The Colonists

by Keith Fenwick

  “Um, yes, Mr President.” Morris wasn’t sure how to address him either and Mr President sounded about right. “How can I help?” He let himself be drawn aside while the other MFYers rolled their eyes theatrically. Obviously, they’d already had a lot of interaction with Mitchell.

  “I know you. You’re the advance party...”

  “The what?”

  “For the rescue mission,” Mitch whispered conspiratorially, “sent to extract me and return me to my rightful position in the government. We still have time to set up a defence against the alien invasion about to be launched on humanity.”

  Morris didn’t have the heart to break it to the fragile old man it was already too late. As far as the world was concerned Mitchell was dead, and a new President sat in the White House. He wondered whether he could cheer Mitchell up by telling him the new President was more unpopular than he had ever been. This was saying something, because Mitchell’s approval ratings had never been very high.

  Like most Americans, Morris had absorbed numerous re-runs of Mitchell’s very public disintegration at a special session of the United Nations Assembly. At the time, his meltdown had been overshadowed by an assassination attempt by a well-known NBL basketballer.

  The party line had been that Mitchell's account of an imminent alien invasion and his repeated claims to have visited an alien planet showed that he was losing his marbles, or “suffering from some form of mental fatigue”, as it was diplomatically described.

  Morris now knew there was more to these supposedly unsubstantiated ravings. It was evident Mitchell's ordeal had taken its toll and his implosion must have been an invitation for his enemies to get rid of him. Morris didn’t want to upset the old man further, but he wasn’t sure how to deal with him in a decent and respectful manner given Mitchell's mental state.

  “Yessir, President Chump has ordered a special mission to rescue you and bring you home, sir.” Morris added.

  Morris watched Mitchell intently for a reaction. The eyes gave it away, followed by the momentary hardening of the old man’s features.

  “That asshole. If Chump had another brain, it would be lonely,” Mitchell spat contemptuously. “He thinks he is in control of his own destiny, but he isn’t, and never has been. Not since he was fool enough to marry that young wife of his. It’s pretty clear who's wearing the pants in his household, but she’ll discover, if she hasn’t already, she’s met her match in General Smith and his cronies.” Then the shutters dropped, and he was a slightly querulous old man again.

  Morris quickly understood he wasn’t talking to a feeble old man, he was talking to an old man who was almost incandescent with rage. An old man who would take any opportunity to strike back at those who had marginalised and side-lined him. Morris knew he would have to tread carefully around Mitchell.

  “Where can I stay?” Morris asked, changing the subject, looking for a way to break away without further upsetting the old man.

  “Through there,” President Mitchell pointed to a doorway, “you’ll find some small studio units, and you will probably find all your gear too.”

  “What gear?”

  “See for yourself,” said one of the other MFYers. “All your possessions from the MFY base back in Australia. Well, mine turned up, so I assume yours will too.”

  Morris discovered his quarters were a replica of the comfortable studio he had been assigned at the MFY base back on Earth. It felt like someone had lifted the small unit out of the desert facility, like a piece of a Jenga tower, and dropped it here, wherever here really was. All his possessions, or very good copies of them, were there. Could they really be his?

  “If they can do this, why did they dump me out in the countryside and not closer to the settlement?” he waved his hand at the room and asked the MFYer, who stood in the doorway.

  “Go figure, I haven’t found anyone here who makes any sense at all. I assume you were starting to question what was really going on back at the MFY facility in Australia? So, they moved you and all your gear here straight away, to remove any evidence you had ever been part of the program. It’s called deniability.” The man paused before continuing. “I'm Sven Borland, by the way, from Denmark originally. That’s what happened to me. It just clicked in my mind one day and I started to wonder what was really going on. I mean, ask yourself, how does a start-up organisation go from nothing to successfully launching rockets into space and building a colony on Mars? All in a year or so, when organisations with decades of experience haven’t even been back to the moon in forty odd years?”

  “Yep. That sounds familiar,” Morris replied. He noticed his mobile on the bed, just where he had left it when he had walked out of a room very much like this one earlier in the day. On the other side of the solar system? The galaxy? Well, earlier today, according to the date on his mobile.

  Morris picked it up and switched it on.

  “What’s your mobile number?” Sven asked. “We can call each other, send messages via Messenger and Facebook, and we can read what’s going on at home in real time, if the timeline dates are correct. This shouldn’t really be possible with this kind of technology if we really are on the other side of the galaxy, which is what that guy Trev and his woman Sue tell us. However, you'll find that we can’t contact anyone back home.”

  Mitchell appeared in the doorway behind Sven. “We’re really on a planet called Skid, you know,” he said.

  There was one object out of place in the room. One the bedside table was a device, a tablet of sorts. “That will be for you,” said Sven. Morris picked it up and turned it over experimentally.

  “Here, let me show you how it works,” Mitchell said, bustling into the room self-importantly and grabbing the device out of his hands. Morris was a little taken aback to find the old man had entered without bothering to ask permission first. Clearly, he was used to being in charge.

  “Press your forefinger into this little depression here. The device is coded to your fingerprint, so I can’t unlock it for you.” Mitchell handed the device back.

