Debatable Space (48 page)

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.

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.”

Philip Palmer lives in London and is currently at work on a new book set in the same universe as DEBATABLE SPACE. He has written
for radio, television, and film, but this is his first novel. Find out more about Philip Palmer at
www.philippalmer.net
.

In the night-time heart of Beirut, in one of a row of general-address transfer booths, Louis Wu flickered into reality.

This is the opening sentence of Larry Niven’s
Ringworld
(1972), a tantalising, nonchalant introduction to one of the most spell-binding SF classics ever written. It’s a universe
rich in weird aliens, almost as weird humans, and amazing technology—in particular, the Ringworld itself, which is like a
vast wedding ring orbiting a sun, furnishing far more habitable land than any planet ever could.

The concept of Ringworld is a quintessential piece of “hard” science fiction writing—a term generally used to describe SF
that has rigorous scientific credentials—and is based on physicist Freeman Dyson’s remarkable notion of a “Dyson Sphere”,
a vast globe encircling a sun whose interior surface offers the largest possible amount of habitable space for that given
orbit. Niven was aware that the Dyson Sphere was impossible to build, and unlikely to be stable, so his Ringworld offers a
more “practical” option. (In
Debatable Space,
I push the extrapolation a step further by proposing the Dyson Jewels, which are a “virtual” version of the Dyson Sphere.)
All this is heavy-duty hypothesising based on real science. It may be far-fetched; but it’s
possible.

But like all good SF writers, Niven isn’t afraid to invent science when the real thing just won’t do. His “general-address
transfer booths” (aka teleportation machines) come into this category. It’s hard to see how such a device could work in practice—faster
than light travel isn’t possible under Einsteinian physics, and the various theories extant about “wormholes” and “quantum
teleportation” rely, many would argue, as much on fairy dust as science. But who cares!—it’s still a wonderful “what if” notion.
What if you could step into what sounds very much like a photo booth and immediately rematerialise anywhere you like on Earth
…

Science fiction in my view is a glorious genre because it allows writers to explore and dramatise
ideas,
to challenge preconceptions about society and people, and to touch the heart with magic. (I also love SF because it allows
me to place vivid and real characters in the
most
extraordinary situations.) And at the heart of the whole science fiction enterprise is a desire to play games with the audience’s
willing suspension of disbelief. The SF writer asks “What if?”, and then very often will offer a detailed and believable explanation
as to “How?”

I adore this aspect of SF— the joyful dance of extraordinary concepts, carefully elaborated.

There are in fact various definitions of what science fiction actually
is
—but in my own view, at its best, SF consists of a collision between speculation, extrapolation and imagination. Pure speculation,
without any bedrock of credibility, can all too easily prove hollow and unsatisfying. And mere plodding extrapolation from
certain and established facts (imagine a world in which there are 15% more mobile phones than at present! Er, duh!) will by
itself never capture the true magic of science, which in the course of its history has been full of the most extraordinary
surprises and counter-intuitive insights. But speculation and extrapolation combined, acting together in jostling unity, offer
us a way to believe in three impossible things before breakfast, and still believe them at tea-time…

And imagination, of course, is what makes the story sing.

All these thoughts and ideas have infused my writing of
Debatable Space.
It is a novel full of exaggeration and hyperbole. Spaceships travel amazingly fast, antimatter missiles are thrown like water
bombs, some humans are genetically modified to swim like dolphins or run like panthers, the battles are astonishingly vast
in scale, and anyone who doesn’t die horribly in combat can live for centuries in a state of perfect health and simmering
libido.

But mixed in with the improbable (though not
necessarily
impossible) speculations and the fantastic moments are ideas which are in fact extrapolations based on truths and facts.
The vast, epic battles in the latter stages of the book are inspired by the vast epic battles of Genghis Khan, as he swept
through Asia and Europe leaving a terrible death toll behind. The whole notion of Quantum Beacons sounds like shameless fictional
jiggery-pokery, but in fact it is a quite reasonable extrapolation from the Einstein-Podolsky-Rosen paradox. (I take a certain
amount of geeky pride at conceiving of a form of FTL travel that
doesn’t
defy the known laws of science, unlike Niven’s transfer booths.) And Lena’s stellar-wind powered yacht—with its micro-thin
sail that is “pushed” by photons from a sun—is (as established SF fans will know) a perfectly credible means of transport
in space.