enough, to make better choices next time.

Or, perhaps not. I marvel at the motiveless self-destructive malignancy of human kind. With all the resources that we have, with all our power and freedom – why oppress? Why persecute? Why bully?

Because, I guess, it’s fun?

My stellar yacht travels at high velocity through uncharted regions of largely empty and tedious space, for ages and ages, while inside I sit and fester and think about the past.

And I brood.

And I reproach myself.

And I inhabit my regrets.

I don’t, of course, have to rely on my own fallible human memories. Everything that has happened to me in the years since I met Flanagan has been recorded automatically in the computer memory bank. Every image, every sound, every smell, every subvocalised thought; it’s all there, neatly filed, in perfect surroundsound 3D Technicolor. Waiting for me to relive it.

So my brooding is computer-enhanced, state-of-the-art, and utterly relentless.

I slip another memory disc into the neural player. I savour a favourite once-pleasant-now-bitterly-painful memory, of flying through the air on silken wings with Flanagan on the planet of Wild West. I stand, once again, on the cliff face, and remember my thoughts:

What am I doing here?

[As I replay the memory, I am startled at the tentativeness of my thoughts and the gaucheness and naivety that underlie them.]

“Frightened?” he says.

[Go on Lena! Curl your lips, crush the arrogant bastard with your disdain!]

“Not in the least,” I reply.

[Oh fuck. Was that your best shot? I can feel you trembling, your pulse is racing. He must be aware of that, you’re playing into his hands. Calm down! Make him nervous!]

I am so very scared, I mutter subvocally to my remote computer.

[Lena, you stupid child, you’re acting like an idiot. Look at Flanagan’s face. That little half-sneer. He’s playing you like his electric guitar. No wonder he found it so easy to gull and deceive you. The signs were there, at this early stage! How could you have been so fucking dumb?!]

You’ll be fine, my remote computer assures me.

[This comforts you Lena, doesn’t it? You programmed the fucking machine to bolster you in your insecurities? Why didn’t you tell it to warn you of danger!!]

I’ll fall, and shatter every bone in my body, and the pain will send me mad, I think, wildly.

[And I’m pretty sure you’re showing it in your face, too! Never show fear, Lena. Never show weakness. Never show emotion. That’s how to handle a man. Do you really know so little?]

You won’t fall, my computer says.

[Computer, shut up!]

I MIGHT, I THINK.

[Stop listening to voices in your head, look at him! He’s giving you that kind look. He knows that you’re talking to yourself Lena! You’re a mad woman, you’re actually talking to yourself!]

“Put the harness on,” Flanagan instructs.

[See how authoritative he is. He’s pretending he hasn’t been watching you, but it’s all part of his web of deception. This entire excursion is a way of softening you up, making you fall in love with him, to bend you to his will.]

I strap myself into the flying contraption. The wings are soft, malleable, made of some plastic or PVC material that is supple yet amazingly strong.

[Told you! This is just a fucking sex game. And it’s making you horny, isn’t it? Don’t lie, I can feel it, I can sense the hormones swirling, the vagina lubricating. PVC, sheer cliff, authoritative man, the dream of flying. What a toxic brew. Christ, this man is good.]

“ Press this, and the wings fly off, and a parachute will glide you to earth,” he says.

[And Flanagan is touching you now, to demonstrate the equipment. His finger strokes your breast, but doesn’t linger…]

I nod, lips too dry to speak.

[I’m ashamed of you, Lena. You should have found a way to turn the tables on him by now.]

“If I die you won’t get your ransom,” I tell him.

[Not bad. At least you’re trying.]

“Don’t die then,” he replies.

[Oh, I feel the shiver of love that you felt then. This is when you lost the game. The moment when all was lost.] I strap on the wings. Flanagan does the same. We walk together to the cliff edge. We jump. The winds are strong, the atmosphere is thick, the wings are wafer light. I am caught in an updraft and find myself soaring. Through the sky, body arcing and bucking, legs firmly held straight, my chest and breasts squeezed and bruised by the wind. I feel a surge of exhilaration. The planet is mapped out beneath me. I am sensitive to every gust of wind, every current of air. I follow Flanagan’s lead, tilt my body and soar [Oh what joy, what bliss! I adore this memory! I fly with Flanagan, above the bleak rocks of the planet Wild West, the wind buffets me, I am alive, I am special, I am with him!]

