Philip Palmer - Debatable Space

It took my computer three months to rebuild my space yacht, using nanobots to mould the hull out of the raw materials of space. During that time, I got frequent messages from Flanagan on my ear-radio. I ignored them all. And when the yacht was ready, I decamped from the liferaft, stood on the bridge of my beloved vessel, tacked into the nearest sun, got a sail full of stellar wind, and soared off into the cosmos.

I’ve now travelled scores of light-years. I’m glad, after all that has happened, to be alone again. I compose. I write poems. I polish and amend my memoirs. I am sad, most of the time.

But my pride could no longer bear the shame of it all. Flanagan duped me at every stage – even at the end. He played me in the same way I have always played others. He made a puppet of me. And for what? For the sake of humanity. Well, fair enough. His motives were sound. But the humiliation still rankles. And I can never forget the fact that he coaxed me, lured me, seduced me into killing my own…

… I killed my own…

What kind of mother am I?

That’s why I fled. Whatever my feelings for Flanagan, despite my love for him, my passion, my need, I would rather be proud and alone than stay with him knowing that he has made me into a… a… You’re not alone.

… a… what’s the word I’m looking for? It doesn’t matter. I said, you’re not alone.

Piss off tinbrain. Please yourself.

I always do.

I sail, deeper and deeper into space, away from inhabited planets, towards the great unknown, a virgin footstep in the…

“Oh fuck.” I’ve spoken aloud. The words shatter the silence of the bridge. I realise how unused I’ve become to the sound of the actual human voice, in my ship’s actual acoustic. All the voices I hear are memory voices, or the voices in my head. I am unused to… You’re free-associating Lena, try and concentrate.

Yes, I’m sorry, I say to my remote computer, subvocally. Then I berate myself; sorry? What am I thinking of, I can’t apologise to.. .

I return to full focus on my present-tense reality. I am Lena, I am on a space yacht, travelling through uncharted space. Yes. I’ve got that. And, yes, on my vidscreen, I see a dot. The dot gets larger. And larger still. I see an insignia on the hull of the spaceship. It is a skull, crossed with bones.

Oh no. The pirate emblem.

I knew that! Of course you did.

Is it Flanagan? Fair bet.

Let’s outrun him. Tricky, he’s got a state-of-the-art ion drive, and we’re far from the nearest star.

Then let’s throw some bombs.

I discharge two torpedoes from my stern. The torpedoes explode, scattering light and debris. Then the pressure wave from the explosion comes crashing into my stellar sails.

My yacht soars forward, leaping and juddering at extraordinary speed. Flanagan’s ship comes roaring through the wreckage of the explosion. He’s sending us a vid message.

Ignore it. Accelerate. I’m accelerating. We’re losing him.

He’s accelerated to. 8 light speed. But we are cruising at a comfortable. 9 ls. That’s what comes of having the most sophisticated space yacht in the entire human universe. We sail and rocket and hurtle through space.

But now a cluster of memories assail me. These are not RAM-recorded replicas of my sensory experiences and subvocal communications. I do not access my computer, I do not press “Play’, these are real memories, my memories, images from the deep dark pool of my unconsciousness, and they leap at me unbidden, goading, prompting, luring. I remember: Flanagan beheading a merchant captain. A bloodlust fills his eyes. I am filled with horror. Flanagan singing his song in the Pirates’ Hall. Flanagan in battle, on the planet Cambria. Flanagan asleep, his beard knotted, his face creased and wrinkled, snoring and snorting, after we have just made love. Flanagan sneering at me. Flanagan mocking me. Flanagan…

Enough!

Slow the ship down, I say subvocally, to my remote computer. What?

You heard me. He’ll catch up with us.

Yeah, I know. I thought you wanted solitude.

I am silent and without thought for a considerable number of seconds.

Then I subvocalise again, in answer to my computer’s query. I say: No. I just wanted to know if he would chase me.

Flanagan’s voice comes through on our intercom.

“Lena, you wizened old witch. We have unfinished business!”

“Fuck off, Flanagan.” You still want me to slow down?

Of course. We are decelerating to. 65 light speed.

Is he gaining on us? Yes.

Do we have any champagne on ice? Yes.

What should I wear? I’ll pick something out for you. Something suitably… sluttish.

You’re an angel. Thank you.

And so, through the dark empyrean, surrounded by the twinkle of ancient distant stars, pursued by a grey-haired rampant pirate who loves me, I sail…

And sail…

And sail

I watch the bridge vidscreen as Flanagan’s ship gets closer, and closer still. And I wait for my pirate love to capture me.

And as I wait, I sing: “ There is a house, in New Orleans,”

In my ear, a guitar backing strums, a bass riff dances below the melody, drums tap out a steady beat.

“ They calllllll the Riiiiising Sun! ” My voice soars high and loud and proud.

And then it is joined by the sound of my inner voice, my remote computer, which sings along with me with a spirit and a soulfulness that I would never have expected:

“It’s been the ruin “It’s been the ruin

Of many a poor boy Of many a poor girl

And me, O God, And me, O God,

For one.” For one.”