  Morris did as he was told, and the tablet fired up. Apps started to update as a connection was made and a start-up screen resolved itself.

  Hello, Morris. Welcome to Skid. This device is called a Book and will replace your current mobile. The Book will allow you to interface with the Skidian technical infrastructure and be your guide to life on Skid.

  A pop-up asked him if he wanted to learn more. Yes or no? Want further options? Next? Skip? Morris chose the last option and flicked through the screens, most of which he would probably never look at again.

  After a few moments skimming, he knew as much about the planet, its indigenous people, and its history the MPU and the Transcendents were prepared to let him know, which was next to nothing he considered might be useful.

  He would be able to feed himself and travel freely around the planet. That was about it. The last screen contained some standard messaging seeking feedback.

  Allow the Skidian network to improve its functionality by sending user data and crash reports? Yes/No

  There was only one action for Morris. An emphatic 'No'.

  Send feedback and improvement suggestions. Yes/No

  'No.'

  The tablet ignored his request and he found he couldn’t exit the questionnaire without completing it.

  He answered all the remaining questions by moving a slider on a one to ten rating scale hard to the left and entering 'x' in each comments screen. It was interesting to note there were ratings for 'strongly approve', 'somewhat approve', 'approve' and ‘other.’ But there was no 'disapprove' or negative option.

  When he got to the general comments screen he added the following: ‘Give me something useful to use, like a space ship to get me home.’ Then he pressed the 'send' icon.

  Morris decided not to be too negative in case someone was paying attention to his comments and tracked him down for an explanation.

  Thank you for your time. Your input will assist us to create a more
helpful and user-friendly experience.

  “For fuck’s sake.” Book in hand, Morris went outside. “So, we really are stuck here on an alien planet?”

  “Yeah, it looksh thash way, strange as it may seem.”

  Morris wondered how Sven could be so relaxed and then realised he was half-drunk and slurring his words.

  “Who are these other people roaming around?” The MFYers and Mitch inhabited a little island of their own within the larger compound, a small village really. He noted the other inhabitants were clearly different. They were mostly bigger and darker than the small group from Earth, but they were clearly human, or if not, very close cousins.

  Whoever they were, they were at pains to steer well clear of the little group of MFYers and Mitchell. Or maybe just Mitchell. Mitchell seemed to attract furtive, hostile looks, which he was completely oblivious to. He was either completely lacking in any form of empathy, or a lifetime in politics had made him immune to such things and bestowed him with an extremely thick hide.

  But the stares made Morris a little uneasy.

  “Why are they staring at us?” he asked Sven.

  “We're OK. It’s your ex-President they don’t like,” Sven confirmed.

  The tablet then startled Morris with some more unsolicited information.

  “President Mitchell became involved in a period of unrest on Skid and his influence ultimately led to a number of fatalities. The rebellion was put down by the current Mati Lake with assistance from an offworlder called Bruce Harwood.”

  Morris almost dropped the device when it started squawking at him. “What the…?”

  “And that’s a lie too. Fake news, I tell you. You’ll get used to it around here,” Mitchell cackled. “Bruce bloody Harwood was the only thing standing in my way from becoming the most powerful President ever. The bastard!” he added bitterly.

  “Pretty nifty, eh?” Sven chipped in. “You can turn the predictive speech options off if you like. I found it disconcerting to have a question you’ve only partly formed in your mind being answered by one of these things. It’s like Google on steroids.”

  “Fuck me.”

  “Chief Mati Lake was instrumental in putting down the rebellion instigated by an exiled son of the previous Chief Mati who had managed to hijack a ship from Celcious...”

  “Here, let me show you how to switch that off.” Sven reached out for the device. “The natives.. er.. the indigenous people don’t seem to be very chatty, so I can’t vouch for the historical record.”

  “I was there, sonny,” Mitch insisted. “I know what happened, and what you’re hearing is all lies. It’s fake news, I tell you, this is the sanitised version.”

  “Yeah, sure,” Morris muttered. He’d never trusted Mitchell when he was President and wasn’t going to start now. On balance, he decided to accept the tablet's version of events. “Whose Bruce Harwood, and what was the US government doing on Skid? More to the point what involvement did they have with this alleged rebellion?”

  “It wasn’t the US government, it was just me. I was kidnapped by Harwood and his cronies.”

  Morris struggled to believe Mitchell could have been kidnapped. How could anyone kidnap the United States President and get away with it?

  “It’s not like you're thinking, son.” A tired-sounding Mitchell knew what Morris was thinking. “I have recently discovered to my personal cost that there are powers on this planet greater than any on Earth, and they dictate to us, not the other way around. It’s not like the movies, where mankind takes on the aliens and wins.”

  “So how did you really get here? You can’t have been kidnapped?”

  “It’s a long story, son. What’s your name again?”

