Debatable Space by Philip Palmer Read Free Book Online Page B

cold of our winters. I worked all day, and slept all night. We weren’t trained to read, or watch tv or dv. We had
     no interests beyond being alive. Some called us slaves, but no slave has ever been so free.
    I run. I run. I run. I run. I run. I run.
    I
runrunrunrunrunrunrunrunrun!
    And when I run I forget all my doubts and regrets. All my hesitations and pauses. All my uncertainties. All my fears. I run,
     I am the run, the run is me.
    I am complete.
Lena
    “How was it?” Flanagan asks me, once we are back in the pirate ship.
    “You’re ingratiating yourself, please, it’s unseemly.”
    “I was in fact trying to be nice,” he says, frostily.
    “You are seduced, awestruck, pitiful,” I tell him, with relish. “I humour you but, in truth, I despise you.”
    “Look, just because you’re my prisoner and under threat of death, humiliation and torture, there’s no need for you to be
uncivil
.”
    “Cuntsucker.”
    “Ooh. I’d almost forgotten – you’re a poet.”
    “I am, yes, a poet.”
    “
Reminiscences of Exquisite Moments
. A slim little volume, it sold in its several.”
    “It’s an acclaimed piece.”
    “It was excoriated.”
    “Those reviews were later rescinded, once I published under my… family name.”
    “Ah, so you
do
get good reviews, on pain of death? That’s a start.”
    “You are a philistine and an imbecile.”
    “I’ve had eleven symphonies and fourteen rock operas performed, I am considered to be one of the most accomplished popular
     composers of my era.”
    “And a braggart also.”
    “Wizened old shrew.”
    “I am, if you observe, far from wizened.”
    “I see your soul. Your soul is wizened.”
    “There is no such thing as a… wizened soul.”
    “Bleak. Barren. A desert. That’s your soul. I can feel it from here.”
    “Souls cannot be felt.”
    He smiles at that. It’s a charming smile. I hate him so. And yet…
    It’s true what he said about his music. He…
    “Shut up.”
    Chagrined, I realise I have spoken my inner thoughts aloud.
    “I wasn’t speaking!” Flanagan says, indignantly.
    I give him a forbidding look. I allow my charisma to wrap itself around him, like silken chains. Then I say, artfully: “It’s
     not too late, Captain, for you to achieve redemption and forgiveness. Hand me back, forget the ransom, commit ritual suicide,
     and you will die without a stain on your name.”
    “Or – not.”
    I glare. Flanagan sighs, ostentatiously. “Will you join me for dinner tonight?”
    “I will face that hardship with equanimity and fortitude, yes.”
    “We dine at eight. Will you need access to your wardrobe?”
    “My body armour will suffice.”
    “It looks a little… military.”
    I smile. I can drive him wild with desire. I may be his prisoner, but it is
I
who have power over
him.
I tap my armoured breast with a finger, and hear the hollow thud.
    “I like it that way,” I tell him.
Lena
    “Camera, lights, action,” says Jamie. I am old enough to have some notion what he is on about.
    Harry, the freak, operates the vidcam. He has a wild look about him. Alliea is standing by too, frowning. Maybe she is jealous,
     because it’s clear to her the Captain is becoming infatuated with me?
    Flanagan has explained that they will transmit my message via video email to the Cheo. The date of the message will reassure
     him I am still alive. I have been given a script to read.
    “Okay?” says Flanagan. He continues to be nice to me. But that of course is because he needs me to cooperate. Which I will,
     but on my terms. I shoot him a fierce look, to boil his blood, and keep him hoping for the unattainable. That’s how I like
     my men: desperate.
    I glance at the message he has drafted: “I am being well cared for. But I am in fear of my life. Please help me. Give these
     people what they want. It is only money. My dearest son, I love you.” It is cringemaking stuff, without a scintilla of wit
     or rhetorical energy.
    I look into the vidcam. Jamie