“No it is not. You have my word on it.”
“I’m free to go?”
“Your liberty has been restored.”
“Very well.”
“But…”
“But what?” I say, angrily. I fix him with a furious, scathing stare. But he looks at me, calmly, almost reverently. I see in his eyes a trace of… is that awe?
“You’re free to go, but I want you to stay. I want you to help us.”
“You kidnapped me!”
“Our cause is just. And we need you. Lena, you are a hero to us. We need you to be our saviour.”
I snort at his purple prose. But at the same time, I feel exalted and delighted.
“What do you mean, saviour?”
“I offer you my ship, and my captaincy.”
“ What?”
“I’m serious.”
“You’re deranged.”
“I’m desperate. Without you, we are lost. We need you.”
My head, by now, is whirling. “Then why the hell did you execute my simulacrum?” I snarl at him.
He looks at me with a tender, respectful gaze. And, in the gentlest of tones, he says, “To prove to you that your son doesn’t care if you live or die. There is no bond of love now. So join with us. Lead us. Help us kill the Cheo and depose his empire of evil.”
I am stunned, and speechless.
He is no longer smiling now. He stares at me, awaiting my answer.
But I cannot give an answer, I cannot even speak. I gesture for him to leave, my throat dry as ash.
When he is gone, I stare at the wall, stunned, my heart pounding. What is his game? What the hell is he playing at?
Lena
What should I do? You must say no.
Why? Because he’s asking you to be a terrorist! A pirate!
Is that so bad? You know that it is.
It has a certain… glamour. Lena!
It would give me a role and a purpose. You would be declaring war on your own son.
I’m sure there is precedent for that. Well, indeed, there is. If you’d like me to enumerate…
No. Don’t be a sucker. The whole thing stinks. It’s a trap of some kind.
Of what kind? That makes no sense. How could he trap me, by surrendering to me his ship and crew? You’re sinking into paranoid ramblings. You have to say no.
I……………………………
I suppose you’re right. You are right. I have to say no. You are tempted, though.
Yes! You want power again.
Of course. But you must say no.
Then I will. I’ll tell him no. I’ll spit in his face. The arrogant bastard!
Flanagan
Today she spat in my face. Then she called me a bastard, and damned me to hell.
I am cheered and exhilarated. I know that I’m winning. I’ve got the little bitch wrapped around my little finger.
She thinks she’s cleverer than me. And she is! By many factors. But I’ve got the measure of her. I can play her like I play my guitar. I can pluck her every string.
I hope…
Lena Here I am.
Poised!
Pivoted!
Open to all possibilities. At this moment, I can do anything. I can dance, I can enact a kata, I can write a poem, a chapter, I can dream a painting, but instead I click my fingers and conjure up an orchestra…
… and the strings begin their sad lament. Bassoon, oboe, the crash of timpani. I conduct, I slow down the tempo. What is this? John Mulvey’s Concerto for Horn.
I knew that. One of your especial favourites. You played it when we journeyed towards that picturesque double star in BDDU77, on the day you asked me to list the ten greatest athletes of the twenty-second century.
Are you prompting me or something? Do you feel my memory is deficient? No, no, far from it. Keep focused, Lena. The strings keep missing their cue. The timpani are too loud. The tempo is too slow.
The tempo is just great.
I speed the tempo up, I grimace at the string players, I catch the eye of the imaginary timpani player and he takes my hint. My conducting becomes more precise, and yet more impassioned. I ride the waves of sound, I become the music, the music becomes me, we are lost in a union of beauty and rhythm, ah, pluck, blow, soar, my heart in hiding stirs to the age-old rhythm of the, this is just a draft, remind me of this tonight I’ll patch in some brilliant metaphor, The music plucks me as I soar to an infinite crescendo.
That’ll do. Why are they playing this bit? What happened to the other bit, with the twiddly violins? They played the twiddly violin bit already.
I throw my baton down. Enough! This game doesn’t amuse me any more. The music stops.
I go into cat stance, but the kata doesn’t flow.
I’ve lost my mojo. A temporary blip.
Don’t bolster me. You think I’m a child? I refuse to be patronisingly comforted. Forgive me, I forget sometimes, I am dealing with an artist.
Indeed you do. You are preoccupied with Flanagan.
The evil little fuck. Yes he is.
I can read him like a book. Naturally.
I said no to his idiotic offer – but he behaves as if I said yes. It’s a Denial of Reality technique, combined with persistent coaxing, like a wave eroding a cliff. It’s a method that often works, I’ve used it often myself. But it won’t work on me. I can see his game! Indeed.
“Flattery”. He’s using Flattery on me! Ah, you’re much too astute to be caught by such a crude gambit.
A shrewdly perceptive aside, you’re a credit to my programming. But back to the matter in hand: Flanagan has studied my archives, he knows what I like, what I’ve done. And of course, it makes me feel all warm and… glowy when he reveals that he knows these little details about me. He startled me the other day with an enthusiastic reference to You Are God, my first book. And then he said, his voice dripping with indignation of course, “How come you never got the proper credit for that?” How crude. How obvious. How pathetic. But – oh! – I felt such a surge of pleasure at his words!
Then of course seconds later, the surge desurged, the good moment popped. Because I am too smart to be fooled that way. Don’t flatter me! I do not grant you that power over me!
“Charisma’. That’s another trick he’s using on me. He has it in abundance. Flanagan has a powerful and authoritative persona, and his people are utterly loyal to him. He treats them good-naturedly but without any sentimentality. It excites me to see the power he has, I am half jealous of his self-assurance. But he is projecting
