Skid
The First Chronicle
Part 1 of The Skidian Chronicles Series
Keith Fenwick
Copyright © Keith Fenwick 2013
Revised edition 2014
All rights reserved
The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, transcribed, stored in a retrieval system, or translated into any other language or computer language, in any form or by any means, whether it be electronic, mechanical, magnetic, optical, manual or otherwise, without the prior written consent of the author.
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Also by Keith Fenwick in the Skidian Chronicles series
The Second Coming –available on Kindle or hard copy
The Lifeboat- available on Kindle or hard copy
The Colonists - available on Kindle or hard copy
Newsletter – updates on the series and free stuff
Special thanks to Joyce for the encouragement to pick up this long-neglected work and make something of it.
Prologue
The Tasting of the Plant
“We thank you, almighty, for this harvest,” Inel chanted, not for the first time wondering what the words really meant, for on this planet he was the almighty.
It was a tedious duty but the single most significant act of his rule – the annual tasting of the plant. The origins of the elaborate ceremony were long forgotten, as was the reason the ceremony was enacted year after year without deviating from the ancient script.
Whatever the case, it seemed best to carry on regardless. It was a case of continuing a tradition for tradition’s sake, without question, for to question the need for the ceremony, even in this age of enlightenment, was to question all the noble traditions of Skid, the very reason for there being a Skidian society at all. And that wouldn’t do.
Despite the tremendous significance of the service there wasn’t much to it really. Trying not to tumble head first into the bubbling liquid below the platform on which he stood, Inel dipped an exquisitely carved, long-handled ladle into one of the vast, open vats where the planet’s synthofood was produced. After much chanting and exaggerated gesturing he tasted some of the latest batch. It was considered a propitious sign if he did not keel over on the spot.
It would have been quite a simple process except it proceeded only after an hour or so of solemn declarations, affirmations of duty and the usual drama that turns a simple custom into one of great complexity and length. A theatre that assumed more importance than it warranted in this enlightened and technological age.
Completely unaffected by the ritual the enormous fermentation vats bubbled away quietly, providing the planet’s sustenance, as they had since time immemorial.
Towards the rear of the little group of witnesses, pressed up against the containment wall, stood a man whose appearance marked him out as someone clearly different to the others. Noslow was short and slim with a swarthy complexion, in a crowd that was mostly very tall, grossly overweight and whose skin color almost matched that of the brilliantly white robes they all wore.
Noslow carefully unscrewed the top of a small vial hidden in the sleeve of his robe and, concealing the vial in his hand, casually draped his arm over the lip of the vat and let the contents dribble down the containment wall into the bubbling liquid.
With a nervous smirk he listened to the final chant – a relic of a more superstitious age, when the Skidians believed their survival depended on placating the spirit world. Still, Inel went through the motions of ensuring Skid would have sufficient food for the coming year. If all went well, Noslow hoped one of his own people – perhaps even he himself – would lead next year’s ceremony.
One
Bruce could feel a vein pulsing at his temple as he drew a deep breath and bellowed and whistled the next set of commands at the dogs. “Get back, Punch, you bloody moron! Pheep pheep, pheep pheep,” he whistled between his fingers. “Get back! Walk up, phip phip. Get in behind, Punch! Walk up, Can. Sit down, Punch!,That’ll do, Cop!”
Finally the cattle moved across the hill away from the clump of trees under which they had been sheltering from the bitter wind that whipped off the Tasman Sea. Mooing and snorting unhappily, they charged almost uncontrollably down the fence line, ripping up great divots as they went, paused at the bottom of the hill and then, almost sedately, trotted through the gate where Bruce stood and fanned out onto the fresh grass. It began to rain again just as Bruce slammed the gate behind them and tied it up with a length of wire.
“Stop that, Cop, you senile old goat,” he yelled at the dog as Cop poked his head through the fence and prepared to slip through the wires.
The dog sat expectantly on the side of the hill like a wound-up mechanical toy waiting to be let loose, his stubby tail wagging furiously, instead of diving through the fence to head the mob of cattle off like he thought he should. Can thought she had better sit too, while Punch, back up the empty hillside, just kept on barking like the lunatic he was.
Hunching his shoulders against the wind-driven bitter pellets of squally rain, Bruce made a quick count of the cattle and checked up the hill for any stragglers he might have missed. “Fucken’ mongrels!” he grunted, as if the cattle were solely to blame for his getting soaked. Well, by being unnecessarily pigheaded and all but refusing to budge, as far as he was concerned, they had been. “Good boy.” Bruce gave Punch, the pup, a quick pat on the head, aimed an aimless kick at the other two dogs, who also decided they deserved some attention, and then stomped off towards his motorbike.
The squall quickly passed but the wind still howled in off the sea, picking sand up from the dunes and flinging it into his face like a sandblaster. Bruce pulled up the hood of his Swanndri and trudged off through the dunes, leaning into the wind, brushing through the dead and dying lupins he had planted as part of a halfhearted erosion control measure last spring.
