remembered as a strong leader. A fair leader. A man who made humanity safe.
But perhaps, in fact, I will never die. Technically, it’s possible.
I sowed a lot of wild oats as a young man. I did things that, perhaps, I should not have done. But I’ve grown into a god. I have power beyond imagining. That is my rationale for doing as I have done. Though, of course, I need no rationale. Power is an essence; embrace it, it becomes you. Never look back, never regret, never leave a glass of wine half full. If I had a philosophy, it would be that.
I have only one fear. The death of soul. The loss of my ability to savour life. That is why I push to extremes. Rape, murder, torture, they give me zest.
Ah. I sense them now. My mother and her pirate have arrived on Earth. But we are ready for them. Their defeat will give me a new lease of life.
She comes to kill me, but I forgive her. When she attacks me, I’ll taunt her for a while. Then I’ll trap her mind in her robot body, and terrify her with my power, and eventually I will spare her. Flanagan will die, though. His mind will be trapped and tortured and, eventually, obliterated, leaving his body an empty husk on some faraway spaceship. But I will keep my mother alive. We’ll be together again. Friends, again.
I’m waiting for you, Lena…
That will do. Record these words, and replay it to me when we have achieved victory. Yes, Cheo.
Alby
Flanagan is tethered to the ship in his spacesuit, floating through ssspace. I fly next to him, and he tells me of hisss adventure, and hisss great victory.
There is a sssadnesss in his sssoul. I do not understand it. Should he not be happy? Exhilarated? I am puzzzzled, and the puzzzlement painssss me.
“What isss wrong?” I ask. But hisss answer alarmsss me. “What now?” he saysss, bitterly. “What now?”
“Now,” I tell him, “you mussst find a fresh challenge.” But he looksss at me blankly.
And I die.
And I am reborn. I sift through the memoriesss of the last ssssentience known as “Alby”, and I find much joy and hope and satisssfaction. But I find something new too. A wanderlusssst.
“Flanagan,” I tell him, “goodbye.”
And I shoot off into ssspace, fassster than thought itself. My flame body acceleratesss ssswifter and sswwifter, until time and ssspace become all and none.
And as I do this, I ssssing quietly to myself:
“What’sss the matter with the sssun?
It’s done broke down.
What’sss the matter with the sssun?
It’s done broke down.
Tell me what’sss the matter with the sssun?”
Book 11
Lena
The stars glisten with a rich unknowingness. I am the first human being to venture so far into the depths, into the bleak yet heart-enriching void of space where no human craft has ever… No.
The stars glisten with a rich unknowingness. I am the first human to ever venture here, I am the deflowerer of… No.
I am the first to venture here, my mind imposes on the virginness of space that ne’er before has… Absolutely not!
We have travelled a long way. Ten years have passed. I have built a new space yacht, and I sail the deep, fathomless, awe-inspiringly vast oceans of space into a region that has never before been perceived by a human consciousness. I feel I am a footprint set in fresh snow, a tiny imprint in an eternity of white which marks the end of wilderness. That’s good! Very good! Vividly expressed, and you end on an excellent metaphor!
Bollocks to that. That metaphor clunks like tin cans tied to fornicating cats. Don’t flatter me, tinbrain. I told you not to do that any more. I happen to like the metaphor! Am I not allowed an opinion?
No. Fair enough.
I spend a lot of time reflecting, and ruminating. I believe there is hope for Earth now. Flanagan made a vid of our murder of the Cheo, which we left in the care of my remote computer for Earthwide distribution. It features a full account of the battle of the pirates against the dictatorship of the Cheo, and includes a powerful and chilling documentary account of the depravities of the Cheo’s reign. I am convinced that after watching this film, the citizens of Earth will be informed enough, and humble enough, to make better choices next time.
Or, perhaps not. I marvel at the motiveless self-destructive malignancy of human kind. With all the resources that we have, with all our power and freedom – why oppress? Why persecute? Why bully?
Because, I guess, it’s fun?
My stellar yacht travels at high velocity through uncharted regions of largely empty and tedious space, for ages and ages, while inside I sit and fester and think about the past.
And I brood.
And I reproach myself.
And I inhabit my regrets.
I don’t, of course, have to rely on my own fallible human memories. Everything that has happened to me in the years since I met Flanagan has been recorded automatically in the computer memory bank. Every image, every sound, every smell, every subvocalised thought; it’s all there, neatly filed, in perfect surroundsound 3D Technicolor. Waiting for me to relive it.
So my brooding is computer-enhanced, state-of-the-art, and utterly relentless.
I slip another memory disc into the neural player. I savour a favourite once-pleasant-now-bitterly-painful memory, of flying through the air on silken wings with Flanagan on the planet of Wild West. I stand, once again, on the cliff face, and remember my thoughts:
What am I doing here?
[As I replay the memory, I am startled at the tentativeness of my thoughts and the gaucheness and naivety that underlie them.]
“Frightened?” he says.
[Go on Lena! Curl your lips, crush the arrogant bastard with your disdain!]
“Not in the least,” I reply.
[Oh fuck. Was that your best shot? I can feel you trembling, your pulse is racing. He must be aware of that, you’re playing into his hands. Calm down! Make him nervous!]
I am so very scared, I mutter subvocally to my remote computer.
[Lena, you stupid child, you’re acting like an idiot. Look at Flanagan’s face. That little half-sneer. He’s playing you like his electric guitar. No wonder he found it so easy to gull and deceive you. The signs were there, at this early stage! How could you have been so fucking dumb?!]
You’ll be fine, my remote computer assures me.
[This comforts you Lena, doesn’t it? You programmed the fucking machine to bolster you in your insecurities? Why didn’t you tell it to warn you of danger!!]
I’ll fall, and shatter every bone in my body, and the pain will send me mad, I think, wildly.
[And I’m pretty sure you’re showing it in your face, too! Never show fear, Lena. Never show weakness. Never show emotion. That’s how to handle a man. Do you really know so little?]
You won’t fall, my computer says.
