Debatable Space
Page 26
Slowly, carefully, I count forty-three red lights on my visor. That doesn’t include Hera. So first, I mourn Hera.
For one long, agonising, heartfelt minute, a second at a time, I mourn her. And each second is a death knell.
Then when my pain is purged, I mourn each of my forty-three children. I mourn them for five seconds, each.
Jack.
Hermione.
Silver.
Garnet.
Hilary.
Roger.
Lustre.
Ji.
Ajax.
Baldur.
Mystery.
Jane, Sheena, Magic, Leaf, Phoenix, Edna, Sharion, Jayn, Shiva, Persephone, Garth, Rob, Will, Diane, Apollo, Catherine, Jon, Letitia, Leo, Dawn, Sunset, Raphael, Zayna, Cosmos, Rob Junior, Ashanti, Amor, Tara, Helios, Jenny, Rosanne.
And Roberta.
After 215 seconds have elapsed, I disconnect my oxygen cylinder. I take off my helmet.
I breathe in a huge lungful of deep space.
Grendel
I watch Alliea die. I have already seen my beloved friend Hera blown to shreds. And when I see Alliea kill herself, I rage at the waste of a talented warrior, though I respect her choice. However, I am Grendel, leader of the pirate pack. I have vowed never to die peacefully.
My leg is blown off by a rocket blast, but the suit self-seals and I battle on. I am a huge, flying one-legged killing beast. I battle on. And on. I see limbs floating freely, weightless and shorn, both human and robot. I see streams of blood that form red comets in the still emptiness of space. The speed of the warriors fighting in this battle is so extraordinarily fast that we resemble molecules in motion in a murky liquid.
The flashing lights are laser beams. Shock waves rock us to and fro, but we continue moving, bobbing, flicking, surging. I kill many many DRs, and I savour each one, for each is a precious, and a cherishable victory. My radio is silent for the most part, but I have programmed my earpiece to play a solitary drumbeat as I fight. DUM dum-dum-dum-dum, DUM, dum-dum-dum-dum, DUM. It calms me, and it gives my body an inner rhythm, as I whirl and veer like lightning trapped in a jar.
And so, and thus, I fight.
It is some time before I realise I am dead. I wonder… where am I?
Brandon
I am on the bridge, with Harry, who is in a howling rage, and Jamie, who is the cybergeek god incarnate.
I drafted this battle plan, to Flanagan’s brief. And on my computer screen I can feel the war unfolding. Ambushes and boobytraps are carefully seeded, like twists in a detective novel. But most of all, we rely on the sheer fighting power of our rocket-propelled warriors flying outside the ships. They are like wasps that bring an elephant to its knees, and chew its bones.
“Brandon?”
The Captain is speaking to me. I realise that, for three long seconds, my heart has stopped beating. I gulp, force myself to breathe again.
“Alliea is dead,” I tell him. He stares at me blankly.
Alby
The rules of my ssspecies tell me I cannot intervene in any way in this combat. We are a paccccifist, nonwarrior life form. We do not fight, it is alien to usss, imposssssible to our nature. We cannot fight. Ever!
I watch as ten Corporation warshipssss close in on the Captain’s ship. I worry that they will be able to destroy Flanagan before his crew notice this new threat.
Sssso I ssssupernova. The nova becomes focussssed into a ssssingle flare. I lunge and plunge and ssssoar and sssspike, ripping through the enemy warships like a ssssun turned javelin.
It issss gloriousssssssssssss!
Flanagan
“Shit, what was that?” I ask.
Jamie checks his computers. The debris of enemy warships litters our path.
“Not sure, Cap’n. Spontaneous combustion?” he hazards.
The shattered warships are burning up, they are actually melting in deep space. I make a guess.
“Thank you Alby,” I murmur to myself.
Flanagan
Lena is in her room. I go and visit her. She is actually asleep.
I gently kiss her cheek and she awakes. “Oh, you,” she murmurs. Then her eyes flash open. “It’s over?”
“It’s over.”
