Debatable Space

by Philip Palmer

  Then the shock waves continue outwards. They are attenuating now, but still each has terrific power, enough to shatter an old and worse-for-wear ship like ours if the impact hit us full-on.

  But instead the shock waves hit our vast sails, which buckle and ripple, but absorb the huge power of the spatial vibration. And as the shock hits the sail, so the sail is forced forwards at terrific speed, dragging our vessel with it.

  The surviving warships are regrouping. Within minutes they are back on course, weaving and tacking to mitigate the damage of the remaining shock waves, but still firmly on our tail. Their engines surge, they resume their previous astonishing speeds. They fly after us like birds in a thunderstorm.

  But they can’t catch us. We have the power of our engines, coupled with the power of the shock waves on our sail. Each hammer blow shoves our ship forward faster and faster, until we are scarily close to light speed. When the shock waves ebb, the sails hang loose but our speed doesn’t slow.

  We are experiencing relativity effects now. The interior of the ship is like a carnival for habitual drug users. Our perceptions are fogging, our sense of time becoming erratic. But Alliea keeps us firmly on course, riding the wave of energy that had slapped us through the galaxy.

  Every bone in my body has been shaken and ground. I am having difficulty remembering who I am. But still onwards we sail, faster and faster. We veer past asteroids and planets like a flashlight blinking. At these speeds, a collision with a large enough rock would destroy us totally, but we pull in our sails, keep up our speed, and shoot through space.

  Lena

  I watch the battle unfold on the vidscreen in my cabin. I marvel.

  Bloody hell, I think to myself. Indeed.

  Flanagan

  “We did it Cap’n,” Alliea says.

  I close my eyes, exhausted.

  “Wake me up in time for the next battle,” I murmur.

  And I fall asleep, in my Captain’s chair.

  And I dream. Awful, terrible, stomach-churning dreams. I always do. Each of my dreams ends with my own rape and torture. I yearn to wake myself up, to escape the horror. But I know that my body needs the rest. I need to recharge, keep my strength up.

  So I remain asleep, dreaming horrors, knowing that when I finally awake, things will be, by and large, much worse than ever I dreamed.

  Brandon

  I’m bored, Cap’n doesn’t need me. And so I access my secret hoard of illicit materials.

  Cigarettes.

  Acid tabs.

  Es.

  Hardcore and softcore “nudie” magazines.

  Crystal meth.

  I stroke the crinkled pages of the ancient centrefold mags, and caress an E and an acid tab on my tongue. But I dare not swallow. My system is too efficient, the drugs will be swept out and purged. This is the downside of body refits, you’re obliged to take the drug-control microchip.

  There’s always the easy way. At a blink of an eye, I can use my cortical microchip to access hardcore porn images of any given woman having sex with any given man, or other woman, or indeed, any other anything. A simple subvocal instruction will send endorphins or adrenalin surging through my system. I can be drunk simply by saying the word “hic”, I can inhale tobacco and feel a buzz in my veins by saying “smoke’. But it’s not the same. I love to lick the cigarette, I love to hold it in my fingers, I love to touch the acid tabs and pills with my tongue and palate. It gives me an extra buzz.

  But I never consume. I know my system won’t allow it. Virtual intoxication is easy; physical addiction is impossible. This, I find a drag.

  So I read books. This is something my system can’t purge. I read, and read. And in this manner, I pass the long long months.

  The Corporation Fleet, meanwhile, continue their pursuit of us. We have a lead on them, but they have more powerful engines. Each hour, each day, their acceleration pushes their velocity higher. And every day, the boost we received from the antimatter bomb blast fades. We slowly ebb, they slowly flow. Sooner or later they will catch us up.

  It is a high-speed chase, which goes on for ages and ages. It will take six months before they are in missile range. And at that point, the battle will start up all over again.

  Ah! What a life!

  I suck a tab.

  I hold a cigarette.

  I scratch my fingertips on the staple in the middle of a naked centrefold’s stomach.

