Philip Palmer - Debatable Space

“Cool, baby.”

He touches my breast with his finger and thumb, feeling the warmth of the smooth but impermeable exoarmour which, in this light, shimmers with a rainbow of subliminal images.

“Jamie!” reproves the Captain.

“You will, of course, all die,” I say calmly.

“We all die, sooner or later,” says Captain Flanagan. I fix him with another condescending stare.

“What ransom do you require?” I ask him.

“Your people will be informed, in due course. In the meantime, you will be kept under house arrest. All my people are armed with paralysing sprays, any insubordination and you will be kept in semi-coma. However, provided you can live according to the ship’s rules, you will be accorded full privileges as a prisoner of war and will be treated with courtesy, respect and dignity. We are signatories of the Post Geneva Convention, you can be assured of our professionalism and good intentions.”

“You are the shit I excrete from my arsehole,” I point out to him. “Your mothers were whores who fellated animals for money. I recoil at your presence, I have no doubt that you eat your young, alive and screaming.”

“I, ah…” The Captain blinks, a little taken aback at the vehemence of my verbal assault.

“And you’re a bitch,” says the woman, Alliea. “And your father is scum. An evil bastard fucking dictator who has crushed the life out of humanity!”

“Easy, Alliea,” says the Captain mildly.

I am shaken, but do not show it.

“You are sworn enemies of the Cheo?” I say to them. “You want to defy him?”

“We want to, uh, take lots of money off him and then run off giggling,” says the child, Jamie. And then he grins. Don’t lose your temper.

“I demand to be released.” And don’t provoke them. Let the Cheo pay the ransom, it’s only money.

“The Cheo will never negotiate with terrorists.”

“Your father is a rich man. He can afford it.”

“Surrender, or you will feel his wrath,” I tell them.

They start to laugh at me. “Surrender or you will feel his wrath!” mimics the child, in a booming B-movie voice, hopping up and down. Flanagan, too, has to cover his face with one hand to hold his laughter in.

“I will not be treated like this.”

Flanagan tries to resume his previous severe look. “You’re our prisoner now,” Flanagan says, “you’ll do as we damn well…”

I strike Flanagan in the face. He has no expectation of the blow. His skull shatters and blood flies from his nose. I whirl like the wind, claws extending from my exohands, and I slash the hamstrings of the Loper, back-kick the woman and…

Lena

I blame you. You gave me poor advice. Not so, Lena. I specifically told you not to lose your temper.

But you might have guessed I’d ignore you. (Sigh.)

How was I to know they’d be so good at fighting? These people are pirates Lena. They are deadly and seasoned warriors. You cannot defeat them with your dojo training.

My pain is infinite, my predicament painful and harrowing. This is torment, this is hell, this is hopelessly humiliating. Lena, console yourself with…

Shut up! I am in semi-coma. I can move, I can talk, I can breathe, I can eat. But…

But I feel as if I’m trapped under a massive gravitational field. Every movement is slow, so slow, slo-mo with heartburn, and each breath is an achingly prolonged rasp and wheeze.

And, I, am, ob-lig-ed, to, speak, a, syll, a, ble, at, a, time.

It, is, un, en, dur, a, ble.

Wow! She’s hot.

What a babe! A beaut.

I wonder if she fancies me?

Maybe I’m too young for her.

Or at least, I look too young. Maybe ten was a mistake. If I was eleven, or twelve, maybe I could still be a player. But women hate it when your balls haven’t dropped and you don’t need to shave. How picky is that!!!!!!

I watch her on the hidden camera, as she shuffles from wall to wall. Her face is a frozen mask. That semi-coma must hurt like hell. I wish she could see me. Come on, look at me! Here I am! Jamie! The cute one!

Even semi-paralysed, she still does it for me. Hornnyyyyyyyyyyyyy!

I assume the Captain’s planning to kill her.

Pity.

Maybe I should call in and see her? Win her over with my banter and my rare ability to fart rhythmically?

But maybe not. She might think I’m immature. She might not like it when I pick my nose and slurp the green bogies.

But on the other hand… maybe I’m just too good for her.

I prefer that. I’m too good for her!

Nyaaahhh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Brandon

“I… have… a… complaint,” she says.

“Take it up with the Captain,” I tell her.

“I… can’t…………………………………….”

I die of boredom waiting for her to finish her sentence.

“…………… eat.”

“I’ll inject you.”

I take out a compressed-air syringe. Connect it up to a food vial. She is looking at me with weary eyes.

“B……. r……. a……. a.”

“Brandon,” I say, ending her interminable attempt at speaking my name.

She looks at me. Her eyes are pools of sorrow. She radiates vulnerability, passion, grace, beauty, she is a woman a man could happily die for.

“You made your bed, lie in it,” I tell her curtly. I inject the food.

Her look curdles into one of pure hate. Speaking is too tiring for her, so she just uses the resources of her penetrating stare.

“M… y……. f……. a……. th…”

“I don’t want to hear about your father.”

I leave.

Behind me, I hear a stifled, semi-comatose sob. I feel a pang of pity for her.

My dream was to be a musician. I studied Spanish guitar, electric guitar, jazz guitar, fusion-techno guitar, keyboards, composition. After I escaped from my home planet of Cambria, and I’d got my head free of all the shit that happened there, I spent twenty years working on my music. I composed, I played, I mastered new instruments, I worked seven days a week, getting ready for my launch on galactic television. I lived and breathed music.

Blues, boogie-woogie, reggae, hip-hop, techno, garage, Cuban fusion, bluegrass, flamenco soul and electro-soul, numusic, Jig Jag, gospel – I was the acknowledged master of all the revered historical musical styles. Modern styles held little appeal for me, I was the king of retro. But I was filled with an exhilarating sense that, by some magical process, I was creating my own musical synthesis. I was combining style with content, soul and rhythmic energy, and I wrote lyrics that cut and shredded the listener with their passion and which oozed and dripped and slimed sarcasm and attitude. My combo was called Flanagan’s Band, and we were going places.

Then my wife and children were wiped out by an asteroid strike.

We were living at the time on the planet Pixar, one of the “Free Worlds”. It was a warm, pleasant planet with gorgeous lakes and no seas. Pixar had two moons, and was subject to terrific tidal forces that caused regular flooding. But we all lived in houses that converted easily from outdoor to underwater living. And there was something about the air… it was oxygen-rich, low in impurities, and the act of breathing it in made you feel good.

Then the asteroid hit us. It was an astonishing, epic catastrophe, which for the inhabitants of Pixar was totally unexpected and beyond our wildest imaginings. It led to the extinction of millions of species and the end of civilisation on the planet. The atmosphere leached temporarily into space, volcanos erupted, entire continents ripped into segments, and the resulting earthquakes spewed up the planetary depths on to the surface.