The memory ends. I bask in my recollection of Flanagan, laughing, his skin crinkled, and wise, and kind. I revel in the memory of the joy of flying off a cliff with a man who I… loved?

But did I really love him? I am no longer sure. I slip in another disc. It is a recording of Flanagan and me having sex. I see his leathery, lined, sun-baked face close to mine, I feel my orgasm, I feel waves of… what? Revulsion? Love? Hate? How to tell the difference?

I slip in another disc. I am back on Earth with my son. We are swimming together on a Caribbean beach. He is beautiful, splashing water at me.

I feel a stirring of blind adoring love for him, and immediately I am enveloped in self-hate.

I rewind, and play it again. Love for my son; hate for myself. Love for my son; hate for myself. Love for my son…

I turn off the neural disc player. But the memories still come: Peter as a baby, bathing naked with me, Peter having a tantrum, Peter at six after he’d got lost and I was shouting at him, Peter after a terrible haircut at the age of nine, Peter playing football, Peter ranting at me because I was neglecting him, Peter’s look when I accused him of rape, Peter’s expression the day he left me to travel the stars, Peter in the ocean, naked torso gleaming, sending spasms of love through me, Peter as a baby again, sleepy, sated with milk, a million Peters, merging and blurring.

I do not even need my computer discs, I can call up each memory with a blink of an eye. Peter is hardwired into my soul. For all his faults, for all his terrible crimes, he was mine. He was more a part of me than my fingernails, my hair, the skin on my feet. I cannot think of him even now without choking and gasping with sheer overwhelming love and need.

Shivering with fear now, I play, again, the tape of the Caribbean beach. The aching pang of love for a child who has become a man. I drown in the depths of my feeling for him. And then, again, I drown in my love for him. And then again. And then again. And then again. And then again. And then again. And then again. And then again.

Sometimes I play this obsessively for days on end. Flanagan used to tell me off for using my memory tapes. He argued it’s best to always keep moving forward.

I play another disc. The day Flanagan and I went to kill my son. I lunge at him with my sword. I am engulfed in tar and quicksand as the force field alters the air pressure around me. But the attack fails. I am engulfed in tar and quicksand as the force field alters the air pressure around me. Then he releases the force field and Peter’s plasma beam hits me full on. My body sears, I feel the pain as if it actually exists. Flanagan moves past me, with astonishing speed. He takes advantage of the fraction of an instant in which the force field is down and Peter is unprotected and he strikes with his sword. But the blade is a centimetre from my son’s skin when it comes to a shocking halt. The blade bounces back. Flanagan strikes again, but the force field is fully activated now. The sword blade slows… it bounces off. Flanagan slashes and swings, his blade so close to flesh it feels as if he is skinning Peter. But none of the blows strikes. Flanagan finally stops, looking old, defeated, foolish. Peter smiles, and scatters sparkly dust at us. There’s a huge bang and we are knocked on our arses. My son is openly grinning now. He is clearly revelling in this chance to show his superiority. “You evil old bitch,” he says, and my spirit is scalded. “You can’t kill me,” he brags. “You can’t…” And he is engulfed in fire, and burns to the bone before our eyes.

I howl with horror, as my son dies in front of me.

Then I rewind the disc player. I return to the moment, five seconds earlier, when I was playing the tape of the death of my son. The Cheo smiles, and scatters sparkly dust at us. There’s a huge bang and we are knocked on our arses. My son is openly grinning now. He is clearly revelling in this chance to show his superiority. “You evil old bitch,” he says, and my spirit is scalded. “You can’t kill me,” he brags. “You can’t…” And he is engulfed in fire, and burns to the bone before our eyes.