“We’ve lost.”
“We’ve won.”
“How many survivors?”
“Very few. Perhaps, three ships in all. Maybe a hundred pirates still alive. Plus our own ship.”
Her face is ashen. I’m surprised. I didn’t think she would have cared that much.
“A hundred left,” she says, “out of eleven million, and that’s a victory?”
“Well, we killed all of them.”
“I’m sorry for sleeping.”
“There’s nothing you could have done.”
“I want to sleep a bit more.”
Lena lies down. Her eyes close. Within seconds, she is asleep again. I look at her with jealousy. I yearn to sleep. To switch off. To have a brief respite from guilt.
But that cannot be.
Alby
The battle issss won. Flanagan’ssss ship and hisss asssault fleet of three vessselsss hass esscaped and ssset off towardssss Kornbluth.
But I linger.
I should not have played a role in the combat. That isss not the way of my people. We do not take sssides in the warssss between men. But I like Flanagan. I consssider him a friend. He hasss taught me much.
Succhh a sssstrange sssspecies. Yet endlesssly fasssscinating and varied. I ssssee them, metaphorically sssspeaking, asss an animal with razzzzor handsss which ripss out itsss own eyesss. Such is the human raccce.
And, sssstrangesssst of all, each human entity is indisssolubly sssseparate. They reproducccce ssslowly and painfully. They have no capacccity for genuinely abssstract thought that worksss at the level of pure meaning without the aid of numberssss or sssymbolssss. And they are, believe it or not, tool buildersssss.
I musssse, for a while, at the infinite folly and entertaining variety of humankind.
Then I feel a flicker of wearinesss, and I die.
Sssoon after, my new ssself is reborn, and consssidersss the ssstack of available memoriesss and intentionsss of the now dead and exxtinguished “Alby”. It decidesss to continue the charade of being a single, continuousss, consssistent perssssonality. I become “Alby” oncccce again.
I glory in the ssssight before me. The humansss’ amazzzingly recklessss compressssed-ssspace bomb hasss wreaked appalling havoc. But it hassss left in its wake a shimmering glowing hazzzze of glory. It isss a light richer than light itsssself. For a being such assss myssself, composed entirely of light and flame, it is the nearesssst I will ever come to experiencing a vision of God. This light-hazzzze is quite sublime.
I drift clossser. I ssssee that the hazzzze is made of tiny particlesss. Ssssmall vibrating loopsss that hover and danccce in space. Some of the loopssss vanish then rematerialisssse. Some merge and form larger loopsss, then exxpand, then contract.
The energy of the dancing loops issss extraordinary. I wonder what will happen if they were to continue to exist in their pressssent sssstate and ssssize. For I know that these vibrating loops are singing in space. Their musssic, their ressssonancccce, issss the esssssence of reality itsssself.
I marvel at the sssight. Who elssse hass ever ssseen such a thing?
For these loopsss are the entity we call. Human scccientistsss called them “ssssuperssssymmetrical ssstrings”. They are, of courssse, the fundamental indisssssolubles of which all matter isss comprissssed – they are the origin and the parent of electronsss, photonssss, muonssss, quarks, neutrinossss and every other physical manifessstation of matter in its tiniesssst formsss.
The are the ssssmallest objectssss posssssible in the universe. For humans, they are a theorised reality, too small to be ssseen or detected with their instrumentsss. Because of coursse all human ssssubatomic detecting instrumentssss rely on the interaction of particlessss; and there issss no particle ssssmall enou
gh to interact with the ssssmallest object possssible.
And yet, thessse tiny particless are now as large as firefliess. They sswim through space, large enough to see, ssssolid enough to touch. This is a conssssequence of an esssssential part of their curious and immutable nature – ssssuperstrings will expand when sssubjected to high energies. They can double or triple in size; or grow by a hundredfold. They can even become macrosssscopic.
And that isss precisssely what they have now done, in the blinding blazzzzing energy release of the human’s compressssssed-space “Big Bang Bomb”. This is the unexpected sssside effect. Ssssuperstrings made macrossssopic, for me to ssssee and hear.