  “Morris.. Morris Thwaites. Tell me, because I’m all ears and it looks like I’m going to have plenty of time on my hands.” Morris realised it was going to take a while to work out what was really happening and what Mitchell’s involvement was. His presence possibly indicated some form United States government influence. He might as well get Mitchell's side of the story, whilst remembering Mitchell was a politician, and would only share information that showed him in a positive light. *

  *Historical Note

  Readers should study the first three works in this series to get themselves up to speed with President Mitchell’s initial interactions with Skid. His involvement in an attempted Skidian coup led directly to his downfall, and his stage-managed death. Mitchell’s unfortunate demise enabled the rise of Ronald D Chump.

  Fourteen

  Breaking news..

  Lieutenant Marco Zanzini, the commander of the MM Sirio, an Italian Coast Guard vessel, was taken into custody today after it was alleged he ordered the massacre of refugees aboard a trawler travelling from North Africa to Europe. There are no known survivors.

  The aftermath of the incident was caught on camera by a news agency drone monitoring the activities of people smugglers in the region. Zanzini was taken into custody on his ship’s return to port and has been charged with crimes against humanity by agents of the International Criminal Tribunal. Zanzini is now being interrogated at Italian Naval headquarters, along with members of his crew.

  Friends and acquaintances of Lieutenant Zanzini have expressed surprise at his involvement in this incident, which has been described as completely out of character. Zanzini’s social media accounts have been deactivated.

  In the recent past, hard-line right wing political organisations in Italy have called for a clampdown on illegal immigration and proposed the use of force to return refugees to their ports of origin. It is not clear whether Zanzini is aligned with any of these groups.

  The action has been condemned by the Italian Government and the European Union. The Italian Navy and Coast Guard have temporarily withdrawn all vessels from patrols in the area, pending a review of search protocols. The Italian Government and Navy have re-affirmed a commitment to deal with refugees within the guidelines set down by the EU and UN.

  In a statement earlier today, the Italian Navy and Coast Guard distanced themselves from the rogue behaviour of Lieutenant Zanzini and have confirmed they will undertake a transparent and orderly investigation into the events related to the incident. Once their investigation is complete they will either prosecute via a Court Martial or hand the Lieutenant over to the International Criminal Court, along with any culpable members of the ship’s crew.

  Amnesty International has called for a review of the way European navies are trained and instructed in the interdiction of refugee boats, to ensure the rights of the refugees are protected at all costs. Amnesty International also criticised all state-sponsored escalation of violence against refugees and called on the European Union and United Nations to take steps to ensure the free passage of any vessels carrying refugees from North Africa to Europe. In related news, Amnesty also called on the Australian Government to close its off-shore detention centres and follow UN guidelines for the processing of refugees on Australian soil.

  In other news, the Martian MFY colonists appear to be settling into their new home on Mars. However, repeated attempts to directly contact the colonists have been denied by the MFY producers. The MFY management team has limited direct personal contact with the crew to designated family members, until an undefined establishment period has been satisfactorily completed.

  In the short term at least, we only have access to press releases from the reality television show. A deluge of trivial information is available to subscribers of the show, but no detailed information on the physical and psychological well-being of the colonists has been made available.

  More MFY spaceships are en route to Mars, with supplies and colonists aboard. Unlike the colony, there has been regular public contact with the crews of these subsequent missions, and there have been no reported incidents endangering the astronauts or their craft. It is believed in some quarters the lack of contact with the colony is due to the reluctance of the colonists to talk to the media, rather than a direct edict from the MFY
program.

  The MFY communications team is releasing regular updates, but it is impossible to get any direct comment from the MFY management team. Numerous press conferences have been scheduled, all of which have eventually been cancelled or postponed with ‘operational issues’ being cited for the delays or cancellations.

  The MFY organisation, and the reality television program funding it, have long been shrouded in mystery. Little is known about the notoriously publicity-shy senior management of the organisation and few outsiders have been allowed access to the complex in South Australia, the operational base of the MFY project. Such visits have been carefully stage-managed by the MFY team, and little of the inner workings of the project have been revealed. Once accepted by the project, very few people choose to leave, so little information has leaked into the public arena.

  In sports news, the first Ashes test, underway in Brisbane, Australia, is evenly poised going into the fourth day. The English team will continue batting in the hope of extending their lead...

  Muhammad Issa Alomar sat in the hut he shared with a dozen other migrants watching television news footage of the Italian warship firing on the upturned hull of a vessel, which moments before had been loaded with refugees headed to the Italian mainland. With great difficulty, he suppressed the burning rage growing inside him. He wanted to strike out immediately against the crusaders and extract a terrible revenge for the callous treatment of his people.

  This was another example of the contempt the imperialist crusaders had for people from his part of the world, and they would pay dearly once he arrived in the country which had granted him refugee status. There, he would meet up with other soldiers from his cell, and they would wreak havoc against the soft underbelly of the imperialists until they were martyred.

  Muhammad had ended up in a Greek refugee camp, which was full of fellow Syrians who had made the perilous trip to Greece via Turkey, fleeing the civil war which was ripping their country apart. The camp was a kind of paradise, certainly a more pleasant place than the first facility he had been sent to on his arrival in Greece. That had been a hastily erected tent city close to the old Greek port of Piraeus, where thousands of desperate people had been billeted.