  I dream of victory.

  The Captain always tells me – Brandon, you spend too long alone. You should socialise more. But I do socialise!

  With myself. With my books. With my fingertips. With my tongue. With my secret stash of porn. These are my companions.

  The buzzer rings. “Brandon, to the bridge,” the Captain calmly says.

  The enemy flight has caught up with us. We are about to be attacked.

  I rub my crotch, I sniff my cigarette, I suck my acid tab, I let my eyes linger on the centrefold’s gorgeous pudendum.

  Then I pull myself back into the present moment. I press a button and my door slides open. I hurry into the corridor.

  It’s time for war.

  Flanagan

  Brandon appears on the bridge, pale and sweaty. “Hello,” I say to him, quietly and gently.

  “Hello,” he smiles back, timidly. It’s almost four months since he has spoken to any of us. In that time, the rest of us have partied, trained together, discussed literature and art and life and gossiped about long ago lost loves. But Brandon has kept away from us, locked in his cabin cell. But we don’t mind. It’s his way.

  Now I need him, and his navigational and cosmological skills. “Have we reached our destination?” he asks. I nod. He looks relieved. “And are we doing that thing we, um, do?” he mutters. I nod again. He looks even more relieved.

  He sits, and takes the controls. “Steady as she goes,” I say. Brandon jerks the ship sharply to port, then sharply to starboard. We veer and lurch from side to side and eventually resume our forward direction. His little joke. It never palls.

  Well, not much.

  We look at the display on our vidscreen and see all around us the weirdness of a black hole nestling in warped space. This… thing used to be a Type C sun, until it supernovaed and reached critical mass. Gravitational forces pulled the sun in on itself until it shrunk to a point of almost infinite density. Now, this star is so massive that light itself cannot escape.

  Jamie has researched all this; he’s a black hole nut. He actually gives them nicknames. (This one is the Cosmic Crusher.) Jamie is one of the band of thinkers who believe that each black hole is the gateway to another Universe. But there’s no way of proving that, because anyone or anything that passes through a black hole ends up, basically, squashed and dead.

  With Brandon at the helm, we are now playing a game of chicken with the black hole. As our speed drops, our plan is to skim the surface of the gravity field, and slingshot ourselves out at our top speed once more into space. One slight miscalculation and we will be sucked into the gravity field and destroyed.

  Fun, or what?

  Close by the black hole is a cluster of neutron stars and mini-black holes locked in a synchronous orbit. These are the dreaded Black Rapids. The only way to proceed through this part of space is fast and skilfully. The complex pattern of gravitational pulls make this whole area of space a ripped and bleeding reef.

  In we go: straight at the singularity, then tilting, tilting, the whole ship relativistically distorted, our huge mass makes us a dreadnought, we are extended to the size of a galaxy and yet at the same time we are a tiny plankton hurtling into the mouth of a whale, then attempting to creep out again.

  Bish.

  Bosh.

  Whiish.

  We are out again, on the other side of the Black Rapids. Safe.

  On our screen we can see the pursuing warships on the wrong side of the Rapids slow, and then stop. A dozen of them peel away and choose to follow us through the Black Rapids. They are, I feel confid
ent, not volunteers.

  We watch as one of them is caught in a gravitational undertow. It surges through with a burst of energy and runs straight into a rock the size of a walnut, which contains a mini-singularity. The warship suddenly shakes, and flickers, then shatters into a million pieces.

  A second warship tacks carefully away from the black hole, but is promptly sucked into a neutron star.

  All twelve ships try, and fail, and die. Several of them attempt to emulate our slingshot method. It is a knack not easily acquired. They all get sucked into the black hole’s deadly embrace.

  Whoosh. Gone. Crushed to nothingness or less.

  We are safe.

  I realise that for several hours, I have been hearing a buzzing sound in my ears. It is the alarm buzzer for the prisoner’s cell.