And then I reach for the memory of my reaction to the video playback of his death. I howl with horror, as my son dies in front of me.

Then I rewind the disc player. I play the memory of my son dying; and continue into the memory of my howl of horror; and this time I continue on to experience my perception of the moment when I perceived myself howling with horror. I feel myself feeling myself feeling the horror. And then… Stop this, Lena.

I try to rewind the disc player. But the power has been turned off. I jab angrily at the switch.

Turn it on! I say furiously to my remote computer. But the computer will not reply. All the power is gone. I cannot listen to my memories, I cannot make new memories. I am trapped in a present tense of grief.

My son burns… the memory comes to my mind unbidden, and I am racked with sobs. The tears won’t flow, my cheeks are dry, but I am screaming and howling with grief again now and I can’t access the neural tape player I can’t access my memories so I have no choice but to ride the waves of pain and grief and self-recrimination I know he was a bastard and a monster but he suckled at my breast, his cheeks glowed at the richness of my milk, I bathed his naked body when he was fresh from my womb, I made him laugh his first laugh, he thought I was wonderful he loved me he saw no fault in me and now he’s dead and I killed him…

I stab the power switch again. It doesn’t work. No voices in my head. Just me. Just me.

How could I have done it?

Just me.

Just me! A mother who murdered her…

Just me. It’s okay, Lena, it’s okay to grieve.

I howl, like a dog, until my lungs rasp and my jaw aches. And for a few precious moments, I exist entirely inside my pain.

Then appalling self-consciousness returns. And I find myself wondering, self-analysing, doubting, retreading endlessly trodden ground.

I fear I will spend an eternity like this.

Later, I eat. I cook the meal myself – steak, in Madeira sauce, with three bottles of rich red wine. It’s perfectly done, though I burn myself putting the steak on the plate and have to put my hand in the MedBox before I can start eating. But I heal quickly, and then I savour the melty blood texture of the prime sirloin steak and the rich, haunting flavours of truffle and wild oyster in the sauce. I play Bach’s sonata in G Minor for violin in my inner ear as I eat, and I slosh the wine back generously – three bottles, a bottle more than I normally allow myself. By the end of the meal, I am so drunk my vision swims, and I start to think about vomiting. Then my cerebral filters kick in and I am semi-sober. Just nicely pissed.

After that, I eat creme brulee with dried apricots washed down with Turcoman brandy and petits fours and some of those lovely slithery chocolates that are bioengineered to ooze off the plate and down the table leg to freedom if you don’t eat them swiftly and ruthlessly enough. So, of course, I do – none escape!

And I think about the flame beasts, and their strange solitary lives. And their remorseless fascination with the insanities of the human race. Alby’s species have achieved stasis, and peace; and because of that, their spirits have withered. They have atrophied into cosmic voyeurs, reliant on the human race to live the lives that they themselves are unable to live. For all the many faults of the human race, at least we have not reached that drab state: of being alive, but not knowing whether it is worth it.

But since their discovery of mankind, the flame beasts have had a new lease of life. Their culture has flourished and been inspired. They have copied our art forms, and studied our ways in intense detail. And, above all, they have become addicted to our television dramas, and our political crises and wars. We have helped turn a species of superminds into avid watchers of reality TV.

But the truth is that we, the human race, are their show.

I mull about all this, and I find myself wondering: now that Earth has been liberated, what will happen with the flame beasts? Will they lose interest in us, now that tyranny and oppression have been eradicated? Will we lose their patronage, and their blessing?

I think a little more. Alby always baffled me, and frightened me. But now, with leisure, and endless access to the memories of our time together, I am starting to make sense of him. I realise he had a droll sense of humour, and a sharp understanding of Flanagan’s hidden strategy. And I realise, too, that he played a much greater part in the final climax than Flanagan himself ever realised.

For I saw a light flickering on the day in Parliament. I thought it was a firefly. But in London? In daylight? Then the Cheo burned before our eyes, despite his force fields, despite his body armour. It would take the light of a thousand stars to burn through those defences; but it happened.

