No one had connected the disappearance of the refugees with the emptying out of the MFY compound yet. The MFY program had achieved its goals and those people, the majority who hadn’t made it into space had had moved on. Sure, there were some unexplained disappearances, but there were always going to be those who chose not to return to their old lives. Enough former members of the program had returned to their homes and workplaces to support this perception.
International space agencies had devoured the technology left behind at the MFY campus, and there had subsequently been huge leaps in technological development, which ensured the success of future missions.
“Fuck off and don’t annoy me!” Bruce said out loud, surprising himself. The Transcendents was also stunned at finally getting a response, because it remained speechless for a few moments.
Bruce had made a mountain out of a molehill by staying bloody-mindedly silent. He believed there was a principle at stake, even if he was the only one who cared. Now, without any analysis, he decided he had made his point and it was now time to do his bit to make sure the newSkidians were integrating as planned. He just had a funny way of showing it.
In all honesty Bruce was starting to get bored and frustrated. His prediction that he and Ngaio would struggle to successfully stamp their mark on the management of the family properties while their fathers were still living on the farms had happened. They constantly poked their noses in where they weren’t wanted, making well-intentioned suggestions, and going off and doing their own thing. Neither of the old codgers showed any sign of moving from the homes they had lived in for most of their lives. The medichines Bruce had introduced to them had given them both a new lease of life.
It wasn’t a situation Bruce was overly comfortable with or happy about, but he also knew it wasn’t the end of the world either.
Are you going to talk to me today Bruce? I could really use your input.
Yeah, yeah. Bruce thought to himself, fully aware the Transcendents could tap into his thoughts if he didn’t conceal them effectively. One of the reasons he’d held back from re-engaging because he wasn’t convinced he could be of any assistance. He didn't think he could add any value to the Transcendents and their work on Skid, and the integration of completely disparate groups of people from various ethnic, religious, and cultural backgrounds into Skidian society. He reckoned this kind of thing was probably best left to the experts.
But where would the Transcendents locate an expert in dealing with the aftermath of dumping tens of thousands of people onto an alien planet without any decent preparation? At least Bruce knew how the newSkidians felt and had an idea what their immediate needs might be.
Sue should have the same level of empathy and should also have been able to help but he couldn’t bring himself to trust her again. He thought she was too flaky (and he also thought he was being charitable in saying that).
Prior to his exposure to the people he had been led to believe were the Skidians, Bruce had imagined aliens who could travel to Earth would possess some form of super-intelligence and a degree of sophistication which made humanity in general appear crude and backward by comparison. The truth was these aliens, the Skidians were no cleverer than he was and were particularly naive because they lived in an environment where they had every conceivable requirement for life provided for them on tap. They had developed a smug view of their own capability and a sense of entitlement to a decent life, never imagining their whole existence had been engineered to provide another race entirely, the Transcendents; real aliens, the real Skidians, strong and healthy body to download into as a key component of their ultimate species continuity plan. Their ultimate fall-back plan. However, even the Transcendents weren’t that clever.
The Transcendents nurtured the fleshies like prized farm animals, a supply they would harvest at some future point in time if some bigger, darker, threat presented itself and proved a menace to their existence.
Bruce wondered if this was their complete motivation, because by their own admission the Transcendents had yet to encounter any other sentient life in the known universe. They claimed it was a big dangerous place but had never offered up any evidence in support of this.
But he also struggled to believe the Transcendents were clever enough to develop all the technology for uploading humans to Skid and the supporting infrastructure required to achieve this. Maybe, he reflected, he was being a bit harsh. There was probably wasn’t that much of a step change in capability between 'faster than light' travel and turning yourself into what was effectively a computer program, using space like a massive cloud drive.
However, they didn’t seem to be able to prevent regular die-offs of Skidians. This had happened more than once, resulting in the need for replenishment missions to earth which in turn had contributed to the development of human folklore based on spirit beings arriving from the heavens.
Is this where I am of most value? Bruce asked himself. Preventing the Transcendents from doing something stupid like accidentally killing off half the population through some ill-conceived notion or lack of attention to detail?
“I’ll think about it,” he said out loud. He sensed a sharp intake of breath, imagining the Transcendents had heaved a huge sigh of relief, and felt the weight of a great burden lift from their shoulders. While the Transcendents like to portray themselves as omnipotent creatures, Bruce often felt they lacked a degree of confidence and liked to have him and the others around to act like a kid’s security blanket.
Bruce finished his coffee and made a face at the taste. He had let it get cold while he considered his next move.
“I’m busy right now. I’ll get back to you once I have completed all my chores for the day.” Bruce didn’t have much to do, and there was nothing pressing he couldn’t delegate. The Transcendents probably knew this but said nothing. It probably didn’t want to antagonise him while a notion Bruce couldn’t control, a childish need to put the Transcendents in their place, ran its inevitable course.
We could help you, they said, unable to contain themselves, eager to keep a dialogue going after weeks of silence from Bruce.