  “Go and see what she wants,” I tell Harry. “I’m going to”

  I’m asleep on my feet. Brandon catches me before I fall. He sits me down.

  “I’ll just have,” I say, drowsily, “a little…”

  Lena

  Get me out of this fucking hellhole! AIIIEEEEEE! Aiiiiiieeeeeee! AIIEEEEEEE!!!!! I think the battle is over.

  I’ve never been so afraid! I was afraid too. I was so scared. Thank God you were here Lena, watching it with me on the cctv. Hold me, please. Hug me. Protect me.

  I can’t. Just be here for me. You are so wise. You comfort me.

  Shitting pissing blasted… You’re smarter than they are. They fear you. They know your power. You have done so much. You have achieved so much.

  My life’s a mess, I’m a loser. You are magnificent. You are unique. You are a jewel lost in a steaming heap of shit.

  Oh great metaphor, tinbrain. The shit will be washed away. The jewel will shine. You will be restored to your place of eminence. You are marvellous. You are wonderful. You are sublime

  I feel like crap, I look like crap. You are beautiful, you are sexy, men adore you, women envy you, I worship you, your son worships you…

  The cell door opens. Harry looms in front of me. “Can it, okay? The buzzer is for if you’re dying, or having a baby. Use it again without good reason, I’ll cut all your fingers off so you have to feed through a straw.”

  The door slams. I burst into tears. What a rotten bastard!

  I can’t stop myself crying. The damnable freak! Trust me Lena, once we’re back on top, he’ll be the first to be sexually humiliated then killed.

  My body is shuddering, the tears won’t stop. The voice in my head takes on a desperate tinge: You’re better than them. You’re marvellous. You’re wonderful. You’re sexy. They don’t understand your true power. You’re unique.

  I can’t stop the tears. I cry, and cry. Jesus, cut the fucking crap Lena.

  I stop dead. The tears mist my eyes, but at least I’m not crying. You total fucking loser, if you’re going to get us out of here, you’d better get your shit together!

  Don’t speak to me like that. Imbecile! Loser! Wanker!

  All right, all right, you’ve done your work, you’ve pressed my button. I’m back in focus. But if you speak to me like that again, I’ll reprogramme your arse tinbrain, okay? Whatever you say, Lena. I am here to serve.

  Too damned right!

  Lena

  “Do you like it?” asks Flanagan.

  It is a bleak, forbidding planet, with looming mountains and a ghastly yellow sky. We stand in a city made of tents, plain canvas awnings turned into a complex network of alleyways and boulevards. And we look out to acres of desert. Men ride horses in these parts, sleek stallions and mares derived from ancient Earth bloodstock foetuses.

  “I admire it.”

  “Flying is possible. Would you like to…?”

  Every fibre in my being screams no. I could be killed, maimed, forced into yet another body replacement. And the pain, the pain…

  “Yes,” I say. Calm, aloof, distant.

  We are on the planet of Wild West. We have stopped here for rest and recreation, and to allow time for the ship’s computer to finish some necessary repairs. Flanagan has decided to treat me with an almost medieval courtesy and respect, as his sly way of making his kidnap of me seem morally acceptable. I refuse to accept his pathetic attempts to mollify me, of course. And yet…

  Well, it’s nice to get out of the ship. And since I’m here, on this actually rather beautiful and appealing low-gravity planet with its famous thermal gusts, it seems a shame not to take advantage of the tourist attractions. “Flying is possible,” Flanagan had said. Flying! What a wonderful idea!

  We walk through the city, past screaming street traders. I see a headless five-limbed hairy beast of burden, carrying timber on its back. The Rotan, from the stellar system XI4.

  I see stalls selling monstrous beaked creatures in a cage. Kiwiris, the two beaks contain its brain, it eats by drooling enzymes. The beaks emit a beautiful song, and addicts of the song of the Kiwiri are known to die of malnutrition, so rapt are they.

  I see birds on fire in the sky. They are Sparklers, sentient flying aliens, with the power of bioluminescence. They are tourists, like us.

