Philip Palmer - Debatable Space

And I shoot off into ssspace, fassster than thought itself. My flame body acceleratesss ssswifter and sswwifter, until time and ssspace become all and none.

And as I do this, I ssssing quietly to myself:

“What’sss the matter with the sssun?

It’s done broke down.

What’sss the matter with the sssun?

It’s done broke down.

Tell me what’sss the matter with the sssun?”

The stars glisten with a rich unknowingness. I am the first human being to venture so far into the depths, into the bleak yet heart-enriching void of space where no human craft has ever… No.

The stars glisten with a rich unknowingness. I am the first human to ever venture here, I am the deflowerer of… No.

I am the first to venture here, my mind imposes on the virginness of space that ne’er before has… Absolutely not!

We have travelled a long way. Ten years have passed. I have built a new space yacht, and I sail the deep, fathomless, awe-inspiringly vast oceans of space into a region that has never before been perceived by a human consciousness. I feel I am a footprint set in fresh snow, a tiny imprint in an eternity of white which marks the end of wilderness. That’s good! Very good! Vividly expressed, and you end on an excellent metaphor!

Bollocks to that. That metaphor clunks like tin cans tied to fornicating cats. Don’t flatter me, tinbrain. I told you not to do that any more. I happen to like the metaphor! Am I not allowed an opinion?

No. Fair enough.

I spend a lot of time reflecting, and ruminating. I believe there is hope for Earth now. Flanagan made a vid of our murder of the Cheo, which we left in the care of my remote computer for Earthwide distribution. It features a full account of the battle of the pirates against the dictatorship of the Cheo, and includes a powerful and chilling documentary account of the depravities of the Cheo’s reign. I am convinced that after watching this film, the citizens of Earth will be informed enough, and humble enough, to make better choices next time.

Or, perhaps not. I marvel at the motiveless self-destructive malignancy of human kind. With all the resources that we have, with all our power and freedom – why oppress? Why persecute? Why bully?

Because, I guess, it’s fun?

My stellar yacht travels at high velocity through uncharted regions of largely empty and tedious space, for ages and ages, while inside I sit and fester and think about the past.

And I brood.

And I reproach myself.

And I inhabit my regrets.

I don’t, of course, have to rely on my own fallible human memories. Everything that has happened to me in the years since I met Flanagan has been recorded automatically in the computer memory bank. Every image, every sound, every smell, every subvocalised thought; it’s all there, neatly filed, in perfect surroundsound 3D Technicolor. Waiting for me to relive it.

So my brooding is computer-enhanced, state-of-the-art, and utterly relentless.

I slip another memory disc into the neural player. I savour a favourite once-pleasant-now-bitterly-painful memory, of flying through the air on silken wings with Flanagan on the planet of Wild West. I stand, once again, on the cliff face, and remember my thoughts:

What am I doing here?

[As I replay the memory, I am startled at the tentativeness of my thoughts and the gaucheness and naivety that underlie them.]

“Frightened?” he says.

[Go on Lena! Curl your lips, crush the arrogant bastard with your disdain!]

“Not in the least,” I reply.

[Oh fuck. Was that your best shot? I can feel you trembling, your pulse is racing. He must be aware of that, you’re playing into his hands. Calm down! Make him nervous!]

I am so very scared, I mutter subvocally to my remote computer.

[Lena, you stupid child, you’re acting like an idiot. Look at Flanagan’s face. That little half-sneer. He’s playing you like his electric guitar. No wonder he found it so easy to gull and deceive you. The signs were there, at this early stage! How could you have been so fucking dumb?!]

You’ll be fine, my remote computer assures me.

[This comforts you Lena, doesn’t it? You programmed the fucking machine to bolster you in your insecurities? Why didn’t you tell it to warn you of danger!!]

I’ll fall, and shatter every bone in my body, and the pain will send me mad, I think, wildly.

[And I’m pretty sure you’re showing it in your face, too! Never show fear, Lena. Never show weakness. Never show emotion. That’s how to handle a man. Do you really know so little?]

You won’t fall, my computer says.

[Computer, shut up!]

I MIGHT, I THINK.

[Stop listening to voices in your head, look at him! He’s giving you that kind look. He knows that you’re talking to yourself Lena! You’re a mad woman, you’re actually talking to yourself!]

“Put the harness on,” Flanagan instructs.

[See how authoritative he is. He’s pretending he hasn’t been watching you, but it’s all part of his web of deception. This entire excursion is a way of softening you up, making you fall in love with him, to bend you to his will.]

I strap myself into the flying contraption. The wings are soft, malleable, made of some plastic or PVC material that is supple yet amazingly strong.

[Told you! This is just a fucking sex game. And it’s making you horny, isn’t it? Don’t lie, I can feel it, I can sense the hormones swirling, the vagina lubricating. PVC, sheer cliff, authoritative man, the dream of flying. What a toxic brew. Christ, this man is good.]

“ Press this, and the wings fly off, and a parachute will glide you to earth,” he says.

[And Flanagan is touching you now, to demonstrate the equipment. His finger strokes your breast, but doesn’t linger…]

I nod, lips too dry to speak.

[I’m ashamed of you, Lena. You should have found a way to turn the tables on him by now.]

“If I die you won’t get your ransom,” I tell him.

[Not bad. At least you’re trying.]

“Don’t die then,” he replies.

[Oh, I feel the shiver of love that you felt then. This is when you lost the game. The moment when all was lost.] I strap on the wings. Flanagan does the same. We walk together to the cliff edge. We jump. The winds are strong, the atmosphere is thick, the wings are wafer light. I am caught in an updraft and find myself soaring. Through the sky, body arcing and bucking, legs firmly held straight, my chest and breasts squeezed and bruised by the wind. I feel a surge of exhilaration. The planet is mapped out beneath me. I am sensitive to every gust of wind, every current of air. I follow Flanagan’s lead, tilt my body and soar [Oh what joy, what bliss! I adore this memory! I fly with Flanagan, above the bleak rocks of the planet Wild West, the wind buffets me, I am alive, I am special, I am with him!]

The memory ends. I bask in my recollection of Flanagan, laughing, his skin crinkled, and wise, and kind. I revel in the memory of the joy of flying off a cliff with a man who I… loved?

But did I really love him? I am no longer sure. I slip in another disc. It is a recording of Flanagan and me having sex. I see his leathery, lined, sun-baked face close to mine, I feel my orgasm, I feel waves of… what? Revulsion? Love? Hate? How to tell the difference?

I slip in another disc. I am back on Earth with my son. We are swimming together on a Caribbean beach. He is beautiful, splashing water at me.

I feel a stirring of blind adoring love for him, and immediately I am enveloped in self-hate.

I rewind, and play it again. Love for my son; hate for myself. Love for my son; hate for myself. Love for my son…

I turn off the neural disc player. But the memories still come: Peter as a baby, bathing naked with me, Peter having a tantrum, Peter at six after he’d got lost and I was shouting at him, Peter after a terrible haircut at the age of nine, Peter playing football, Peter ranting at me because I was neglecting him, Peter’s look when I accused him of rape, Peter’s expression the day he left me to travel the stars, Peter in the ocean, naked torso gleaming, sending spasms of love through me, Peter as a baby again, sleepy, sated with milk, a million Peters, merging and blurring.