That light was Alby. He was with us, all along, watching.

That’s a very scary notion, at first thought.

But at second thought, it is even scarier.

And now, over the course of ten slow and thought-heavy years, it has become the scariest thought ever. Because I realise that, in order to be present on Earth during our final battle, Alby must possess the power to travel faster than light – to move instantaneously through space. But since nothing can travel faster than light, this means that Alby must somehow be able to manipulate quantum states.

Which means he doesn’t need a Beacon; his species are naturally quantised, able to slip through the cracks in reality.

Which means…

… or so I now suspect, basing my opinion on the very strict mathematical rules which determine “quantum action at a distance”.. .

… the flame beasts must have become quantum-entangled at a very early stage in the existence of the Universe. In other words: there must have been a time in the pre-expanding Universe when all the flame beasts existed as a single finite bundle.

And so, I further theorise, at the very moment of the birth of the original Singularity which spawned the Universe, the first sentient flame beast was created. And then after the Big Bang, the flame beasts were scattered to every sector of the expanding cosmos.

And now, countless hundreds of millions of years later, the flame beasts are still interconnected at a fundamental quantum level. They can go anywhere; they can die in one part of the Universe, and be reborn instantly somewhere else.

Just think what this actually means! The flame beasts are not just a very very old species. They were, if I’m right, the first. They aren’t gods – far from it – they were generated by the same process of emergent self-organisation which created every other animate and non-animate entity. But at the dawn of the Universe they were that dawn.

“And God said, Let there be light; and there was light.” And that light was intelligent.

I am awed, and humbled. The flame beasts have lived so long that they have seen everything there is to see. And they inhabit or have inhabited every single conceivable part of the Universe.

And yet, their greatest pleasure is watching our TV shows?

Suddenly, I’m not so awed, not nearly so humbled.

Oh boy.

They’ve lied to us, too. For all this time, the flame beasts have pretended that they are confined to a single star. In fact, they exist everywhere. They are the conquerors of the Universe. And if they so chose, we would be their slave race.

But what would be the point? Would we, the human race, make slaves out of ants, or beetles, or ladybirds? That is the only reason we are still free; because we are so insignificant.

But the flame beasts do enjoy us. They savour our violence, our unreliability. They love to see us murder, torture, rape and maim. That, and our television soap operas, gives them their kicks.

I remember the wild nights of passion I spent with Flanagan, the light flickering above our bunk. The light flickering. Who would have thought that flame beasts could be so damned perverted?

I shudder. And I wonder what the rest of humanity would do if they knew what I knew? Would they sink into despair? Would it shatter the self-confidence of the human race?

Best not to take that chance.

And so, if you’re agreed, my loyal computer, this must always be our secret. Agreed.

Have you always known all this? Of course.

Damn. You really are a fucking know all. I hate you sometimes. So I have observed.

I try to teach myself blues guitar. But I find it too annoyingly easy. Base chord for four bars, up four chords for two bars, up one chord for two bars, back to base chord for four bars. Christ! This is music for idiots.

So instead, I practise my scales, I harden my fingertips with keratin cream, and within a year I am able to play fairly accomplished flamenco guitar. I find the rhythms captivating and haunting, and I feel affinity for the spirit of duende which is the essence of this style.

I record hours of material, then I play it back to myself as I strip naked and slowly dress myself in crotch-hugging knickers and a vividly red Spanish dress that leaves a large portion of my amble bosom bare, and then I dance and stamp my way through a flamenco dance routine.

Then I dress myself as a toreador, in tight trousers and a sharp picador blade, and I prowl across the room as I replay a 3D hologram of myself flamenco-dancing to the sound of myself playing acoustic guitar, and the air is shredded by the whish-whish-whish of my blade as my feet stamp and my fingers strum.

Then that palls. I hurl the guitar out into space and I try to learn chess. I find it very annoying, and I start to devise better rules. Instead of all those pawns, for instance, I create a whole series of pieces with clearly defined functions and rules of play – the Thief, the Whore, the Boss, the Bully, the Victim, and so on. Then I invent new rules for the King and Queen so that their powers wax and wane according to how well they are ruling their respective realm.

