Debatable Space (24 page)

What!

“And why should I agree to that idiotic idea?” I snap.

“You don’t have to. You’ve shown us what we have to do. Now, you can go. Take the yacht. We’ll make sure you have sufficient
oxygen this time. Nice meeting you.”

I make a petulant face. “Go!” he insists. “We don’t need you any more!”

Lena, this is a patronisingly obvious piece of manipulation.

“Go you cowardly bitch!” Jamie snarls.

“Please go,” says Flanagan. “Save yourself! I couldn’t bear you to be hurt.”

“Lena,” says Kalen, imploringly. “You’ve done enough, it’s our battle now.”

“It probably won’t work anyway,” says Brandon snidely. “I mean, what would
you
know about quantum engineering?”

A sheet of flame hits the ceiling. Globules of fiery tears drip from ceiling to floor.

“Lena,” hisses Alby, “I admire you sssso very much.”

“I’m staying,” I tell Flanagan, stubbornly.

Oh, Lena.

This is not my idea of battle. I’m strapped to a chair, my furred limbs in restraints, wires leading into my brain. In the
world outside, warships are on their way to destroy and explode me. But I, meanwhile, will be in cyberspace, inhabiting a
robot body, fighting on a world which is not my own, for a people who are not my own, in a cause which is not my own.

I signed up for this, apparently.

Curiously, I feel a surge of curiosity. What will it be like, I wonder, not to be me?

Not to be Loper?

To be, so very nearly, a proper human being?

As I prepare for battle, I relax by mulling over the principles of the Quantum Beacons and Heimdall. The mathematics is formidably
hard, and to be honest, I have forgotten whatever I once knew. But the basic principle is:

(Are you getting this?)

Of course.

The basic principle is: Matter cannot travel faster than the speed of light. Einstein proved it, and no one since has found
a way around it. This constitutes an absolute limit on human progress. We cannot ever travel the other galaxies and stars,
let alone traverse the Universe, or master the myriad worlds of creation. It takes too long to get there.

But, without wishing to brag, as the creator of Heimdall, or co-creator, or major inspirer of, or considerable influence on
the development of – well anyway! regardless of what my actual role was; in the construction of Heimdall, we found a way to
solve the conundrum. The twin-track colonisation of space. And it was a masterly solution. You see, we . . .

You’ve explained all this.

Hush, Now, let me tell the story chronologically. After the first robot landfall on Hope, the other colony ships began to
reach their destinations. And each colony was equipped with infinite energy resources thanks to the energy pumps; and remained
in constant instant contact with Earth, thanks to Heimdall. The manipulation of quantum states means, as I have indeed explained
before, but I’m recapping now for the benefit of the slower-witted among you; this manipulation allows for the instantaneous
transmission of information. So in effect, we have a Universe in which distances are vast and onerous to travel; but in which
email and phone communication are instant and effortless.

And thus, and so, the other planets were colonised by the colony ships. After Hope, there was Endurance, Enterprise, Beauty,
Shiva, Mecca, Mayflower, New Earth, and a myriad other planets, since each new colony routinely built and launched its own
new colony ships.

And in order to experience and help colonise these alien planets, a human based in the Earth system has to merely sign up
for a tour of duty. The human’s body is placed in a flotation tank, and electrodes placed in the brain and on the skin and
genitals. And, on the alien planet, a Doppelganger Robot is built with the ability to experience the full gamut of sensory
data – sight, touch, hearing, pain. It thus becomes possible for a human being based on Earth to “live” on an alien planet
by switching a single switch and inhabiting the DR body.

The question is, though: why? Why give up your life on Earth, with all its luxuries and pleasures, in order to endure life
on a hellish alien planet?

Because it’s addictive
. I was totally hooked on it. My years of mainlining Hope were the best and most enjoyable of my entire life. And so many
other humans shared my excitement and addiction. A huge and tax-free salary for doing part-time DR work also helps to motivate
the Earth populace to do their duty . . .

And thanks to my son the Cheo, it is these DRs who are the dominant citizens and, indeed, masters of all the occupied planets.
And so, ultimately, it is Earth Humans who have all the power, all the control. So instead of a Universe of freely acting
nation planets, as I had always envisaged, we have a host of slave planets, run by DRs, on behalf of Earth Humans.

