Debatable Space (5 page)

Fuck, we weren’t going to bluff them
twice.

The explosion is huge and awe-inspiring. It’s as though a small sun has appeared from nowhere and gone nova. Several warships
flying close to our bomb are ripped into fragments. Other more distant ships are battered and shaken and badly damaged by
the blast.

But then the shock waves kick in. Ripples of shock roll out from the epicentre of the explosion, sonic booms mingle with energy
waves that shake the fabric of space itself.

The second wave of ships, which had survived the explosion, now find themselves being picked up by an invisible hand and hurled
aside. Warship after warship is shaken and smashed. Some crash into other warships, maiming their force fields and sending
thunderous impacts through the interiors.

It’s a game of cosmic skittles. One minute, the fleet of many thousand vessels is forging its deadstraight inexorable pursuit.
The next, they are scattered and chaotic, as shock waves turn the space around them into a whirlpool.

Then the shock waves continue outwards. They are attenuating now, but still each has terrific power, enough to shatter an
old and worse-for-wear ship like ours if the impact hit us full-on.

But instead the shock waves hit our vast sails, which buckle and ripple, but absorb the huge power of the spatial vibration.
And as the shock hits the sail, so the sail is forced forwards at terrific speed, dragging our vessel with it.

The surviving warships are regrouping. Within minutes they are back on course, weaving and tacking to mitigate the damage
of the remaining shock waves, but still firmly on our tail. Their engines surge, they resume their previous astonishing speeds.
They fly after us like birds in a thunderstorm.

But they can’t catch us. We have the power of our engines, coupled with the power of the shock waves on our sail. Each hammer
blow shoves our ship forward faster and faster, until we are scarily close to light speed. When the shock waves ebb, the sails
hang loose but our speed doesn’t slow.

We are experiencing relativity effects now. The interior of the ship is like a carnival for habitual drug users. Our perceptions
are fogging, our sense of time becoming erratic. But Alliea keeps us firmly on course, riding the wave of energy that had
slapped us through the galaxy.

Every bone in my body has been shaken and ground. I am having difficulty remembering who I am. But still onwards we sail,
faster and faster. We veer past asteroids and planets like a flashlight blinking. At these speeds, a collision with a large
enough rock would destroy us totally, but we pull in our sails, keep up our speed, and shoot through space.

I watch the battle unfold on the vidscreen in my cabin. I marvel.

Bloody hell, I think to myself.

Indeed.

“We did it Cap’n,” Alliea says.

I close my eyes, exhausted.

“Wake me up in time for the next battle,” I murmur.

And I fall asleep, in my Captain’s chair.

And I dream. Awful, terrible, stomach-churning dreams. I always do. Each of my dreams ends with my own rape and torture. I
yearn to wake myself up, to escape the horror. But I know that my body needs the rest. I need to recharge, keep my strength
up.

So I remain asleep, dreaming horrors, knowing that when I finally awake, things will be, by and large, much worse than ever
I dreamed.

I’m bored, Cap’n doesn’t need me. And so I access my secret hoard of illicit materials.

Cigarettes.

Acid tabs.

Es.

Hardcore and softcore “nudie” magazines.

Crystal meth.

I stroke the crinkled pages of the ancient centrefold mags, and caress an E and an acid tab on my tongue. But I dare not swallow.
My system is too efficient, the drugs will be swept out and purged. This is the downside of body refits, you’re obliged to
take the drug-control microchip.

There’s always the easy way. At a blink of an eye, I can use my cortical microchip to access hardcore porn images of any given
woman having sex with any given man, or other woman, or indeed, any other anything. A simple subvocal instruction will send
endorphins or adrenalin surging through my system. I can be drunk simply by saying the word “hic”, I can inhale tobacco and
feel a buzz in my veins by saying “smoke’. But it’s not the same. I love to lick the cigarette, I love to hold it in my fingers,
I love to touch the acid tabs and pills with my tongue and palate. It gives me an extra buzz.

But I never consume. I know my system won’t allow it. Virtual intoxication is easy; physical addiction is impossible. This,
I find a drag.

So I read books. This is something my system can’t purge. I read, and read. And in this manner, I pass the long long months.