This proves to be a delightful challenge, and I resolve to patent my new game by transmitting the details via the Universal Web to the Galactic Patent Office. Then I recall I cannot do such a thing, because ever since the Beacons were all destroyed, the Universal Web is no more, and the Galactic Patent Office is now defunct.

I could of course use my remote computer to contact the Earth Patent Office from my location in deep space, hence betraying the secret that I am the custodian of the last surviving Quantum Beacon… but that would expose me to danger and/or the loss of my remote computer link. So I shan’t do that.

So I end up feeling very vexed and frustrated indeed. I content myself with creating a new type of pastry, that continues to rise as you are eating the pie.

And my yacht continues to sail, deeper and deeper into uncharted space, etc. etc. etc. And I remember my final night of love with Flanagan. We… we… I don’t quite recall. It was… it was…

I cue the memory subvocally via my remote computer (“Flanagan, last night together, from the meal onwards”), and then I press “Play” on my neural player. And the disc plays, and creates the total simulacrum of everything that happened that night from the meal onwards… I eat venison, Flanagan eats vegetarian steak, I drink wine, he drinks beer. He belches after one particularly large gulp, I feel the flavour of his breath hovering in the air between us, and he has the grace to look chagrined. We are both exhilarated, shaking with emotion. All previous conflicts and disagreements between us are forgotten after our virtual journey to Earth. We have been on the most amazing adventure and we are unable to believe, really, that we have finally triumphed. The mood becomes relaxed, and then romantic, then erotic. Flanagan is wary. He is afraid, I think, I will play my sex-and-death trick again. But I am in no mood for that. We finish our meal. We feed each other pudding. Then we rest a while. Then we kiss, we undress, I stroke him into arousal. He touches my skin in that gorgeous way he has and makes my body sing with desire. His lovemaking is slow, but never methodical. He kisses my arms, first one, then the other, on the inside of the spot where the arm bends to form the elbow. Then as he fucks me faster, he kisses me carefully on the cheeks in the same manner – first one cheek, then the other, then the first cheek, then the other, and so on, and so forth, and so on, and so forth, and all the while, fucking me with an energy that exhilarates and impassions me. And later, as our bodies are curled and nestled, we talk: “Was that your idea of a joke?” “What?” “Back on Earth. The two inch cock.” “Ah.” “Bitch!” “I thought you’d appreciate that extra quarter inch.” “I did. Thank you.” “You’re welcome.” “You’re not such a bitch.” “What would you know, you barbarian?” And then he falls asleep, still smiling. (I rewind.) He falls asleep, still smiling. (I rewind.) He falls asleep, still smiling. (I rewind.) He falls asleep, still smiling. And I creep out of the cabin. I pack my few possessions and hack the code for the hold. I activate the liferaft and shoot out into open space.

It took my computer three months to rebuild my space yacht, using nanobots to mould the hull out of the raw materials of space. During that time, I got frequent messages from Flanagan on my ear-radio. I ignored them all. And when the yacht was ready, I decamped from the liferaft, stood on the bridge of my beloved vessel, tacked into the nearest sun, got a sail full of stellar wind, and soared off into the cosmos.

I’ve now travelled scores of light-years. I’m glad, after all that has happened, to be alone again. I compose. I write poems. I polish and amend my memoirs. I am sad, most of the time.

But my pride could no longer bear the shame of it all. Flanagan duped me at every stage – even at the end. He played me in the same way I have always played others. He made a puppet of me. And for what? For the sake of humanity. Well, fair enough. His motives were sound. But the humiliation still rankles. And I can never forget the fact that he coaxed me, lured me, seduced me into killing my own…

… I killed my own…

What kind of mother am I?

That’s why I fled. Whatever my feelings for Flanagan, despite my love for him, my passion, my need, I would rather be proud and alone than stay with him knowing that he has made me into a… a… You’re not alone.