I played my role in creating this corrupt network of space tyranny. I take no credit for that. For once, I
ask
for no credit. I merely, each morning, in those cruel minutes before my optimism of spirit kicks in, suffer and squirm in
shame and bitter regret. For the way things are in this Universe of ours is
wrong
.

“Strap up, Lena.”

I realise we are about to launch our invasion. I look around at my army – six of us strapped into armchairs, with Kalen at
the control console.

“Let’s kick some robot ass,” says Flanagan, with an attempt at rousingness.

“It was
my
turn to say that,” Jamie tells him bitterly.

Flanagan sighs, wearily.

“Let’s go,” he says.

Six robots stand on a hilltop and look down at the rolling green hills of Cambria and breathe in fresh tangy air. The sound
of birds is shrill and lovely in the sky. The sun beats down, and the robots sweat, and feel the heat as pleasure. A two-headed
push-me-pull-you stag wanders in front of them, and one of its heads flicks a curious glance at them. But the stag has no
fear of humanoid creatures. Only humans are hunted on this planet.

I look around at my home planet and I feel a surge of pleasure that cannot be described. The here-ness, now-ness, mine-ness,
the truth of the place overwhelm me. This is a land my people created, with centuries of hard toil and bleak dangerous existence.
They died in dust storms, they were consumed in random solar flares that poured deadly radiation into every inch of the planet.
They bombed the planet’s core to release its icy heart, and used its melted water to create a planet-wide system of waterways.
They carefully nurtured Earth-born seeds and sperm and grew fields and orchards and meadows, and filled them with rabbits,
badgers, stags, dogs, butterflies, and a whole host of other flora and fauna. And solar panels in orbit around Cambria’s sun
provided limitless power to fuel this work.

I look at my fellow Doppelganger Robots. We are an imposing group. Each of us (apart from Harry) is seven foot or more in
height, heavily muscled, beautiful, graceful, godlike. Alliea DR is black, with fiery eyes, and a slender waist that is dwarfed
by perfect breasts and bulging thighs. Lena DR is coffee-coloured, deadly thin, with long white hair that sails in the wind.
Jamie DR is shaven-bald, white, with his huge arms bare and tattooed, but despite his muscle-bound physique he moves with
the grace of a leopard. Brandon is cool, lean, clad in black, with black staring eyes. And I – I am built like a gladiator.

We are all of us (apart from Harry) variations on the same theme. We are comic book wish-fulfilment fantasies made real, par
for the course for Doppelganger Robots. And our style options were, frankly, limited. There was a wide stock of out-of-service
DRs available to us to hack into, and we took the least garish ones.

But entertainingly, Harry DR stands a foot shorter than the rest of us, and has a beard, and fake glasses and spindly frame.
He is a Boffin DR, a different fantasy – wish-fulfilment for an Earth-bound Jock who wants to experience the perverse thrill
of being a weedy geek. But despite his slight physique, Harry DR has the same enhanced strength as all Doppelganger Robots.
We can run faster, punch harder, and withstand more physical pain and stress than any human born.

Today, we go to war.

It’s been four hours since we escaped from the warehouse where the DR bodies were stored, and every moment has been sheer
bliss. Apart from my brief visit to the planet Wild West, I’ve been in free space for over a hundred years. It’s wonderful
to, once again, smell flowers and cow shit, and have a skin that changes temperature as the sun goes in and out of clouds.
I feel alive.

Curiously, though, I feel disengaged from the enterprise of which I am, notionally, the leader. Flanagan defers to me constantly,
but I just murmur, “Up to you.” I feel intoxicated by life and by the newness of my oh-so-perfect body. And liberated, too,
by the lack of fear. If this body is destroyed, I can hack into another one. If a tooth falls out, I can will it to grow back.
For the duration of my stay on this planet, I am invulnerable, immortal, self-renewing.

On my return to the Quantum Beacon, however, I face certain death; curiously, that doesn’t perturb me.