  I see carpets and robes for sale, I see men with hooked noses and gnarled faces and impossibly wrinkled flesh, I see women whoring their bodies on the street, and boys doing the same, and half-men half-women parading their grotesquery in public, I see so much that my head hurts.

  “We’ll hitch a ride, out to the cliff,” says Flanagan.

  We join a merchant’s convoy and ride horses through the desert. My body automatically adjusts to the rhythms and the skills of bare-back horse riding. I spur my beast into a quick gallop and Flanagan easily matches my pace. The wind throws my hair back. My arse is pounded and mashed by the horse’s bony back, and I know I will have to have my bruises removed by the autodoc this evening. But the pain and the wind and the smell of rank horseflesh combine into an exhilarating and heady experience.

  I am enjoying myself. I really am!

  We reach the mountains, and pause. I stare up at the magnificent vista. In this low gravity the mountains grow high and thin, triangles moulded out of metamorphic rock. Green and purple algae stain the bare cliff faces, and the foothills are rich in meadowy grasses.

  We take a cable car to the summit, basking all the while in astonishing views. And, finally, we step out of the cable car and find ourselves on a plateau. Market traders are selling knick-knacks and tourist crap as well as the necessary flying paraphernalia. After some angry bartering, Flanagan hires wings and emergency parachutes. All around us, men and women are leaping off the mountain top and being caught up in the winds.

  We are actually above the clouds. They are stretched out below us, like icebergs. The air up here is thin, but breathable, though I have an oxygen tube to supplement the native air. Flanagan hands me my wings, and looks at me, with a friendly, approving glance. For weeks he’s been polite to me, kind, respectful, charming. I almost, I must concede, have started to warm to him.

  I glance out at the edge of the plateau, and see below a vast, impossible drop. We are miles from the surface; and our plan is to fly ?

  What am I doing here? I think to myself, suddenly fearful.

  “Frightened?” Flanagan asks.

  “Not in the least,” I tell him calmly.

  I am so very scared. You’ll be fine.

  I’ll fall, and shatter every bone in my body, and the pain will send me mad. You won’t fall.

  I might. Well, you might.

  “Put the harness on.”

  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. The wing spans are strapped on to my upper arms and shoulders, moulding effortlessly so that they feel like an extension of my body. Complementing all this is a vast tail feather that stretches from my lower back to my ankles, and in the air will extend still further. Mine is a vivid purple; Flanagan’s an angelic white.

  “Press this, and the wings fly off, and the para
chute will glide you to earth.”

  I nod, my lips dry.

  “If I die you won’t get your ransom,” I eventually manage to say.

  “Don’t die then.”

  I shrug and roll my shoulders, getting a feel for my new wings. Flanagan does the same. We walk together to the cliff edge.

  We jump.

  The thermal gusts are strong, and reliable, the gravity is low, 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. And I fly…

  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

  Then up again! Soaring, skating, bucking, wheeling, kingdom of daylight’s dauphin. I fly!

  Harry

  While the Captain and Lena go flying, the rest of us go our separate ways. Alliea goes sightseeing, exploring the local temples and artworks. Brandon hits the libraries. Jamie goes to a playground and makes out like a ten-year-old for an afternoon. Kalen barters in the markets.

  And I spend the day at the leisure centre. As well as a gym, and a pool, they have a competition running track. Athletes in training limber up and stretch. A pole vaulter leaps high up in the air and skims the bar. Two runners match paces as they cruise at an effortless sprint.

  I take the field. My brawny hairy Loper body feels vile to me as I see the sleek and muscular professional athletes around me, but no one can deny that I am a magnificent runner. So I run, and run, and run. Not quite as fast as the competition-winning athletes, who can move like mercury exploding. But when they are flagging and tiring, I am still going strong. I vary my pace; from run to bound. I leap huge leaps along the track. I roll a forward somersault, leap ten metres in the air, backflip, forward flip, then continue running.