Debatable Space (46 page)

Time stands still for me. I am swamped in a universe of regret. It is one thing, I realise, to kill your child. And another
thing entirely to
try
to kill your child, and fail.

And now, Peter is levelling a plasma gun at me. His face abruptly distorts with rage and hate. I cannot blame him. But . .
.

I lunge at him with my sword. I will kill him before he can kill me. I will…

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 has killed or destroyed everyone else in the room; only we three remain. And now he 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. He strikes again, with dazzling speed, but 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 strike home. 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, and I decide . . .

Get me out of here, tinbrain!

I can’t. My systems are disabled.

What?

“Yes, you old fucking whore bitch, you’re trapped,” says Peter. “You can’t escape, and you can’t kill me. You can’t…”

And he is engulfed in fire, and burns to the bone before our eyes.

There is a stunned, shocked, awful silence.

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

Then the doors rip open and a new army of the Cheo’s guards move in on us. We slash and kill, slash and kill. Robot guards
pour laser beams and missiles into us. Then one of them grabs a sword, and my eyes are whirling round madly. My head is off.

“Flanagan,” I murmur, but he can’t hear me, and I can’t speak.

I wake in my human body.

My nightmare begins.

I remember the moment of my birth.

It seems impossible I know. Perhaps it’s a false memory. But I always wonder… what if I evolved? In that long long period
when I was a frozen fertilised egg. What if I became sentient? And began to think, before I was born?

I remember pain and blood and my mother’s screaming face.

And I can also remember my mother’s face screaming and weeping, after she was flayed. The tears rested like dew on the plastic
that coated the ligaments and sinews of her skinless body.

And I remember my mother, asleep. Like a baby. A beautiful sight. When she lived with me on Earth we would watch old films
together, and she’d fall asleep beside me on the sofa. And I’d cradle her, and study her, as she wheezed, and snored. Tender,
lovely moments.

I know I have a cruel streak. And I admit, I am capable of exceptional violence. But I hope I will be remembered as a strong
leader. A fair leader. A man who made humanity safe.

But perhaps, in fact, I will never die. Technically, it’s possible.

I sowed a lot of wild oats as a young man. I did things that, perhaps, I should not have done. But I’ve grown into a god.
I have power beyond imagining. That is my rationale for doing as I have done. Though, of course, I need no rationale. Power
is an essence; embrace it, it becomes you. Never look back, never regret, never leave a glass of wine half full. If I had
a philosophy, it would be that.

I have only one fear. The death of soul. The loss of my ability to savour life. That is why I push to extremes. Rape, murder,
torture, they give me zest.

Ah. I sense them now. My mother and her pirate have arrived on Earth. But we are ready for them. Their defeat will give me
a new lease of life.

She comes to kill me, but I forgive her. When she attacks me, I’ll taunt her for a while. Then I’ll trap her mind in her robot
body, and terrify her with my power, and eventually I will spare her. Flanagan will die, though. His mind will be trapped
and tortured and, eventually, obliterated, leaving his body an empty husk on some faraway spaceship. But I will keep my mother
alive. We’ll be together again. Friends, again.

I’m waiting for you, Lena…

That will do. Record these words, and replay it to me when we have achieved victory.

Yes, Cheo.

Flanagan is tethered to the ship in his spacesuit, floating through ssspace. I fly next to him, and he tells me of hisss adventure,
and hisss great victory.

There is a sssadnesss in his sssoul. I do not understand it. Should he not be happy? Exhilarated? I am puzzzzled, and the
puzzzlement painssss me.

“What isss wrong?” I ask. But hisss answer alarmsss me. “What now?” he saysss, bitterly. “What
now
?”

“Now,” I tell him, “you mussst find a fresh challenge.” But he looksss at me blankly.

And I die.

And I am reborn. I sift through the memoriesss of the last ssssentience known as “Alby”, and I find much joy and hope and
satisssfaction. But I find something new too. A wanderlusssst.

“Flanagan,” I tell him, “goodbye.”

And I shoot off into ssspace, fassster than thought itself. My flame body acceleratesss ssswifter and sswwifter, until time
and ssspace become all and none.

And as I do this, I ssssing quietly to myself:

“What’sss the matter with the sssun?

It’s done broke down.

What’sss the matter with the sssun?

It’s done broke down.

Tell me what’sss the matter with the sssun?”

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.