Philip Palmer - Debatable Space

“I created Heimdall.”

Another ripple; this time of astonishment.

“I was a politician, and a pioneer of the space colonisation movement. My son was on one of the second wave of spaceships that went out to settle space, he eventually landed on Meconium. A bleak, desperate planet which was never adequately terraformed. When they landed, my son was still a relatively young man. And ambitious, too. He murdered the elected President and took power himself. By this time I was a powerful woman, I was the first President of Humanity, I went by the name of Xabar.”

The ripple is a hush. It is an invisible sword, poised in the air.

“I am blamed for many things, but we had dreams in those days. My first planet was called Hope. I yearned to make it an earthly paradise. I almost succeeded. But then I was impeached, for an act of, let’s face it, cold-blooded murder. I was brain-fried, following procedures set in place and devised by myself. I became a reformed character, but also a broken woman. My son went from strength to strength.

“I know I have done bad things, but… but…” Lena wipes the tears from her eyes.

Then she continues: “What kind of Universe have we created when a mother can be apart from her child for entire centuries?

“I travelled into space. My son by this time had expanded his empire. And finally, accompanied by a large and ruthless army and navy, he decided to come home. He spent many many years at near-light speed. We met in space, as he journeyed to Earth to invade it. I barely recognised him. We spent some time together, he was very charming. But I found him cold, arrogant, dictatorial, and contemptuous of women. I realised: I had failed to raise him well.

“Perhaps he would always have been a monster. Or perhaps it is all my fault.

“Ask yourselves this: Is it all my fault? I know what you have suffered. Do you blame me?

“Look at my history, my life. What I have tried to achieve. Judge me by that. Don’t judge me for being a bad mother.

“But, I fear, you will.

“My companions already know the truth; my son is the Cheo. He now lives on Earth, we haven’t met for centuries. But we regularly communicate. He tells me of his various schemes. I don’t ask for it, but I am kept extremely well informed.

“I know more than any of you what this Universe is like.

“Hera, I have heard your story. You are my sister. I am your sister. Please, do not judge me for what I have done. Judge me for what I will do. Judge me with the eyes of posterity.” Ugly phrase.

Shut up, I have them in the palm of my hand.

“When I held my newborn baby in my arms, I thought that nothing could ever stop me loving him. I was wrong.”

I sit.

The silence is awkward.

Flanagan stands up. In a calm, conversational tone, he says to the assembled crowd of cut-hroats, “Who’s for war, then?”

The roar of approval almost knocks him off his feet.

“How was it? My speech?”

“Fabulous.”

“You’re not just saying that?”

“Of course not.”

“I felt it played rather well.”

“It was majestic.”

“Captain Flanagan…”

“You don’t need to say anything nice to me, Lena.”

“I may have underestimated you.”

He pauses, a twinkle in his eyes. “And I, you,” he says, gallantly.

“This is a bold thing you have embarked upon.”

“It is the grandest endeavour in all human history.”

“I admire you.”

“Thank you.”

“Will you…”

“What?”

“Hold my hand.”

“Of course.”

He does.

“And stroke my cheek.”

“If you wish.”

He does.

“And kiss me.”

“Hey now.”

The Captain looks alarmed. He is a cartoon figure with big bushy grey beard and wild eyes, and he dresses like a blind man. But I have become fond of him. I run my fingers through his hair. I press my lips to his.

After a few minutes I release my kiss.

“Is that good?” I ask him.

“Sublime.”

“You’re not just saying that.”

“Of course not.”

“Do you love me, Captain?”

“Kiss me again, if you like.”

I do. I run my fingers over his crotch. I feel his manhood stir. I do have power over him. I do. Honestly!

I do!

We are on our way.

Lena’s speech was weird. It was passionately and movingly delivered, but in many ways ill judged for its audience. It had the air of a plea for pity by a woman riddled with guilt. Which is, I guess what she is, and what it was.

I had, to be honest, expected better from her. But who cares? She has her allotted role to play, whether she knows it or not.

However, since then, we appear to have some kind of sexual “thing” going. Jamie and Brandon taunt me about it. But I’ll do whatever I need to do. Even… that. It’s a relatively small price to pay.

After Lena’s speech, I rose and spoke myself. I told the assembled pirates in the most vivid and extravagant terms about our reconquest of Cambria. I stirred the hearts of those formidable pirates. I inspired them with a vision.

War.

Not victory, not justice, not revenge. War itself and for its own sake was what these men and women yearned for. Hope had died in their hearts long ago. They had no need of worldly comforts – they’d stolen all they would ever need. And they were in no imminent danger either. The days of constant pursuit and persecution of pirate crews were long gone.

Because the truth was, the Corporation had so much wealth, it didn’t care what we stole from its vessels and cities.

For what is wealth? Any fabric, from cashmere to silk to spiderweave, can be manufactured in an orbital factory. The designs of the great designers can be transmitted around the Universe via the Beacons in less time than it takes to think a thought. Furniture and jewellery can be easily created, gold spun to order, flying cars made in a matter of minutes. Vast orbiting factories crewed by human slaves and self-manufacturing robots can create anything, easily, whether it involves the transmutation of metals, or the precise manufacture of leisure electronics, or the most skilful knitting and weaving.

All it takes to fuel this self-perpetuating infinitude of wealth is energy. And that, too, is available in near-limitless quantities. Over more than a thousand years (Earth Elapsed Time) the human race has spread itself over a small part of one small galaxy; but within this area the power available within the stars is beyond measure. For each and every star is lit and fired by a complex series of nuclear reactions which generates more energy than the human race has ever used and will ever need.

Once you have superdense power capsules which can be hurled into the sun’s core for recharging, or arrays of solar panels orbiting the star like satellites, you have access to as much power as you can desire. And then you create robot computers which can build their own replacements. And then – you have plenitude. Ecological pollution is scarcely an issue; most inhabited planets are terraformed in any case. The population explosion never registers; space is big enough for everyone, and besides, lots of slave-class humans die doing dangerous jobs. The Sol system itself is carefully controlled so that only an elite few become citizens; the rest are dispatched on colony ships. Or exterminated.

It’s a perfect, self-regulating system. Space, it seems, really is big enough.

When I was a young pirate, I realised nothing of this. I thought that by pillaging merchant ships I was striking a small but significant blow against the prevailing autocracy. I squandered wealth, I burned cargoes, in the hope of giving the Cheo sleepless nights.