… a… what’s the word I’m looking for? It doesn’t matter. I said, you’re not alone.

Piss off tinbrain. Please yourself.

I always do.

I sail, deeper and deeper into space, away from inhabited planets, towards the great unknown, a virgin footstep in the…

“Oh fuck.” I’ve spoken aloud. The words shatter the silence of the bridge. I realise how unused I’ve become to the sound of the actual human voice, in my ship’s actual acoustic. All the voices I hear are memory voices, or the voices in my head. I am unused to… You’re free-associating Lena, try and concentrate.

Yes, I’m sorry, I say to my remote computer, subvocally. Then I berate myself; sorry? What am I thinking of, I can’t apologise to.. .

I return to full focus on my present-tense reality. I am Lena, I am on a space yacht, travelling through uncharted space. Yes. I’ve got that. And, yes, on my vidscreen, I see a dot. The dot gets larger. And larger still. I see an insignia on the hull of the spaceship. It is a skull, crossed with bones.

Oh no. The pirate emblem.

I knew that! Of course you did.

Is it Flanagan? Fair bet.

Let’s outrun him. Tricky, he’s got a state-of-the-art ion drive, and we’re far from the nearest star.

Then let’s throw some bombs.

I discharge two torpedoes from my stern. The torpedoes explode, scattering light and debris. Then the pressure wave from the explosion comes crashing into my stellar sails.

My yacht soars forward, leaping and juddering at extraordinary speed. Flanagan’s ship comes roaring through the wreckage of the explosion. He’s sending us a vid message.

Ignore it. Accelerate. I’m accelerating. We’re losing him.

He’s accelerated to. 8 light speed. But we are cruising at a comfortable. 9 ls. That’s what comes of having the most sophisticated space yacht in the entire human universe. We sail and rocket and hurtle through space.

But now a cluster of memories assail me. These are not RAM-recorded replicas of my sensory experiences and subvocal communications. I do not access my computer, I do not press “Play’, these are real memories, my memories, images from the deep dark pool of my unconsciousness, and they leap at me unbidden, goading, prompting, luring. I remember: Flanagan beheading a merchant captain. A bloodlust fills his eyes. I am filled with horror. Flanagan singing his song in the Pirates’ Hall. Flanagan in battle, on the planet Cambria. Flanagan asleep, his beard knotted, his face creased and wrinkled, snoring and snorting, after we have just made love. Flanagan sneering at me. Flanagan mocking me. Flanagan…

Enough!

Slow the ship down, I say subvocally, to my remote computer. What?

You heard me. He’ll catch up with us.

Yeah, I know. I thought you wanted solitude.

I am silent and without thought for a considerable number of seconds.

Then I subvocalise again, in answer to my computer’s query. I say: No. I just wanted to know if he would chase me.

Flanagan’s voice comes through on our intercom.

“Lena, you wizened old witch. We have unfinished business!”

“Fuck off, Flanagan.” You still want me to slow down?

Of course. We are decelerating to. 65 light speed.

Is he gaining on us? Yes.

Do we have any champagne on ice? Yes.

What should I wear? I’ll pick something out for you. Something suitably… sluttish.

You’re an angel. Thank you.

And so, through the dark empyrean, surrounded by the twinkle of ancient distant stars, pursued by a grey-haired rampant pirate who loves me, I sail…

And sail…

And sail

I watch the bridge vidscreen as Flanagan’s ship gets closer, and closer still. And I wait for my pirate love to capture me.

And as I wait, I sing: “ There is a house, in New Orleans,”

In my ear, a guitar backing strums, a bass riff dances below the melody, drums tap out a steady beat.

“ They calllllll the Riiiiising Sun! ” My voice soars high and loud and proud.

And then it is joined by the sound of my inner voice, my remote computer, which sings along with me with a spirit and a soulfulness that I would never have expected:

“It’s been the ruin “It’s been the ruin

Of many a poor boy Of many a poor girl

And me, O God, And me, O God,

For one.” For one.”