The Corporation Fleet, meanwhile, continue their pursuit of us. We have a lead on them, but they have more powerful engines.
Each hour, each day, their acceleration pushes their velocity higher. And every day, the boost we received from the antimatter
bomb blast fades. We slowly ebb, they slowly flow. Sooner or later they will catch us up.

It is a high-speed chase, which goes on for ages and ages. It will take six months before they are in missile range. And at
that point, the battle will start up all over again.

Ah! What a life!

I suck a tab.

I hold a cigarette.

I scratch my fingertips on the staple in the middle of a naked centrefold’s stomach.

I dream of victory.

The Captain always tells me – Brandon, you spend too long alone. You should socialise more. But I
do
socialise!

With myself. With my books. With my fingertips. With my tongue. With my secret stash of porn. These are my companions.

The buzzer rings. “Brandon, to the bridge,” the Captain calmly says.

The enemy flight has caught up with us. We are about to be attacked.

I rub my crotch, I sniff my cigarette, I suck my acid tab, I let my eyes linger on the centrefold’s gorgeous pudendum.

Then I pull myself back into the present moment. I press a button and my door slides open. I hurry into the corridor.

It’s time for war.

Brandon appears on the bridge, pale and sweaty. “Hello,” I say to him, quietly and gently.

“Hello,” he smiles back, timidly. It’s almost four months since he has spoken to any of us. In that time, the rest of us have
partied, trained together, discussed literature and art and life and gossiped about long ago lost loves. But Brandon has kept
away from us, locked in his cabin cell. But we don’t mind. It’s his way.

Now I need him, and his navigational and cosmological skills. “Have we reached our destination?” he asks. I nod. He looks
relieved. “And are we doing that thing we, um, do?” he mutters. I nod again. He looks even more relieved.

He sits, and takes the controls. “Steady as she goes,” I say. Brandon jerks the ship sharply to port, then sharply to starboard.
We veer and lurch from side to side and eventually resume our forward direction. His little joke. It never palls.

Well, not much.

We look at the display on our vidscreen and see all around us the weirdness of a black hole nestling in warped space. This
…
thing
used to be a Type C sun, until it supernovaed and reached critical mass. Gravitational forces pulled the sun in on itself
until it shrunk to a point of almost infinite density. Now, this star is so massive that light itself cannot escape.

Jamie has researched all this; he’s a black hole nut. He actually gives them
nicknames
. (This one is the Cosmic Crusher.) Jamie is one of the band of thinkers who believe that each black hole is the gateway to
another Universe. But there’s no way of proving that, because anyone or anything that passes through a black hole ends up,
basically, squashed and dead.

With Brandon at the helm, we are now playing a game of chicken with the black hole. As our speed drops, our plan is to skim
the surface of the gravity field, and slingshot ourselves out at our top speed once more into space. One slight miscalculation
and we will be sucked into the gravity field and destroyed.

Fun, or what?

Close by the black hole is a cluster of neutron stars and mini-black holes locked in a synchronous orbit. These are the dreaded
Black Rapids. The only way to proceed through this part of space is fast and skilfully. The complex pattern of gravitational
pulls make this whole area of space a ripped and bleeding reef.

In we go: straight at the singularity, then tilting, tilting, the whole ship relativistically distorted, our huge mass makes
us a dreadnought, we are extended to the size of a galaxy and yet at the same time we are a tiny plankton hurtling into the
mouth of a whale, then attempting to creep out again.

Bish.

Bosh.

Whiish.

We are out again, on the other side of the Black Rapids. Safe.

On our screen we can see the pursuing warships on the wrong side of the Rapids slow, and then stop. A dozen of them peel away
and choose to follow us through the Black Rapids. They are, I feel confident, not volunteers.

We watch as one of them is caught in a gravitational undertow. It surges through with a burst of energy and runs straight
into a rock the size of a walnut, which contains a mini-singularity. The warship suddenly shakes, and flickers, then shatters
into a million pieces.

A second warship tacks carefully away from the black hole, but is promptly sucked into a neutron star.

All twelve ships try, and fail, and die. Several of them attempt to emulate our slingshot method. It is a knack not easily
acquired. They all get sucked into the black hole’s deadly embrace.