At last he clambered over a fence and wearily threw his leg over the motorbike parked on the other side. After a moment he kicked it into life and headed off up the track towards the next mob of cattle, glancing around several times to make sure the dogs were following. Once he had to stop and yell at Can who was forever scavenging, inspecting decomposing turkey or sheep carcasses, or anything else she thought had potential. Anybody would think the dog was never fed!
The rear wheel slid about as the tire fought for traction on the steep, slick muddy track while Bruce dangled his feet off the foot pegs in an attempt to keep it on course. The track was almost impassable but he did not believe in walking where he thought he could drive.
To make matters worse, his Swanndri hood had blown back and was slowly filling with freezing water, which then began to trickle down the back of his neck.
Eventually the rear wheel did what it had been threatening to do ever since he’d started up the track and slipped out from under him before he could steady the bike with an outthrust leg.
“Bugger ya then.” Bruce gave the bike a kick and left it lying where it dropped, the rear wheel spinning until the motor finally stalled with a clunk.
The track was almost as difficult to walk up as it had been to ride. For each step he took, he seemed to slide half a one back, heavy clay sticking like lead weights to his boots. Eventually he made it to the top and started across the paddock towards the last mob of cattle waiting expectantly behind the electric fence for him to shift them onto a new break of grass.
Bruce allowed himself a little fantasy. When he was out the back of the farm high above the sea it sometimes felt as if he was at the end of the world, or that he was the only per
son left on earth. Then he would catch sight of, or hear, a vehicle on the road that ran inland of the farm, or hear somebody doing their nut at their dogs a few miles away. Even so, if he had an accident, fell off the bike or slipped over the cliff or something, the neighbors might not realize for days that he was missing.
Two
The patrol ship cruised through the planet’s atmosphere completely unnoticed by anyone or anything below. The crew was confident they would remain undetected by any warning systems as they were protected by stealth systems that had been activated since before entering this solar system. But to be honest, they had no idea how anything aboard the ship worked and relied on an out-of-date FAQ for instructions.
An argument raged aboard between the crew members, as a great uninhabited continent fell away behind the ship as it headed eastward towards a group of smaller islands and the vast empty spaces of a large ocean beyond.
“Just how do we judge the suitability of likely candidates? Interrogate them? What questions should we ask?” Mulgoon demanded.
Cyprus was all for simply transporting a likely looking specimen aboard the ship and disposing of him, her, it or them, if they proved unsuitable for their needs. However, because of his lowly status, his counsel was not taken seriously. He was the token commoner of the crew. He was not supposed to be there to offer an opinion on anything, and the others ignored most of what he said. To make matters worse, Toytoo, the chairman of the committee, was notorious among a planet of procrastinators for never being able to make a decision.
Mulgoon was wavering, almost on the point of deciding the whole scheme was really too risky. He felt they should return home empty-handed. “How can we decide where most of their food is produced?” he, who should have known better, asked. He had made a special study of the subject, after all.
In an unusual departure from protocol, Myfair was inclined to agree with Cyprus. The planet was obviously populated by primitives, and any one of them should be able to provide the assistance they needed. Furthermore, he, more than the others, knew it was dangerous to loiter around there. Despite the operations FAQ stating a low level of technology existed, it had been put together a long time ago, and the inhabitants could possibly have developed systems that could sense, damage or even target the ship with some kind of missile system or lasers, since the last time a Skidian vessel ventured this way. There were some quite advanced emissions evident from the surface and the satellites in orbit about the planet. But the very idea that they themselves could be detected, let alone be damaged, didn’t really concern him. It was simply not possible.
Unnoticed by the others, Myfair slipped into the control room and studied images of the planet unfolding beneath them. A solitary figure suddenly appeared on the screen, moving across an area of organic material.
Intrigued by this lonely figure, for Skidians were never really alone, Myfair instructed the ship to hover overhead while he studied the potential candidate as some smaller four-legged creatures raced over to join him. “He’ll do,” Myfair decided impulsively. This offworlder had to know something about the organic material over which he moved and the large creatures ahead of him.
Myfair stole a quick glance over his shoulder at the others, who were still arguing in the conference chamber, and activated the transporter beam to bring the offworlder on board.
“What the bloody hell?”
Just as Bruce had been about to give Punch a bloody good kick in the ribs for sniffing around and then rolling in a nicely decomposing sheep carcass at the top of the cliff, something had grasped him by the scruff of the neck and yanked him skyward, leaving his stomach feeling as though it was still pinned firmly to the ground somewhere below his feet.
One moment he was struggling across the paddock, the next he was here. Wherever and whatever ‘here’ was.
For a moment, Bruce decided he must have been blown off the cliff somehow and bashed his head on a rock. Was he on his way to heaven? If it wasn’t heaven, then it must be a hallucination of another kind. Was he still asleep? Had he just fallen over and bumped his head?
The dogs? What were they doing here? Surely they wouldn’t have been stupid enough to follow him off the cliff. They didn’t look particularly happy, though. At first they trembled and whimpered fearfully, tails between their legs, eyes rolling in their sockets. Then all three of them tried unsuccessfully to climb up under his Swanndri. Finding the struggle beyond them, they gave up and cautiously sniffed the floor instead.