“It’s not that.” Bruce knew the Transcendents could build robots to work around the farm, like the ones they were using on the moon, Mars, and Skid, and build drones he could use to move mobs of cattle and sheep from the comfort of his office.
“You don’t understand. It’s not the tasks themselves. I actually enjoy doing them. It’s the main reason I've chosen this lifestyle.” Bruce was prepared to embrace all manner of technology to complete the jobs he detested, tasks he now often delegated to Myfair and Leaf. He didn't care what they used to get the job done. However, there were still some activities about the farm he wouldn’t delegate to anyone.
He’d considered using drones to help move livestock around, but this was one of the jobs he really enjoyed doing, and the dogs did too, given their natural herding instincts.
I’m not sure where you dreamed up that idea, Cop projected into his mind.
This made Bruce stop and think. He realised there were many things he took for granted, and never thought to question.
Well you'd better get your shit together, because we’ve got work to do this morning. I don’t have a drone yet, but I could rustle one up quickly if I needed to and then you would be redundant.
“I’ll talk to you later,” he repeated for the Transcendents benefit and let himself out of the house into the dawn light and headed toward the dog kennels.
It never ceased to amaze Bruce how the dogs followed the same routine each time they were let loose. Cop still stretched like an arthritic old man, rather than the fully enhanced canine he was. The other two shot off across the yard and took a dump in the same spot each morning. Then they would approach him looking for some form of affection, before hightailing it to the ute and leaping into the tray. Cop was a little more measured, befitting his status as the brains of the little team. He positioned himself close to Bruce, in case the boss decided to us
e a different mode of travel.
I’ve told you more than once, you’re a creature of habit, you moron.
“Less of the moron yourself,” Bruce replied, aiming a half-hearted kick at the old dog. “Watch it or one day you might push me over the edge and that’ll be the end of you.”
Two
After days in this strange little village, Zarif was still completely bewildered and had no idea what was going on around him. The disembodied voice which had spoken to him must have been an aberration, a hallucination, because it hadn’t made its presence known to him since.
Some of the westerners knew more about the situation than he did. Most of them had had some involvement with the MFY program and had been here for a lot longer than he had. Everything was a blur to him and he found himself in a constant state of panic, more stressed than he could remember being in his life. This was saying a lot given his recent history and the civil war he was trying to escape.
They had watched the new arrivals in silence as they stepped out onto the grassy field from an opening at the end of a tunnel in the sky and were then herded onto escalators materialising out of the ground before being whisked away out of sight.
The spectacle didn’t get his complete attention; standing in the long grass was a novelty and almost distracted Zarif from the sight of the mass of people. He resisted the temptation to lie down in front of people he hardly knew and roll around in it.
The only thing that stopped him was he didn’t want to prove to Janice just how unsophisticated he was by doing this in front of her. He’d rarely been so close to a Western woman until he had met her, and he still found the experience intoxicating one moment, terrifying and intimidating the next.
“Where are they all going, do you think?” Janice asked.
“They’ve all been pre-allocated places to stay in the cities,” replied Wisneski. “The escalators will feed these people onto underground conveyors which most Skidians use to get around. There’s a network of them servicing the whole planet like an underground railway system. You just tap into a node using an app on your Book and a feeder line will extend to the surface. You jump on, and away you go.”
“What about us? Can we use it to travel anywhere we want to?” Morris asked.
“I’m not a hundred percent sure, but I think you are quite free to do whatever you want. Once these newbies have settled into their assigned accommodation, they will also be free to go anywhere they like, within reason. There’s plenty of room. The cities on this planet have the capacity to house the old population of Skid, some six hundred million people, so there is no pressure on housing.” Wisneski paused and then added. “Your task to develop the Skidian Guidebook is complete, so your work is done.”
“But...”
“Yeah, I know. It still needs a lot of work, but it’s too late now.”
“But isn’t this the point?” Morris insisted, “We only reviewed a first draft. We didn’t test any of the content, and really scope it out like we should have.”
“Welcome to politics, son,” Mitch interrupted, joining the little group. “Sometimes it’s important just to be seen doing the right thing.” He insinuated himself as close to Janice as he thought proper. He also found her remarkably attractive. He realised he was too long in the tooth to make an impression on her, but annoyingly for Janice, that didn’t stop him trying.
“Stop it, you old goat,” Sue snapped. She’d also been on the receiving end of Mitch’s unwanted attentions. One day, she had threatened to send for his wife to keep him company. The warning had worked, because Mitch had been terrified by the suggestion. His wife had intimidated him ever since they got married.
Mitch also counted himself lucky his wife had always been faithful to him, if she hadn't, she'd been extremely discreet. He’d never had to endure the public humiliation his successor was now suffering, now it was emerging that Chump's young trophy wife was a special agent of the Russian government who had another ‘husband’ she spent time with when Chump was off playing golf – he spent more time playing golf than anything else in his life.
