Philip Palmer - Debatable Space

He was my hero.

We made a lot of money, and we had a huge amount of fun.

Then I was raped by a space trooper, and Rob tracked him down and killed him. I was crazed, out of control, I wanted to kill the trooper’s squadmates, on the grounds that they must have known what their friend was going to do, and should have stopped him. But Rob said no, I was out of line, making accusations without evidence. He always had a strong sense of fair play. So I calmed down, and agreed to let it be.

Then the troopers sought us out, looking for revenge, talking big to anyone who would listen about how they were all going to rape me this time. So we let ’em come, then killed the whole fucking lot of them. And we went on the run. That’s how we hooked up with Flanagan and his crew.

It’s been a good life, until now.

Now Rob is dead. And I’m alone.

Let’s raise our glasses. To Rob.

I won’t sleep. That would be like death. So I endure my torment, at the hands of these wretched pirate scum.

I stand at one end of the room. I shuffle. One, step, at, a, time.

Five hours have passed. I am dehydrating. They’ve given me a tube, I suck greedily at it.

I can hear sounds outside my room. Singing. Celebrating. A wake, for their lost colleague.

I wish we’d killed them all. That thought is immoral. You shouldn’t…

Shut. The. Fuck. Up.

Shuffle. One. Step. At.

“I hate the idea of doing this. I guess I must.”

Rob stands before us, sheepishly, his three-dimensional hologram image blinking at the camera.

“Alliea, you’re the best. I love you. The rest of you… Ah you’re a bunch of useless fucking losers. May you die shamed. May you choke on your beer. You’re alive and I’m dead, fuck the lot of you!”

We give a solid cheer to that.

“Sing with me, comrades.”

“There is a house in New Orleans

They call the Rising Sun.

It’s been the ruin of many a poor boy.

And me, O God, for one.”

We join in the singing, raucous and loud. Alliea’s contralto soars high above us. She does a jazz riff with the blues melody.

Rob segues into a tech-hop number by Singularity, to a rhythm guitar backing laid down by me. He sings:

“Soul sister, lover, brother, mother, feel my

Feel my!

Feel it, hear it, blur it, murmur it, disinter it, whirr it, yeah that’s my spirit,

Heart and soul, got no control, takes its toll, got no goal, ain’t a whole,

Hate this world, spirit’s whirled, this dimension is unfurled,

Can’t believe, cannot grieve, too tired to deceive,

Empty life, got no strife, whored my wife, ate a knife and died and woke up

In the organ banks, hey thanks, full of tranks,

Wish I was

Someone else

Somewhere else

Somewhat else

Not myself

Not with you

Don’t feel blue

Want to die

So that I

Feel my “I”

Got no “I’, got no spirit, got no “me’, disinter it, let me die, let me be, let me be, let me be,

The other guy

The other girl

Living in the other universe I curse I’m worse immersed in thirsting bursting

Feel my spirit?

I can’t feel it.

I ain’t got it.

Got no spirit.

Got no spirit.

Got no me.

Got no I.

Want to die.”

Rob stops. He and I used to be a great double act. He was the rapper, I was the bluesman. But now… Now… No more music. No more Rob. I weep.

“Shit guys, sorry,” says Rob’s hologram, “that one’s a fucking downer. Flanagan, you pissed yet?”

“I am!” I call out.

“I thought I’d finish by reading aloud all my email addresses, all 82 million of them. So keep your seats, this may take some time.” He’s grinning, foolish and silly and somehow ill at ease. “Or you know, since I’m dead now, any chance of a virtual blowjob from, ah, someone?” Rob fiddles with his trousers. But then he thinks better of it.

“Shit what’m I talking about? I’ll outlive the lot of you. I gotta go, things to do.”

The hologram vanishes.

Tears are streaming down Alliea’s cheeks.

I’m feeling horny. I want her. I want that woman so bad, and now that Rob is dead Oh shit, what did I just think? Stop it, stop it!

Alliea comes to me, I hug her. I shuffle her body round so she can’t feel my erection. I imagine taking her. But I keep my face deadpan, I cage my heart.

The crew sing another song. It is a heartbreaking lament about a space warrior who turns on his masters and leads an army to liberate his home planet. He fails and dies horribly, but the chorus has a nice melody and a great deal of oomph.

I’ll miss you Rob.

I am released from semi-coma. Captain Flanagan sits opposite me. His crewmen are near, ready to immobilise me again if necessary.

“How’s the nose?”

Flanagan winces at my words. “Broken in eleven places, jaw was shattered,” he says, carefully. “And I’m taking shots twice a day till the bone heals.”

I reach out and slap him in the face. I’m so fast, no one ever registers what has happened until “Jesus fucking Christ!” screams Flanagan.

I beam.

Flanagan is red in the face.

“I have some questions to ask you,” he snarls.

“I’ll give you some painkillers, Cap’n,” says the scrawny big-nosed woman.

“I’m fine. Lena, this is our profession. We’re not going to hurt you. We’re just going to ransom you.”

I flicker, as if about to strike again, and he flinches.

“Do you know who I am?” I say.

“Yes I think we do.”

“And do you know who you are?”

“We’re a freelance capitalist group.”

“You are the dregs of humanity. You are less than human.”

“That’s rich, coming from you.”

“You are less than animal. You are a viral infection. I’m glad we killed one of your men. I laugh myself to sleep thinking of that.”

“We’re asking for a trillion galactic credits, plus a fleet of warships, and our own sector of inhabitable space.”

I pause, stunned.

“You won’t get it,” I say coolly.

“The Cheo is a rich man.”

“He won’t pay.”

“If he doesn’t pay, you’ll die.”

“Then I’ll die, because he won’t pay. The Cheo doesn’t negotiate with kidnappers. That’s one of his rules.”

“He’ll make an exception in your case.”

“You’d be surprised.” I smile, taunting them. Shut up, Lena, you’re just giving them reasons to kill you.

“Do you know how old the Cheo is?” I ask, tauntingly.

“He’s about… a hundred?”

“Two hundred and ten. He’s had eighteen wives. Dozens of mistresses. Countless lovers. Do you know how many children he has?”

Flanagan is silent, sizing me up, apparently confused.

“You could populate a country with his children,” I explain. “He is concupiscent, fruitful, and very old. Why should he jeopardise everything for the sake of me? One daughter among thousands?”

“You’re saying we should kill you then?”

“I’m saying you should release me. He won’t pay the ransom. I’ll get my own people to pay you, I’m good for a million credits.”

“We want the Cheo to pay.”

“My money not good enough?”

“It’s a… political statement.”

I roar with laughter.

Then I ask, baffled: “What do you mean, ‘political’?”

“We are democrats. We stand against everything the Cheo represents.”

“This is droll.”

“But we know he has a soft spot for you. We know he’ll pay our ransom. He would pay ten times what we ask, to get you back. We know what we have, Lena, we know your value.” Oh fuck Lena.