Debatable Space (32 page)

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.

I can’t imagine a better childhood.

I’ve read lots of books, of course, about children on other planets. Novels about girls in a boarding school on the colony
of Arcadia, where every child comes from genetically superior stock and the teachers are all Nobel Prize winners. And stories
about boys and girls living on an early settlement in the Asteroid belt, always getting into mischief. And my mum has always
encouraged me to read the ancient Earth texts to “help define the nature of childhood”. Books like
Swallows and Amazons, Five Children and It, The Railway Children, Tracy Beaker, Arabella and Her Orphan Family on Mars
and
Dragos.

But I am being raised on the
Rustbucket
, a Type 3 warship which sails with the pirate horde fleet to wage war against an evil empire. Our ship has a vast central
atrium which has been turned into a virtual museum of Earth habitats. Our play area was usually a tropical rainforest; but
we could swap programs whenever we wanted in search of the perfect environment. One day we would be nomads in the Gobi Desert;
another day we would be cowboys and Indians in Earth’s Monument Valley. We could do anything, be anywhere. Perfect!

We could program virtual-activity games too – we fought monsters and zombies and we piloted spaceships and rode horses and
competed in dance tournaments. But the best thing of all was just wandering the ship itself – climbing up and down ladders
into deserted bits of the ship with bulkheads and portholes and computer screens buzzing with activity.

I loved the porthole zone, where they had those huge huge windows that gave you a panorama of the space outside our ship.
If you stared for long enough, the ship itself would vanish and you’d feel like a particle of matter floating through the
Universe for ever and ever and ever and ever.

We also found a way into the engine room. It meant climbing through narrow pipeways, using cable for rope, leaping across
live fusion chambers. I loved the throb of power of the fusion drive, and the clicking of microcomputers. I imagined I was
in the belly of some mythical beast, a whale or a space-travelling orc. And every night, my mother would tell me stories of
faraway lands and princes and princesses and oppressive ghastly tyrants who were hanged or castrated or crucified, which served
them bloody well right.

But the most fun of all was when we trained. Sometimes we got hurt – I had my skull fractured twice, and every limb got broken
when I fell off a floating disk and landed badly. But that didn’t worry me, it was all part of the rough and tumble. And I
much preferred real combat to playing virtual-reality warrior games. I got a real buzz whenever I strapped on a real sword,
or charged up a laser blaster. And became a
warrior
.

I was taught the art of kendo by my Uncle Harry; and it was hilarious! Whenever I hit him on the shin, he would growl and
dribble spit down his fur. Uncle Brandon taught me how to build bombs and mentally calibrate distances before throwing grenades
and flares and poison balls. And Uncle Alby was always there, flickering and snickering around, making dry sarcastic hissy
comments. I loved Uncle Alby best, he was so funny, and so silly. Once, he hid in my pocket, and no one knew until my trousers
caught fire and he crept sheepishly out!

We had a gang, of course, and I was the leader, because I was the fastest, and the strongest, even though I’m a girl. The
gang members were my brothers Jack, Roger, Rob Junior and Ajax, my dorm mates Ginger, Gorgon, Frank and Piers, my sisters
Persephone and Shiva and Hilary and Silver and Garnet and Ji, and Holly, who came from another dorm but liked to hang out
with us. Jack was my best friend when I was little. But now I’m all grown up and eleven years old, I spend more time with
Gorgon. He is a cheeky monster of a boy, he takes no shit from no one. Uncle Flanagan used to try and tell him off, but it
never worked. Gorgon worked out that children could get away with anything, provided they kept up their training routine.
He sleeps late and never tidies anything even when he’s the one who made the mess and he eats three ice creams at a single
sitting. He has two mothers, Jenny and Molly, and they scream and swear at him, but he takes no notice. Because Gorgon is
a natural flier, he can zoom around on a jet pack like a Dolph swimming in the ocean. So Uncle Flanagan always says, “Leave
the boy alone.”

My mum, Alliea, is an important person on the ship. I can tell that. Uncle Flanagan always asks her advice before taking important
decisions. And although Uncle Flanagan is in charge of everything and everyone, when they’re with us children,
Alliea
gives the orders. She once made Uncle Flanagan help her build a raft for us to sail down a virtual river. He started with
a pile of logs and some twine, and after an hour he was swearing like, well, like a pirate. But Alliea just scolded him like
a ten-year-old, and he grimaced and groaned and took it. So who’s the boss there then! I think my mum is pretty cool. I like
Aunt Hera too.

I know that there will be a war when we reach our destination. I know that many of us will die and it will be horrible. But
I imagine, also, it will be quite fun.

I’ve lived all my life in outer space, on a warship sailing between planets. Who could ask for anything more wonderful than
that?

I am in the gym when the call comes through. But I am distracted. I stare at myself in the gym mirror and I realise with horror
–
I have grey hairs in my body fur
. “This journey is taking too damn long,” I snarl. But then I hear the sound of the beeper.

War stations.

We run towards our positions. In every corridor, wall screens show us images of the Corporation fleet that has assembled against
us. It is very very big. Then the screen switches to another camera’s perspective. It is more than very big. It is
vast
.

On the vidscreen, like ocean waves, I see the warships of the Galactic Corporation sweep towards us. And in the real world,
I see a female Loper pirate standing near me in the corridor. We lock eyes. It will be some time before the infantry have
a role to play. There is time, just about, for some fur on fur. We move off together and find an empty cabin.

As she manipulates my sexual organ, the girl Loper laughs. “You have grey fur,” she said.

“I’m having it regrown,” I growl irritably at her.

“I think it’s kind of cute,” she purrs, and for the first time in a long long while, I feel relaxed and content.

I hear the alarm siren that tells me combat is about to commence. And I run up the ramps all the way to the bridge and end
up too breathless to speak. “Hi,” I gasp.