Can’t believe, cannot grieve, too tired to deceive,
Empty life, got no strife, whored my wife, ate a knife and died and woke up
In the organ banks, hey thanks, full of tranks,
Wish I was
Someone else
Somewhere else
Somewhat else
Not myself
Not with you
Don’t feel blue
Want to die
So that I
Feel my “I”
Got no “I’, got no spirit, got no “me’, disinter it, let me die, let me be, let me be, let me be,
The other guy
The other girl
Living in the other universe I curse I’m worse immersed in thirsting bursting
Feel my spirit?
I can’t feel it.
I ain’t got it.
Got no spirit.
Got no spirit.
Got no me.
Got no I.
Want to die.”
Rob stops. He and I used to be a great double act. He was the rapper, I was the bluesman. But now… Now… No more music. No more Rob. I weep.
“Shit guys, sorry,” says Rob’s hologram, “that one’s a fucking downer. Flanagan, you pissed yet?”
“I am!” I call out.
“I thought I’d finish by reading aloud all my email addresses, all 82 million of them. So keep your seats, this may take some time.” He’s grinning, foolish and silly and somehow ill at ease. “Or you know, since I’m dead now, any chance of a virtual blowjob from, ah, someone?” Rob fiddles with his trousers. But then he thinks better of it.
“Shit what’m I talking about? I’ll outlive the lot of you. I gotta go, things to do.”
The hologram vanishes.
Tears are streaming down Alliea’s cheeks.
I’m feeling horny. I want her. I want that woman so bad, and now that Rob is dead Oh shit, what did I just think? Stop it, stop it!
Alliea comes to me, I hug her. I shuffle her body round so she can’t feel my erection. I imagine taking her. But I keep my face deadpan, I cage my heart.
The crew sing another song. It is a heartbreaking lament about a space warrior who turns on his masters and leads an army to liberate his home planet. He fails and dies horribly, but the chorus has a nice melody and a great deal of oomph.
I’ll miss you Rob.
Lena
I am released from semi-coma. Captain Flanagan sits opposite me. His crewmen are near, ready to immobilise me again if necessary.
“How’s the nose?”
Flanagan winces at my words. “Broken in eleven places, jaw was shattered,” he says, carefully. “And I’m taking shots twice a day till the bone heals.”
I reach out and slap him in the face. I’m so fast, no one ever registers what has happened until “Jesus fucking Christ!” screams Flanagan.
I beam.
Flanagan is red in the face.
“I have some questions to ask you,” he snarls.
“I’ll give you some painkillers, Cap’n,” says the scrawny big-nosed woman.
“I’m fine. Lena, this is our profession. We’re not going to hurt you. We’re just going to ransom you.”
I flicker, as if about to strike again, and he flinches.
“Do you know who I am?” I say.
“Yes I think we do.”
“And do you know who you are?”
“We’re a freelance capitalist group.”
“You are the dregs of humanity. You are less than human.”
“That’s rich, coming from you.”
“You are less than animal. You are a viral infection. I’m glad we killed one of your men. I laugh myself to sleep thinking of that.”
“We’re asking for a trillion galactic credits, plus a fleet of warships, and our own sector of inhabitable space.”
I pause, stunned.
“You won’t get it,” I say coolly.
“The Cheo is a rich man.”
“He won’t pay.”
“If he doesn’t pay, you’ll die.”
“Then I’ll die, because he won’t pay. The Cheo doesn’t negotiate with kidnappers. That’s one of his rules.”
“He’ll make an exception in your case.”
“You’d be surprised.” I smile, taunting them. Shut up, Lena, you’re just giving them reasons to kill you.
“Do you know how old the Cheo is?” I ask, tauntingly.
“He’s about… a hundred?”
“Two hundred and ten. He’s had eighteen wives. Dozens of mistresses. Countless lovers. Do you know how many children he has?”
Flanagan is silent, sizing me up, apparently confused.
“You could populate a country with his children,” I explain. “He is concupiscent, fruitful, and very old. Why should he jeopardise everything for the sake of me? One daughter among thousands?”
“You’re saying we should kill you then?”
“I’m saying you should release me. He won’t pay the ransom. I’ll get my own people to pay you, I’m good for a million credits.”
“We want the Cheo to pay.”
“My money not good enough?”
“It’s a… political statement.”
I roar with laughter.
Then I ask, baffled: “What do you mean, ‘political’?”
“We are democrats. We stand against everything the Cheo represents.”
“This is droll.”
“But we know he has a soft spot for you. We know he’ll pay our ransom. He would pay ten times what we