Cop was the first to venture off the platform they were standing on, to investigate a ghostly apparition that was approaching from the far end of the dimly lit room. The apparition solidified into the figure of a man wearing a long white robe of some kind that brushed the floor as he moved.
Bruce tensed. His heart thumped wildly behind his ribs, so hard he thought it might leap from his chest, as the figure stopped several feet in front of him. He wondered if it was Saint Peter, whether he might indeed be in heaven. Cop sniffed, whined and then scuttled back to cower behind his master, resting his head against Bruce’s boots, peering suspiciously up at the man.
“Gidday.” Bruce could not think of anything more intelligent to say off the top of his head and immediately cursed himself for sounding so idiotic and inarticulate. But this bloke probably wouldn’t understand a word he said. He shifted uncomfortably and tapped his foot in the puddle of water that had run off his Swanndri and leggings onto the floor while the figure continued to stare at him, distastefully twitching his nose.
Despite his pallid skin and dark, blue-rimmed eyes, Bruce thought the man appeared quite human, though he had never seen anybody with such pale skin before. Not even on the bare legs of tourists fresh from a northern winter wandering down a beach. If he were in fact a man, he was a big, well-proportioned man, standing almost two meters tall, like a basketball player or a rugby lock.
Bruce started to step backwards, but the man loomed over him and placed his hands on his shoulders, drawing Bruce forward and brushing his lips over each cheek.
“Bloody hell!” Bruce wiped his cheeks on the sleeve of his jacket. “What the …?” He stepped forward to avenge the insult but was halted midstride by a raised hand.
“Welcome, and thank you for joining us here,” Myfair greeted Bruce in the traditional manner of Skid where visitors were shown every courtesy no matter what the host really thought of his guest. “My name is Myfair, and I am at your service.”
Cop took this opportunity of an apparently friendly greeting to leave the dubious safety of Bruce’s presence and begin an exploration of the room. He cocked his leg against a cabinet, squirting a stream of urine at it, and then trotted off to check the room out, his tail wagging jauntily. This was fresh turf, and as the boss dog here he was staking his claim.
“What’s going on?” Bruce managed to blurt out, pinching himself at the same time to make sure he was indeed still alive and maybe just experiencing some extra surreal dream.
Myfair frowned, wondering whether the offworlder was as stupid as he looked. Surely that was obvious? “You are aboard a Skidian space patrol vessel in orbit around your home planet,” he stated, just in case it wasn’t.
“You’re having me on.”
The alien (if that’s what he was pretending to be) spoke with a mid-Atlantic drawl that was almost too good to be true. Bruce was sure now he must be dreaming. Or was he perhaps a victim of some kind of sinister CIA conspiracy plot?
“Kindly step this way and look into this screen.”
Bruce peered into a screen, which rose on a slim pedestal from the floor, for perhaps thirty seconds and then stepped back, stunned at the sight. This was either some kind of elaborate trick … or what? On the screen the earth had unfolded below him like a Google satellite map. He stepped forward for another look and watched the earth’s surface disappear behind them at an alarming rate. They were flying above a sea. Not liking to ask which sea, he glanced at Myfair, scratched his nose and reached into his pocket for hi
s smokes.
With a nonchalance he certainly didn’t feel, Bruce lit the cigarette and took a deep drag. Myfair, or whatever his stupid sounding name was, certainly wasn’t pulling his leg: he might not actually be on a space ship, but he was in the air and apparently still ticking.
Too astonished by the idea to feel much in the way of fear or anxiety, and surprised at the steadiness of his voice, Bruce asked, “Well, what happens now?”
He had already decided that Myfair was neither God nor an angel, and that he wasn’t in heaven or some other dream world. That vision had been replaced by a sudden fear of being spirited off to be an exhibit at an alien zoo, or a research specimen at an alien laboratory.
Adrenaline coursing through his veins, his muscles tensed, and Bruce prepared to run. Anywhere. Then he realized there was nowhere to go.
Myfair seemed to sense his apprehension and laid a kindly hand on his arm. “Do not worry, we wish to make use of your talents, for which you will be well rewarded.”
“Eh? Whatdoyoumean?” Bruce asked, the question emerging from his mouth as single word.
“We have traveled to your world.” Myfair stopped short at the point of explaining the purpose of their journey as he turned and felt rather than immediately saw his fellow crew members watching him. He realized he had some explaining of his own to do.
“All will be revealed to you in good time. Now you must be tired. Let me show you to our hospitality suite.” Myfair’s tone was diplomatic enough, but the firm grip on his arm convinced Bruce he had little choice in the matter, so he complied without a struggle. The alien was far too big to argue with.
Bruce was guided toward an unmarked wall, which opened to reveal a large, empty space. He stood hesitantly on the threshold until Myfair gave him a firm shove. “Please ask your companions to enter with you.”
Skid Page 1