Philip Palmer - Debatable Space

And that isss precisssely what they have now done, in the blinding blazzzzing energy release of the human’s compressssssed-space “Big Bang Bomb”. This is the unexpected sssside effect. Ssssuperstrings made macrossssopic, for me to ssssee and hear.

I glory in what isss around me. The ssssong of the is manifessst as the Universssse itssself, in all its infinite variety. And now I can hear that sssssong, I can see that shimmering frenzzzzzy that is the origin of everything.

I bassssk in joy asss I ssshare in God’s ssssong.

And then I die, of sheer ecssstasy.

And then I am reborn.

We drink, and toast, and count the cost of victory.

It is the worst and vilest cost. All of us sit with vomit in our throats, wallowing in our own disgust. Though it was, we all concede, a brilliantly planned and executed military manoeuvre.

Picture the scene. The largest fleet of warships ever assembled and marshalled is faced with a small pirate flotilla. Millions of warships, versus hundreds of thousands. It is inconceivable that the Corporation could lose such a one-sided contest.

But they did. We slaughtered them, and left not a single robot brain intact.

And yet I feel no pride. For the truth is – the entire battle was no more than a diversionary tactic, to allow us to move on towards our real objective. I sacrificed my entire nation, in order to keep myself and my crew members safe for the task ahead.

And that is why we did not fight. We stayed back. When facing danger, we fled. And all my pirate crew stayed with me, apart from Alliea, who refused to live when her children were doomed to die.

So here we are, celebrating a victory in which we played no part. Rejoicing in the sacrifice of warriors who sacrificed themselves to save us.

It is a hollow, bitter kind of evening. But we enjoy it nonetheless.

I take my guitar and play. The strings are programmed to play old-fashioned honky-tonk piano notes; and I have programmed the guitar’s chip to give me an idiosyncratic, heartfelt bass and drums accompaniment. And my singing is carried via the intercoms to every vessel in our small fleet.

I don’t sing the blues. That would sink us entirely. Instead, I sing a gospel hymn of hope and redemption.

I sing:

“On my way

To Canaan Land

I’m on my way

Yeah, to Canaan Land

On my waaay

Oh yeah

To Canaan Land,

On my way

Glory Hallelujah

On my way.”

The piano chords smash and crash through the soaring melody and the heartfelt lyrics.

“Yes I’m on my way

To Canaan land

Yes, I’m on my way

To Canaan Land

On my waaaaaaaaaay

To Canaan Land

On my way

Glory Hallelujah

On my way.”

I raise the energy level. I sing my heart out.

“I’ve had a mighty hard time

But I’m on my way

Had a mighty hard time

Yeah yeah yeah

Mighty hard time

On my way.

On my way

Glory Hallelujah

On my way!”

I have had my vocal chords modified to help me reach the rich throaty pitch of gospel songs like this. I feel as if my skin is being ripped off and my soul itself is reaching out and touching all my comrades, those before me in the assembly room, and those in their own ships.

I think of Alliea. I have seen video footage of her lonely death in space; her choice. Her end. Her glory.

“I’ve had a mighty hard time

But I’m on my way

Had a mighty hard time

Yeah yeah yeah

Mighty hard time

O-on my way.”

I think of the many who died. Hera, Grendel, most of the Children Ships. All my own children too, forty-eight of them, died in the heat of battle. I wanted to save at least some of them, my favourite children, by keeping them in my command vessel. And I issued orders to that effect on my Captain’s email; then deleted them. And issued them again; and deleted them again. For how could I chose my favourites, among that wonderful, rebellious rabble of kids? I loved them all, equally. And how could I save my own, while sending the children of others to certain death? No! No exceptions could be made. All had to die. Their sacrifice was needed, and their sacrifice was taken.

“Yes I’m on my way

To Canaan land

Yes, I’m on my way

To Canaan Land

On my waaaaaaaaaay

To Canaan Land

On my way

Glory Hallelujah

On my way!”

I think of life and death. So much death. Rob, Alliea, my children from the ship, my wife on Pixar, our children. My crewmates. My friends. My lovers. My victims. All the countless millions who die, every year, as the casual side effect of the Cheo’s reign. And here I am, still alive. Heart still pounding. Mind still racing.

And my only consolation is the certainty that I, too, will die soon. Because with all that faces us – how could it be otherwise?

I reach the last chorus, I keep the honky-tonk piano settings, and I segue into another gospel song.

Alby

I have caught up with the shipssss. I float outside their hullsss, flickering like the ssssun on water. Through my intercom, I can hear Flanagan’sss sssssong. And I can imagine the men and women in their cabinsss and assssssembly roomssss, lisssstening, clapping, ssssinging along.

And assss I float past them in deepesssst spacccce, a flame among the starssss, I, too, hear the new ssssong he ssssings. It isss fasssst, urgent, with a ssssurging piano accompaniment; and it is a ssssong of hope, with a catchy melody that makesss the heart ssssoar:

“Oh Lord!”

Flanagan sssings, and I long for fingersss to click along to the beat. He continues:

“Oh Lord

Keep your hand on the plow

Hold on.

Oh Lord

Oh yeah

Oh Lord

Oh yeah

Keep your hand on the plough

Hold on.

Mary had three lengths of chain

And every length was in Jesus’ name.

Keep the hand on the plough

Hold on.

When I get to heaven gonna sing and shout

Be no body there gonna put me out.

Keep your hand on the plough

Hold on.

Oh Lord

Oh Lord

Oh yeah.

Keep your hand on the plough

Oh Lord

Oh yeah

Oh Lord

Oh yeah

Keep your hand on the plough

And hooooooooooooooooooooold on.”

“What’s wrong?” I ask him gently.

The wake is over. All are sober. I am in the bar with a deeply melancholic Captain Flanagan. My previous mood of perverse elation has melted away. I am now bathed in Flanagan’s despair.

“So many have died,” he says softly.

“You knew that would happen.”

“For no reason.” He looks at me blankly. “We can’t succeed.”

“We’ve destroyed a Beacon before.”

“And now they know our methods. They’ll be prepared. It’s a suicide mission.”

“Then so be it.”

“You’re prepared to die?”

“Hell no. But I’m prepared to let you all die.”

“Thank you Lena.” He smiles a wry smile. He cannot find a way around the time-lag factor.

“It’s the time-lag factor, isn’t it?” I say to him.

He is silent for a long long time.

“I knew you’d figure it out eventually,” he tells me.

I pour myself a drink. We sip. We bathe in our own misery. Every time the pirates invent a new military strategy, it may be ten or twenty years in subjective time before they can travel far enough to implement it again. But in Earth Time, those twenty years are in fact forty or even fifty years.

“Time dilation is against you. And the vast distances of space. By the time you fly from one star to another, they’ve had half a century or more to plot and counteract your next move.”

“You got it.” Every battle is recorded on every ship’s cctv and transmitted instantaneously back to Earth via the Beacons. Flanagan used an antimatter bomb once; the second time, the Earth DRs had built a net to catch it. He used the child Jamie’s computer skills to capture the Doppelganger minds on Cambria; but by now, every Doppelganger in the Universe will be Earth-Mind Read Only.