Philip Palmer - Debatable Space

I hate them, and I fear them.

I am afraid.

Flanagan

“You’re very quiet, Lena.”

“I’m savouring my food.”

“It’s fresh foie gras. We found a case of it in the cargo hold.”

“You killed all those people. For foie gras?”

“It’s a Corporation merchant ship. It’s fair game. Don’t glare at me like that, Lena, it’s…”

“Whatever you say, Captain Flanagan. There, I’m looking at you nicely now.”

“You hate me, don’t you?”

“For what you have done, you have forfeited your right to life.”

“Ah, phooey.”

She eats. I hide my grin.

Yes, I’m a barbarian. At least she knows now.

Alby

We are clossse to my home. My flame burnsss brighter.

Alby is flickering and flashing like a wild fire. I can’t tell if he’s excited and emotional with homesickness, or if he’s masturbating.

Alby is my dearest friend, however strange that seems. He is weird, unfathomable, terrifying to be with, but useful if you have a tobacco habit and need a light. He is also the only member of my crew who likes my jokes. (However this may be because, as an alien, he doesn’t know any better.)

And now we’re approaching his home – the vast and glorious artificial sun called, known to humans as Flare. This is the home of the flame beasts, created by them after these energy-eating ravening sentient plasma-flame entities had devoured their own sun. Their new home of Flare is a star larger than most solar systems. In the process of creating it, the flame beasts are estimated to have eliminated 4,556,767,699 species of life, including twelve possible-sentient species. This was not from malice but from oversight; at that time, it hadn’t occurred to the flame beasts that planets could be anything other than fuel.

The flame beasts are an immensely powerful species. They cannot be attacked, invaded or intimidated, and any attempt to declare war on them would be futile. To bomb or fusion-blast them would be like throwing fingers to a hungry lion. They are immune to all disease, and cannot be affected by any poison or micro-organism.

They do have their own natural processes of decay and death, which are poorly understood. But essentially, the flame beasts are unkillable, and infinitely gifted. Every flame beast can speak every human language. And every flame beast is familiar with every detail of what happened in every century, every year and every month of human history. The flame beasts speak Mandarin Chinese and the click language Xhosa without impediment; in every other human language they have the characteristic flame-beast sibilance.

And yet, it seems, there is much that humanity can teach these beings. For the tragedy of the flame beasts is that for millions of years they have existed in a state of tedious stasis. Ennui, despair and inertia enveloped them. But since their first contact with humanity the entire species has been invigorated, and the flames have had a new lease of life.

And this is because, from human beings, the flame beasts have learned all about art, ballet, drama, opera, classical music, popular music, pyrotechnics… and soap opera. The last of these arenas of human endeavour has, to the astonishment of many academics and scientists, proved the most addictive of all. The community of flame beasts has become an avid devourer of the great and prolific long form drama output of the human colonies. They are passionate, knowledgeable and completely besotted with the folly and the stupidity of human nature, as exemplified in shows such as The Magellan Girls, Paxos: The Early Years, Martin Devonzi and His Marvellous Amazing Family, and a myriad others.

And so, as part of my barter, I come armed with a disc containing 400 hours of Argon, a sophisticated, sexy and often hilarious soap opera about a world in which time is lived backwards. The sex scenes are, trust me, to die for.

It’s time. I suit up, and join Alby in the airlock. We exit on the lee side of the ship, using the hull as a sunshield to protect us from the impossible glare of the giant sun. We are soon joined by a delegation of flame beasts, who arrive in the form of a series of shooting stars. The stars become sparkles, which explode into a series of multi-coloured supernovae. The sky crackles and explodes with colours and swirling fiery shapes.

Then the lights become a cloud, and the cloud becomes a complex pattern of light flashes. I can follow some of what the flame beasts are saying. I know that a small flash followed by a large flash followed by a small flash implies negativity. I know that a shimmering series of complexly patterned flashes alternating at the rate of 0.01 seconds per flicker denotes scepticism merged with irony with an undertow of courtesy, thus:

(and so on, and so forth.)

But as for the actual content of the flame-beast language – that is beyond any human comprehension. It is clearly some kind of binary or trinary code, but no human-built computer has ever been able to crack it.

“What do they say?” I ask Alby.

“They agree to the barter,” Alby tells me. “They will retain Lena as their prisssoner under the sssupervision of a Flare Elder, namely mysssself. In return they accept your gift of drama offeringsss, but they also ask you to particccipate in a long-term training programme for our ssspecies in the hissstory, technique and sssstylisssstic philossssophy of the music known as bluessss and boogie-woogie.”

“That’s not possible!” I exclaim, startled.

“It’sss a prerequisssite. Your expertissse precedesss you.”

“Then… I’ll do my best.”

“If you betray the bargain in any way, my people pledge a blood feud and will destroy you, your crew members, your family and your descendants in a methodical way for a period of one hundred human years.”

“Fair.”

“I feel a pang. I yearn to be with my kind.”

“Will you stay?”

“Perhapssss.”

“We need you.”

“I know.”

The sky explodes again, with light and beauty.

Alby laughs with joy. And I shudder, for his laughter is like the sound of snakes sliding down your oesophagus, and mating in your colon.

I strum a chord. Gently, letting the notes hang in the air like whisky on the palate. We are in the ship’s situation room, the acoustics are better in here.

“What’s the matter at the mill?” I say to Alby.

“What’sss the matter at the mill?” he repeats patiently.

“I got corn to grind. But I cain’t,” I tell him.

“And why iss that?” he asks me, intrigued.

“’Cause the mill’s done broke down.”

“The mill hasss done broke down?” Bafflement suffuses Alby’s every syllable.

I strum another chord, and sing gently:

“I got some corn

And I put in a sack

Johnny went to the mill

But he come right back.

What’s the matter at the mill?”

“That’s when you come in,” I tell Alby.

“What’sss the matter at the mill?”

“ No that’s my line. Your line is: ‘ It’s done broke down.’”

ALBY: “ It’sss done broke down.”

ME: “What’s the matter at the mill?”

ALBY: “It’sss done broke down.”

ME: “Well people are a talking all over town

Telling me that the mill done broke down.

I cain’t get no grinding.

’Cause the mill’s done broke down.”

US: “What’s the matter at the mill?

“It’s done broke down.

“What’s the matter at the mill?

“It’s done broke down.

“Tell me what’s the matter at the mill?”

I feel a haunting pang as our voices merge. Alby’s natural tones have modulated into a rich, evocative bluesy groan. I strum my acoustic guitar loudly, crudely, simply, from the heart.