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.”
FB2 document info
Document ID: fbd-92b5cc-dd16-1740-bd84-f43e-72dd-e341a5
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 20.07.2011
Created using: Fiction Book Designer, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6 software
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Debatable Space Page 37