Philip Palmer - Debatable Space

And now, over the course of ten slow and thought-heavy years, it has become the scariest thought ever. Because I realise that, in order to be present on Earth during our final battle, Alby must possess the power to travel faster than light – to move instantaneously through space. But since nothing can travel faster than light, this means that Alby must somehow be able to manipulate quantum states.

Which means he doesn’t need a Beacon; his species are naturally quantised, able to slip through the cracks in reality.

Which means…

… or so I now suspect, basing my opinion on the very strict mathematical rules which determine “quantum action at a distance”.. .

… the flame beasts must have become quantum-entangled at a very early stage in the existence of the Universe. In other words: there must have been a time in the pre-expanding Universe when all the flame beasts existed as a single finite bundle.

And so, I further theorise, at the very moment of the birth of the original Singularity which spawned the Universe, the first sentient flame beast was created. And then after the Big Bang, the flame beasts were scattered to every sector of the expanding cosmos.

And now, countless hundreds of millions of years later, the flame beasts are still interconnected at a fundamental quantum level. They can go anywhere; they can die in one part of the Universe, and be reborn instantly somewhere else.

Just think what this actually means! The flame beasts are not just a very very old species. They were, if I’m right, the first. They aren’t gods – far from it – they were generated by the same process of emergent self-organisation which created every other animate and non-animate entity. But at the dawn of the Universe they were that dawn.

“And God said, Let there be light; and there was light.” And that light was intelligent.

I am awed, and humbled. The flame beasts have lived so long that they have seen everything there is to see. And they inhabit or have inhabited every single conceivable part of the Universe.

And yet, their greatest pleasure is watching our TV shows?

Suddenly, I’m not so awed, not nearly so humbled.

Oh boy.

They’ve lied to us, too. For all this time, the flame beasts have pretended that they are confined to a single star. In fact, they exist everywhere. They are the conquerors of the Universe. And if they so chose, we would be their slave race.

But what would be the point? Would we, the human race, make slaves out of ants, or beetles, or ladybirds? That is the only reason we are still free; because we are so insignificant.

But the flame beasts do enjoy us. They savour our violence, our unreliability. They love to see us murder, torture, rape and maim. That, and our television soap operas, gives them their kicks.

I remember the wild nights of passion I spent with Flanagan, the light flickering above our bunk. The light flickering. Who would have thought that flame beasts could be so damned perverted?

I shudder. And I wonder what the rest of humanity would do if they knew what I knew? Would they sink into despair? Would it shatter the self-confidence of the human race?

Best not to take that chance.

And so, if you’re agreed, my loyal computer, this must always be our secret. Agreed.

Have you always known all this? Of course.

Damn. You really are a fucking know all. I hate you sometimes. So I have observed.

I try to teach myself blues guitar. But I find it too annoyingly easy. Base chord for four bars, up four chords for two bars, up one chord for two bars, back to base chord for four bars. Christ! This is music for idiots.

So instead, I practise my scales, I harden my fingertips with keratin cream, and within a year I am able to play fairly accomplished flamenco guitar. I find the rhythms captivating and haunting, and I feel affinity for the spirit of duende which is the essence of this style.

I record hours of material, then I play it back to myself as I strip naked and slowly dress myself in crotch-hugging knickers and a vividly red Spanish dress that leaves a large portion of my amble bosom bare, and then I dance and stamp my way through a flamenco dance routine.

Then I dress myself as a toreador, in tight trousers and a sharp picador blade, and I prowl across the room as I replay a 3D hologram of myself flamenco-dancing to the sound of myself playing acoustic guitar, and the air is shredded by the whish-whish-whish of my blade as my feet stamp and my fingers strum.

Then that palls. I hurl the guitar out into space and I try to learn chess. I find it very annoying, and I start to devise better rules. Instead of all those pawns, for instance, I create a whole series of pieces with clearly defined functions and rules of play – the Thief, the Whore, the Boss, the Bully, the Victim, and so on. Then I invent new rules for the King and Queen so that their powers wax and wane according to how well they are ruling their respective realm.

This proves to be a delightful challenge, and I resolve to patent my new game by transmitting the details via the Universal Web to the Galactic Patent Office. Then I recall I cannot do such a thing, because ever since the Beacons were all destroyed, the Universal Web is no more, and the Galactic Patent Office is now defunct.

I could of course use my remote computer to contact the Earth Patent Office from my location in deep space, hence betraying the secret that I am the custodian of the last surviving Quantum Beacon… but that would expose me to danger and/or the loss of my remote computer link. So I shan’t do that.

So I end up feeling very vexed and frustrated indeed. I content myself with creating a new type of pastry, that continues to rise as you are eating the pie.

And my yacht continues to sail, deeper and deeper into uncharted space, etc. etc. etc. And I remember my final night of love with Flanagan. We… we… I don’t quite recall. It was… it was…

I cue the memory subvocally via my remote computer (“Flanagan, last night together, from the meal onwards”), and then I press “Play” on my neural player. And the disc plays, and creates the total simulacrum of everything that happened that night from the meal onwards… I eat venison, Flanagan eats vegetarian steak, I drink wine, he drinks beer. He belches after one particularly large gulp, I feel the flavour of his breath hovering in the air between us, and he has the grace to look chagrined. We are both exhilarated, shaking with emotion. All previous conflicts and disagreements between us are forgotten after our virtual journey to Earth. We have been on the most amazing adventure and we are unable to believe, really, that we have finally triumphed. The mood becomes relaxed, and then romantic, then erotic. Flanagan is wary. He is afraid, I think, I will play my sex-and-death trick again. But I am in no mood for that. We finish our meal. We feed each other pudding. Then we rest a while. Then we kiss, we undress, I stroke him into arousal. He touches my skin in that gorgeous way he has and makes my body sing with desire. His lovemaking is slow, but never methodical. He kisses my arms, first one, then the other, on the inside of the spot where the arm bends to form the elbow. Then as he fucks me faster, he kisses me carefully on the cheeks in the same manner – first one cheek, then the other, then the first cheek, then the other, and so on, and so forth, and so on, and so forth, and all the while, fucking me with an energy that exhilarates and impassions me. And later, as our bodies are curled and nestled, we talk: “Was that your idea of a joke?” “What?” “Back on Earth. The two inch cock.” “Ah.” “Bitch!” “I thought you’d appreciate that extra quarter inch.” “I did. Thank you.” “You’re welcome.” “You’re not such a bitch.” “What would you know, you barbarian?” And then he falls asleep, still smiling. (I rewind.) He falls asleep, still smiling. (I rewind.) He falls asleep, still smiling. (I rewind.) He falls asleep, still smiling. And I creep out of the cabin. I pack my few possessions and hack the code for the hold. I activate the liferaft and shoot out into open space.