I glory in what isss around me. The ssssong of the is manifessst as the Universssse itssself, in all its infinite variety. And now I can hear that sssssong, I can see that shimmering frenzzzzzy that is the origin of everything.
I bassssk in joy asss I ssshare in God’s ssssong.
And then I die, of sheer ecssstasy.
And then I am reborn.
Flanagan
We drink, and toast, and count the cost of victory.
It is the worst and vilest cost. All of us sit with vomit in our throats, wallowing in our own disgust. Though it was, we all concede, a brilliantly planned and executed military manoeuvre.
Picture the scene. The largest fleet of warships ever assembled and marshalled is faced with a small pirate flotilla. Millions of warships, versus hundreds of thousands. It is inconceivable that the Corporation could lose such a one-sided contest.
But they did. We slaughtered them, and left not a single robot brain intact.
And yet I feel no pride. For the truth is – the entire battle was no more than a diversionary tactic, to allow us to move on towards our real objective. I sacrificed my entire nation, in order to keep myself and my crew members safe for the task ahead.
And that is why we did not fight. We stayed back. When facing danger, we fled. And all my pirate crew stayed with me, apart from Alliea, who refused to live when her children were doomed to die.
So here we are, celebrating a victory in which we played no part. Rejoicing in the sacrifice of warriors who sacrificed themselves to save us.
It is a hollow, bitter kind of evening. But we enjoy it nonetheless.
I take my guitar and play. The strings are programmed to play old-fashioned honky-tonk piano notes; and I have programmed the guitar’s chip to give me an idiosyncratic, heartfelt bass and drums accompaniment. And my singing is carried via the intercoms to every vessel in our small fleet.
I don’t sing the blues. That would sink us entirely. Instead, I sing a gospel hymn of hope and redemption.
I sing:
“On my way
To Canaan Land
I’m on my way
Yeah, to Canaan Land
On my waaay
Oh yeah
To Canaan Land,
On my way
Glory Hallelujah
On my way.”
The piano chords smash and crash through the soaring melody and the heartfelt lyrics.
“Yes I’m on my way
To Canaan land
Yes, I’m on my way
To Canaan Land
On my waaaaaaaaaay
To Canaan Land
On my way
Glory Hallelujah
On my way.”
I raise the energy level. I sing my heart out.
“I’ve had a mighty hard time
But I’m on my way
Had a mighty hard time
Yeah yeah yeah
Mighty hard time
On my way.
On my way
Glory Hallelujah
On my way!”
I have had my vocal chords modified to help me reach the rich throaty pitch of gospel songs like this. I feel as if my skin is being ripped off and my soul itself is reaching out and touching all my comrades, those before me in the assembly room, and those in their own ships.
I think of Alliea. I have seen video footage of her lonely death in space; her choice. Her end. Her glory.
“I’ve had a mighty hard time
But I’m on my way
Had a mighty hard time
Yeah yeah yeah
Mighty hard time
O-on my way.”
I think of the many who died. Hera, Grendel, most of the Children Ships. All my own children too, forty-eight of them, died in the heat of battle. I wanted to save at least some of them, my favourite children, by keeping them in my command vessel. And I issued orders to that effect on my Captain’s email; then deleted them. And issued them again; and deleted them again. For how could I chose my favourites, among that wonderful, rebellious rabble of kids? I loved them all, equally. And how could I save my own, while sending the children of others to certain death? No! No exceptions could be made. All had to die. Their sacrifice was needed, and their sacrifice was taken.
“Yes I’m on my way
To Canaan land
Yes, I’m on my way
To Canaan Land
On my waaaaaaaaaay
To Canaan Land
On my way
Glory Hallelujah
On my way!”
I think of life and death. So much death. Rob, Alliea, my children from the ship, my wife on Pixar, our children. My crewmates. My friends. My lovers. My victims. All the countless millions who die, every year, as the casual side effect of the Cheo’s reign. And here I am, still alive. Heart still pounding. Mind still racing.
