that Hope was run by a collective of scientists and philosophers and was by no means my private fiefdom. But I never said it was! It was merely my obsession. Yes, of course, my child had many fathers; but I was still her mother.
Also, Flanagan nagged me for ages to have a baby to swell the ranks of the pirate army. This, of course, I could not endure. Am I a brood mare? I will not be demeaned in such a way. And besides, the very idea of my eggs being fertilised by some man’s sperm feels to me a violation akin to rape. At my age, sex itself is something of an ordeal. Conception is entirely beyond the pale.
I have had to take some steps to stamp my authority over Flanagan. As I keep reminding him – I am the leader of the pirate horde, he is merely my trusted aide-de-camp. I am the hero of the hour; he is the sidekick. I think he takes the point. And, every day, I make a point of addressing the entire fleet via the intercom with one of my poems, reflecting some vital point or other about our mortal existence. These go down very well; I am frequently congratulated for my day’s illuminating broadcast. “Keep up the good work, Lena!” I am told by ugly cut- throats. “We love devastating use of litotes!” The dykes seem to like me too. I think for them I am a role model of robust yet sexy femininity.
But ohmigosh, I wish they wouldn’t wear those external clitoris rings.
I do feel a certain trepidation about the forthcoming battle. And I have begun to seed possible escape routes to cover the inevitable moment when we are doomed and facing certain death. I have instructed my remote computer… That’s me.
I am addressing my readers and listeners, please don’t interrupt.
… to send out distress beacons which are carefully calibrated to start transmitting after the battle is lost. That way, I can escape by liferaft and claim that, after all, I was all along a hostage of these evil pirates.
I do not consider this a betrayal. I am, after all, throwing in my lot with them. I believe in their ideal; I yearn for a peaceful and democratic society. I yearn for the overthrow of the Cheo’s dictatorial regime.
But I yearn to live for another millenium. There is so much I haven’t done, so much I haven’t seen. Indeed, I have a folder containing details of everything left for you to do.
But there’s more, far more! There are things you haven’t thought of, that you could never dream of, being a mere, as you are, machine. I stand corrected.
Indeed you do. Oh and I have, by the way, and I trust you have not been eavesdropping upon these moments, compelled Flanagan to have a sexual relationship with me. I explained to him that my psyche requires validation and support, and that it is his duty to support me. Naturally, of course, he readily agreed, despite a playful grimace and a curse so foul I had never actually heard it before. So now we have fantastic passionate sex on a daily basis. But you thought/said just a moment ago that sex was repellent to you.
I have mellowed since the beginning of this chapter. Besides, I was curious. Is he good?
Satisfactory. And you? How would you rate your skill as a lover in your own, so to speak, humble opinion?
I am magnificent! I am sensuality incarnate! Eros deified! Though I must admit, I do have a habit of falling asleep immediately afterwards. And sometimes, during.
So, you have been spying on me? Of course not. I am careful to respect your privacy, by disengaging at any and all intimate moments.
Oh, I don’t mind, feel free to watch me rogering the Captain. You never know, you might learn something. With respect Lena, I am a molecular computer the size of a pebble with pre-programmed emotions and a 300 gigagigabyte hard drive. Tantric sex holds little appeal for me.
You’re being snide again. No, no, not at all. It merely seems that way, because you programmed me with your own razor-sharp sense of humour.
Hmm. You were telling me about your sexual congress with our Captain?
Yes, so I was. Ah, what bliss, what ecstasy. I never thought I would once again experience the joy of being in love! You should write a poem about it.
Or a concerto. Stick to poems, they hurt less.
What did you say? I said, a concerto written by you and inspired by love would be a joy to hear and a boon to humanity.
I get muddled sometimes. I could have sworn you said… Are you sure you’re logging all this for posterity? As always.
It’ll need editing. I shall do that for you.
Do you really think he likes me? He adores you. You are magnificent, he has never seen a woman like you.
Why isn’t he nicer then? That’s merely his bold piratical style.
I sometimes fear he is faking his orgasms. How could he? The physical evidence is…
But he takes so little joy in the act of love. For me, it is an adventure, a ballet of the senses. For him it’s… Wham bam thank you ma’am. That, I believe, is the correct idiom.
I deserve his love and his passion. Indeed you do.
For he needs me. Without my leadership, this whole doomed expedition would be… Doomed?
Yes. You know what I mean. You should rest.
Why? You’re getting cranky, and incoherent.
I feel tired. I feel I carry the world’s burden on my shoulders. You are a goddess.
That’s putting it too strongly. You are a goddess.
Or perhaps not. You are a goddess, and I worship you.
I can live with that. Sleep. Sleep. Sleep.
Roberta Jane
I can’t imagine a better childhood.
I’ve read lots of books, of course, about children on other planets. Novels about girls in a boarding school on the colony of Arcadia, where every child comes from genetically superior stock and the teachers are all Nobel Prize winners. And stories about boys and girls living on an early settlement in the Asteroid belt, always getting into mischief. And my mum has always encouraged me to read the ancient Earth texts to “help define the nature of childhood”. Books like Swallows and Amazons, Five Children and It, The Railway Children, Tracy Beaker, Arabella and Her Orphan Family on Mars and Dragos.
But I am being raised on the Rustbucket, a Type 3 warship which sails with the pirate horde fleet to wage war against an evil empire. Our ship has a vast central atrium which has been turned into a virtual museum of Earth habitats. Our play area was usually a tropical rainforest; but we could swap programs whenever we wanted in search of the perfect environment. One day we would be nomads in the Gobi Desert; another day we would be cowboys and Indians in Earth’s Monument Valley. We could do anything, be anywhere. Perfect!
We could program virtual-activity games too – we fought monsters and zombies and we piloted spaceships and rode horses and competed in dance tournaments. But the best thing of all was just wandering the ship itself – climbing up and down ladders into deserted bits of the ship with bulkheads and portholes and computer screens buzzing with activity.
I loved the porthole zone, where they had those huge huge windows that gave you a panorama of the space outside our ship. If you stared for long enough, the ship itself would vanish and you’d feel like a particle of matter floating through the Universe for ever and ever and ever and ever.
We also found a way into the engine room. It meant climbing through narrow pipeways, using cable for rope, leaping across live fusion chambers. I loved the throb of power of the fusion drive, and the clicking of microcomputers. I imagined I was in the belly of some mythical beast, a whale or a space-travelling orc. And every night, my mother would tell me stories of faraway lands and princes and princesses and oppressive ghastly tyrants who were hanged or castrated or crucified, which served them bloody well right.
But the most fun of all was when we trained. Sometimes we got hurt – I had my skull fractured twice, and every limb got broken when I fell off a floating disk and landed badly. But that didn’t worry me, it was all part of the rough and tumble. And I much preferred real combat to playing virtual-reality warrior games. I got a real buzz