Whoosh. Gone. Crushed to nothingness or less.

We are safe.

I realise that for several hours, I have been hearing a buzzing sound in my ears. It is the alarm buzzer for the prisoner’s
cell.

“Go and see what she wants,” I tell Harry. “I’m going to”

I’m asleep on my feet. Brandon catches me before I fall. He sits me down.

“I’ll just have,” I say, drowsily, “a little…”

Get me out of this fucking hellhole! AIIIEEEEEE! Aiiiiiieeeeeee! AIIEEEEEEE!!!!!

I think the battle is over.

I’ve never been so afraid!

I was afraid too. I was so scared. Thank God you were here Lena, watching it with me on the cctv. Hold me, please. Hug me.
Protect me.

I can’t.

Just be here for me. You are so wise. You comfort me.

Shitting pissing blasted…

You’re smarter than they are. They fear you. They know your power. You have done so much. You have achieved so much.

My life’s a mess, I’m a loser.

You are magnificent. You are unique. You are a jewel lost in a steaming heap of shit.

Oh great metaphor, tinbrain.

The shit will be washed away. The jewel will shine. You will be restored to your place of eminence. You are marvellous. You
are wonderful. You are sublime

I feel like crap, I look like crap.

You are beautiful, you are sexy, men adore you, women envy you, I worship you, your son worships you…

The cell door opens. Harry looms in front of me. “Can it, okay? The buzzer is for if you’re dying, or having a baby. Use it
again without good reason, I’ll cut all your fingers off so you have to feed through a straw.”

The door slams. I burst into tears.

What a rotten bastard!

I can’t stop myself crying.

The damnable freak! Trust me Lena, once we’re back on top, he’ll be the first to be sexually humiliated then killed.

My body is shuddering, the tears won’t stop. The voice in my head takes on a desperate tinge:

You’re better than them. You’re marvellous. You’re wonderful. You’re sexy. They don’t understand your true power. You’re unique.

I can’t stop the tears. I cry, and cry.

Jesus, cut the fucking crap Lena.

I stop dead. The tears mist my eyes, but at least I’m not crying.

You total fucking loser, if you’re going to get us out of here, you’d better get your shit together!

Don’t speak to me like that.

Imbecile! Loser! Wanker!

All right, all right, you’ve done your work, you’ve pressed my button. I’m back in focus. But if you speak to me like that
again, I’ll reprogramme your arse tinbrain, okay?

Whatever you say, Lena. I am here to serve.

Too damned right!

“Do you like it?” asks Flanagan.

It is a bleak, forbidding planet, with looming mountains and a ghastly yellow sky. We stand in a city made of tents, plain
canvas awnings turned into a complex network of alleyways and boulevards. And we look out to acres of desert. Men ride horses
in these parts, sleek stallions and mares derived from ancient Earth bloodstock foetuses.

“I admire it.”

“Flying is possible. Would you like to… ?”

Every fibre in my being screams
no.
I could be killed, maimed, forced into yet another body replacement. And the pain, the pain . . .

“Yes,” I say. Calm, aloof, distant.

We are on the planet of Wild West. We have stopped here for rest and recreation, and to allow time for the ship’s computer
to finish some necessary repairs. Flanagan has decided to treat me with an almost medieval courtesy and respect, as his sly
way of making his kidnap of me seem morally acceptable. I refuse to accept his pathetic attempts to mollify me, of course.
And yet . . .

Well, it’s nice to get out of the ship. And since I’m here, on this actually rather beautiful and appealing low-gravity planet
with its famous thermal gusts, it seems a shame not to take advantage of the tourist attractions. “Flying is possible,” Flanagan
had said. Flying! What a wonderful idea!

We walk through the city, past screaming street traders. I see a headless five-limbed hairy beast of burden, carrying timber
on its back.

The Rotan, from the stellar system XI4.

I see stalls selling monstrous beaked creatures in a cage.

Kiwiris, the two beaks contain its brain, it eats by drooling enzymes. The beaks emit a beautiful song, and addicts of the
song of the Kiwiri are known to die of malnutrition, so rapt are they.