“Let’s go. I don’t think there is much we can do here,” Wisneski said, turning to leave. He didn’t think there was much point in hanging around or following up to make sure the new Skidians found their new homes. The androids had everything under control.
Mahmoud Jibril looked around while doing his best to keep his footing on the moving pathway. He had been herded onto it by a person who looked as if they had undergone extensive plastic surgery. The skin on the man’s sculpted face was taut, he was completely expressionless, and his movements were stiff and painful-looking. The Arabic dialect the man was using to direct them was almost unintelligible. But it was clear enough: they all got the gist of what was required. The sweeping hand gestures had helped, and Mahmoud had stepped onto the conveyor without argument and told his family to follow him.
Mahmoud decided not to protest the poor conduct of their travel arrangements. The marshal didn’t look like the kind of person who would care or stand for any nonsense if he did.
If the events of the last few days had been confusing and disturbing, the events of the last few hours, culminating in travelling on a moving pathway, were simply incomprehensible.
Not so long ago, he had been lying comfortably on the bunk which had become his world, while his wife went to get him a drink, flipping through newsfeeds on the device that had replaced his mobile phone while he slept one night. Then, without warning, the accommodation area had started to fill with a tide of new people, who occupied the space like a swarm of invading locusts.
These newcomers bombarded the old hands with questions, asking what they knew about this facility. Many of them babbled in languages or dialects which were foreign to him and he struggled to understand what they were saying. However, a few linguists emerged amongst both groups, and gradually it became clear they’d all had similar experiences, all defying any rational explanation.
Most of them had embarked on leaky boats or ships from ports along the North African coastline seeking a better life in Europe just as he and his family had. Some had already been in camps and were waiting to be moved onto the next leg of their journey when, without any warning, they had been transferred to this new facility. Unlike the camps they had recently experienced, they found no form of administration to direct them, and provide the necessities of life, which they found profoundly disturbing. It was a sign nobody cared about them any longer, and of the westerner’s hardening attitude to refugees. This was a disruption in the way the refugees had been handled: they had now been ignored and they were fearful of being returned home.
The next thing Mahmoud knew, he was stepping out of an invisible tunnel onto a grassy field, without any memory of how he had got there. Then, before he could react, he was being herded onto an escalator by these odd-looking marshals.
Mahmoud stared ahead and saw the end of the escalator disappearing into a tunnel. He turned to try and run against the flow of people pressing on him from behind, in a desperate bid to stay above ground. There were just too many people pressing forward. He dropped to his knees and looked for another way off, but the edges of the individual segments were flush with the side of the brightly lit tunnel.
He could hear people praying in Arabic and other languages and guessed everyone was praying to their gods like he was. His wife and children were close by, but he couldn’t hear what they were saying over the frantic entreaties of the crowd. To make matters worse, he and his small family had become separated from everyone they knew. He didn’t recognise anyone else in his immediate proximity, nobody from the ship and none of the people from their home village, who had made up at least a quarter of the passengers of the old tub. He shrugged his shoulders, stood, and held out his arms to embrace his wife and two young children who clung to him for support.
“Where are we, father?” His son yelled over the babble. “Where are we? What is happening? Where are the authorities?” Screams and shriek
s of fear began as some of them started to imagine the worst.
“I don’t know, son. Be brave,” he replied and in a rare show of public affection patted the boy reassuringly on the shoulder. “Be brave,” he repeated, “and pray to God.” Today would be a good time for God to show his hand he thought. But he knew that was unlikely. Mahmoud had endured worse torments than he was experiencing today, and God hadn’t helped him then.
Mahmoud glanced behind him and skyward, as they headed below ground. In the distance he saw a small group of people standing alongside some trucks and, with a start, he recognised one of them.
“Zarif Khan?” How could this be?
Mahmoud tightened his grip around his family as the conveyor they stood on flattened out and began to gain speed. It wasn’t travelling fast enough to make it difficult to stand and keep their footing, but it was fast enough for them to feel a breeze blowing through their hair. Any other time Mahmoud would have found the experience rather exhilarating, but now he was anxious to see what the future held.
Mahmoud quickly realised the conveyor was a component of a complex network which split and sent lines off laterally, some combining with other sections headed in the same direction, then split again. At one point they passed through a terminal, like a vast railway station, and then gradually he became aware there were fewer and fewer passengers around him, the sections of conveyor continually splitting, sending people off in different directions, and endlessly re-formatting itself.
“Hey dad, who are they?” Mahmoud’s son pointed to figures moving in the opposite direction. These men were dressed in long robes and stared in astonishment, apparently as surprised to see Mahmoud and his family as they were to see them.
Before Mahmoud could really register this in his mind, the conveyor gently started to shift under his feet and then merged with another section going in a different direction. Concentrating on keeping his footing, he risked a glance over his shoulder and saw there were only a few other people behind them, none of whom he recognised, but who looked to be clustered in family groups like his own.
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