Philip Palmer - Debatable Space

I hope…

Lena Here I am.

Poised!

Pivoted!

Open to all possibilities. At this moment, I can do anything. I can dance, I can enact a kata, I can write a poem, a chapter, I can dream a painting, but instead I click my fingers and conjure up an orchestra…

… and the strings begin their sad lament. Bassoon, oboe, the crash of timpani. I conduct, I slow down the tempo. What is this? John Mulvey’s Concerto for Horn.

I knew that. One of your especial favourites. You played it when we journeyed towards that picturesque double star in BDDU77, on the day you asked me to list the ten greatest athletes of the twenty-second century.

Are you prompting me or something? Do you feel my memory is deficient? No, no, far from it. Keep focused, Lena. The strings keep missing their cue. The timpani are too loud. The tempo is too slow.

The tempo is just great.

I speed the tempo up, I grimace at the string players, I catch the eye of the imaginary timpani player and he takes my hint. My conducting becomes more precise, and yet more impassioned. I ride the waves of sound, I become the music, the music becomes me, we are lost in a union of beauty and rhythm, ah, pluck, blow, soar, my heart in hiding stirs to the age-old rhythm of the, this is just a draft, remind me of this tonight I’ll patch in some brilliant metaphor, The music plucks me as I soar to an infinite crescendo.

That’ll do. Why are they playing this bit? What happened to the other bit, with the twiddly violins? They played the twiddly violin bit already.

I throw my baton down. Enough! This game doesn’t amuse me any more. The music stops.

I go into cat stance, but the kata doesn’t flow.

I’ve lost my mojo. A temporary blip.

Don’t bolster me. You think I’m a child? I refuse to be patronisingly comforted. Forgive me, I forget sometimes, I am dealing with an artist.

Indeed you do. You are preoccupied with Flanagan.

The evil little fuck. Yes he is.

I can read him like a book. Naturally.

I said no to his idiotic offer – but he behaves as if I said yes. It’s a Denial of Reality technique, combined with persistent coaxing, like a wave eroding a cliff. It’s a method that often works, I’ve used it often myself. But it won’t work on me. I can see his game! Indeed.

“Flattery”. He’s using Flattery on me! Ah, you’re much too astute to be caught by such a crude gambit.

A shrewdly perceptive aside, you’re a credit to my programming. But back to the matter in hand: Flanagan has studied my archives, he knows what I like, what I’ve done. And of course, it makes me feel all warm and… glowy when he reveals that he knows these little details about me. He startled me the other day with an enthusiastic reference to You Are God, my first book. And then he said, his voice dripping with indignation of course, “How come you never got the proper credit for that?” How crude. How obvious. How pathetic. But – oh! – I felt such a surge of pleasure at his words!

Then of course seconds later, the surge desurged, the good moment popped. Because I am too smart to be fooled that way. Don’t flatter me! I do not grant you that power over me!

“Charisma’. That’s another trick he’s using on me. He has it in abundance. Flanagan has a powerful and authoritative persona, and his people are utterly loyal to him. He treats them good-naturedly but without any sentimentality. It excites me to see the power he has, I am half jealous of his self-assurance. But he is projecting these qualities, he knows I am susceptible to strength, authority, and lack of sentimentality. He has studied me well!

And “Trauma”. He has embedded a trauma deep into my mind, where it burrows like a maggot. Every night I dream of Peter as a baby, his squawling bawling face, his shitty bottom, his gurgly smile. I smile, and see my baby gurgle and laugh, gurgle and laugh… Then I realise my baby is watching me burn. I see my baby laugh as my bones char and crack!

It’s such a potent image. My own self, on fire, as my son sits and watches and chortles. The image, and the memory, hurt so much. This was the reason for the whole charade of the ransom deal: to implant that image in my mind’s eye. That symbol of my son’s betrayal and contempt for me.

Despite myself, I admire Flanagan’s artistry. He really mapped my psyche. He’s learned powerful lessons from my history of psychic warfare against target criminals. He knows how to fuck up a mind, how to gouge hope out of a woman who thought she had no hopes left.

Damn him, he’s good.

And “Boredom” is his other weapon. I wasn’t actually bored at all, before Flanagan and his crew commandeered my ship. But now I see them go about their work, training for battles that they will assuredly have to fight, and planning ambushes and combat techniques. They are so energised, so purposeful… So driven.

And as a result, activities that used to be supremely satisfying to me feel hollow and empty. I used to pride myself on mock-conducting symphonies using my computer’s data bank and my ear implant to conjure up a virtual orchestra as compelling and as present as the real thing. But now, when my orchestra plays, I hear Flanagan strumming away at his fucking guitar. It may be crap, but he plays it himself, the guitar is real, it’s there, he bangs the sides with his thumb to create a rhythm. He can actually play!

I remember my years as a concert pianist and I toy with the idea of getting my keyboard skills back. But it seems a slog, I feel swamped at how much work I would have to do to get back those split-second reflexes, that effortless dexterity, all those musical muscular memories. I have an infinity in which to live; yet I feel more impatient than ever with hard work and repetition. I prefer easier ways.

And yet my easier ways now feel barrren and dishonest.

Flanagan has me trapped in a cycle of self-doubt and self-criticism. That too is very skilful. I’m prepared for him now to do something unexpected. Something to hook my curiosity.

But what?

“Prepare to board.”

I engage my oxygen supply. Our hostage Lena is next to me, in her body armour and spacesuit, oxygen tanks strapped to her back. We are both wearing flippers, which makes us look absurd. Lena seems excited, somehow. I smell it on her.

“You’re Alliea,” she informs me, in that condescending tone she has. “The one whose husband was killed,” she says to me.

“That’s right,” I tell her.

“Killed, while trying to kidnap me.”

“No,” I correct her. “He succeeded in kidnapping you. But he was killed during the process.”

“Whatever. Do you grieve?”

“I loved him.”

“I read his personal record. He’s not much of a loss to the world is he?”

“Is that a psych tactic? We were warned about this.”

“Just keeping my hand in. You look tired and worn, barren, empty and unloved.”

“You overdo it. Ask the Captain to give you pointers.”

“Your Captain has nothing to teach me.”

The airlocks open. Water floods in, and we are thrown back against the wall. I am taken aback at the sheer force of water under pressure. I also realise, with some dismay, that there are living organisms in the water – algae and small fish. For reasons I can’t pretend to comprehend, the Dolph vessel isn’t just a spaceship. It’s a living habitat.

Lena and I swim through. She is an elegant swimmer, with a powerful stroke. I flail and splash a little, I regret having volunteered for this mission. Flanagan is behind me. Alby, for obvious reasons, has opted to give this expedition a miss. In theory he could safely inhabit an airtight spacesuit. But emotionally, for someone of his physiology, it’s far too stressful to swim underwater.