After activating the six DRs in the warehouse, we worked hard on the next stage of our – Flanagan’s – plan. The other DRs
in storage were neutralised and de-brained; it will take weeks of work to restore them to working order. Then we packed a
truck with missiles, guns, body armour and camera-bots. There was no security to contend with
inside
the warehouse because, of course, in the normal course of things only Earth computers can access the interior of such places.
No one expected that the system could be breached via a conquered Quantum Beacon that allowed us to hack into the Cambrian
mainframe.

We did have to fight our way out however. It was a short sharp shock experience for the four DR guards, who found themselves
outgunned and totally taken by surprise. Their heads were blown off their bodies, causing immediate deactivation of the DR–Human
link.

In a stolen truck, we screeched a route through the city outskirts and parked near the top of the highest hill we could find.
And now, Brandon opens up the boxes and releases the camera-bots. Flanagan dials an all-sets-to-be-activated telephone number
and the ringtone on every mobile phone on the planet beeps, or hums, or sings, or plays piano or guitar or orchestra. We have
just phoned the entire planet . . .

And, when every human being on Cambria switches on his vidphone, he or she sees Flanagan and the rest of us standing on a
hilltop, in a deliberately iconic and dangerous pose. “We are your liberators,” Flanagan says earnestly into the camera, and
I feel a prickle of excitement run down my spine.

Flanagan speaks eloquently. But my mind is not on his mission, or his passion, or his eloquence. I am obsessed by the heat
on my brow, the smells in my nostrils, and my ultimate sense of power. I have the body I always dreamed of, the body of a
warrior-woman-queen-goddess. There’s only so much you can do with flesh and a human genetic heritage; I always feel my real
body is a pale imitation of the dream which inspires it.

Now I inhabit my own dream.

And in the background of my self-loving, self-glorifying hymn to myself, I dimly register Flanagan’s words:

“I am one of you. A citizen of this planet. This is a revolution. We will throw off our shackles. We will be free. All you
have to do is…”

“
Do nothing
. Whether you are on the surface, or dwelling in your underground cavern, stop what you are doing, and focus on the doing
of nothing. Sit down, if you can. Eat, if you have food, but chew silently. Do not speak, do not listen if a DR speaks to
you. Do not obey instructions from a DR. If you are shot and lie bleeding and dying on the ground, do not whimper or groan.
Die silently, die like a human, die proud.

“This is our only weapon. We withdraw our servitude. We refuse to be slaves. We will die, rather than be slaves. Keep your
eyes on this screen. Die proud.”

Yeah, what a really great plan. Everyone dies.

This is so humiliating. Everyone else has a great bod, and I’m stuck in this fucking geek physique. I have pimples. My knees
knock. I have a nervous twitch.

This is the battle of a lifetime, and it’s being filmed. They’ll be releasing DVs of this for centuries to come. And I look
like a prat.
And
I’ve got a nervous twitch!

I want to growl with rage, but I can’t even do that. It comes out as… nerdy whine.

ARRRGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHaaaaaaagh!

“Good speech, Flanagan,” I say.

“It was, wasn’t it?”

“Your projection was good too.”

“Was I charismatic?”

“I think you got the point across.”

“I guess I’m pretty damn gorgeous, aren’t I?”

I look at him. Despite myself, I feel a swamp of pleasure in my groin.

“It’s not real. You’re a phoney, a cliché hunk. Ersatz.”

“Yeah, but you’re hot for me.”

“I could be, in other circumstances. Like, er.” I’ve lost it. Flanagan DR beams at me. Arrogant bastard.

I point at the horizon. Enemy forces are clustering.

“We’ve got no chance, you know. Why don’t we just run away?”

“Keep your voice down. We’re on camera.”

I glare arrogantly at the camera. Flanagan looks imperious.

All around the world, on his say-so, people die.

“Take your position, Brandon.”

“Aye aye, Cap’n,” I say.

All hell breaks loose.

The DR army has encircled the hill. Gun ’copters fly above us and missiles rain down. But hidden in the trees, operated by
Alliea, we have an automated ack-ack machine that laser-spots all incoming missiles and creates an impervious shield above
our heads. Alliea’s job is to run from location to location with the ack-ack machine so they cannot ever target where the
missiles are coming from.