And my only consolation is the certainty that I, too, will die soon. Because with all that faces us – how could it be otherwise?
I reach the last chorus, I keep the honky-tonk piano settings, and I segue into another gospel song.
Alby
I have caught up with the shipssss. I float outside their hullsss, flickering like the ssssun on water. Through my intercom, I can hear Flanagan’sss sssssong. And I can imagine the men and women in their cabinsss and assssssembly roomssss, lisssstening, clapping, ssssinging along.
And assss I float past them in deepesssst spacccce, a flame among the starssss, I, too, hear the new ssssong he ssssings. It isss fasssst, urgent, with a ssssurging piano accompaniment; and it is a ssssong of hope, with a catchy melody that makesss the heart ssssoar:
“Oh Lord!”
Flanagan sssings, and I long for fingersss to click along to the beat. He continues:
“Oh Lord
Keep your hand on the plow
Hold on.
Oh Lord
Oh yeah
Oh Lord
Oh yeah
Keep your hand on the plough
Hold on.
Mary had three lengths of chain
And every length was in Jesus’ name.
Keep the hand on the plough
Hold on.
When I get to heaven gonna sing and shout
Be no body there gonna put me out.
Keep your hand on the plough
Hold on.
Oh Lord
Oh Lord
Oh yeah.
Keep your hand on the plough
Oh Lord
Oh yeah
Oh Lord
Oh yeah
Keep your hand on the plough
And hooooooooooooooooooooold on.”
Lena
“What’s wrong?” I ask him gently.
The wake is over. All are sober. I am in the bar with a deeply melancholic Captain Flanagan. My previous mood of perverse elation has melted away. I am now bathed in Flanagan’s despair.
“So many have died,” he says softly.
“You knew that would happen.”
“For no reason.” He looks at me blankly. “We can’t succeed.”
“We’ve destroyed a Beacon before.”
“And now they know our methods. They’ll be prepared. It’s a suicide mission.”
“Then so be it.”
“You’re prepared to die?”
�
��Hell no. But I’m prepared to let you all die.”
“Thank you Lena.” He smiles a wry smile. He cannot find a way around the time-lag factor.
“It’s the time-lag factor, isn’t it?” I say to him.
He is silent for a long long time.
“I knew you’d figure it out eventually,” he tells me.
I pour myself a drink. We sip. We bathe in our own misery. Every time the pirates invent a new military strategy, it may be ten or twenty years in subjective time before they can travel far enough to implement it again. But in Earth Time, those twenty years are in fact forty or even fifty years.
“Time dilation is against you. And the vast distances of space. By the time you fly from one star to another, they’ve had half a century or more to plot and counteract your next move.”
“You got it.” Every battle is recorded on every ship’s cctv and transmitted instantaneously back to Earth via the Beacons. Flanagan used an antimatter bomb once; the second time, the Earth DRs had built a net to catch it. He used the child Jamie’s computer skills to capture the Doppelganger minds on Cambria; but by now, every Doppelganger in the Universe will be Earth-Mind Read Only.
“You can’t use the Big Bang Bomb again,” I say. “They’ll have a way around it.”
“I wouldn’t risk it anyway. This is our Universe. What the hell are we doing with it?”
“Fair point. So, what’s your plan to destroy the Beacon on Kornbluth?”
Flanagan takes his glass and throws it at the wall. It doesn’t break, it bounces. The effect is laughable, rather than dramatic. Flanagan looks duly chagrined.
“We try, we fail. That’s the plan,” he tells me.
“ That’s a plan?”
“That’s Plan A,” Flanagan tells me. There’s a shade more confidence in his voice now. But I can tell he is still beset by terrible doubts.
“So what’s Plan B?”
He stares at me.
The air in front of him seems to shimmer and flicker. For a moment, I assume I have a migraine of a kind I haven’t endured for centuries. Then I wonder if Alby the flame beast is back inside the ship.