“Look, just be polite and try and be a good boy, just like when you visit Nanna.”
“OK dad, I promise I’ll try to be good.”
“Good boy.” Bruce said and stood up and ruffled his son’s hair. He took the boy’s hand again and they walked over to the house where Sue was waiting expectantly in the doorway.
“Hi there, Bruce and Little Bruce. My, what a big boy you’ve become. When is dad going to give you a proper name, eh?” Bruce could tell by the way the words tumbled out of Sue’s mouth, she was nervous.
He opened his mouth to retort, but thought better of it, and took a deep breath instead. Sue could get in as many jabs as she liked, he didn’t care. He had moved on with his life while she was stuck with a drongo like Trev. He also sensed her acute need to be accepted by the boy.
She knelt in front of Little Bruce and gave him a hug. “Give your mum a kiss.”
Bruce saw his son’s eyes roll. He wasn’t a kisser.
“Oh, yuk. Dad, do I have to?”
“Yes son, you promised to be good. Remember?” Bruce reminded him gently.
“I’m not going to,” Little Bruce responded crossly and broke away from Sue’s embrace and stood before her with his arms firmly crossed across his little chest, a petulant frown on his face. “She’s not my mother and I don’t want to stay here.”
“Oh shit,” Bruce muttered under his breath and glanced at Sue, who looked like she had been whacked over the head with a hammer.
“You put him up to this. I knew you’d turn him against me when I saw you giving him instructions,” she hissed at him, reaching for the boy, who shied away from her grasp.
“I.. umm..”
“You don’t fool me, Bruce bloody Harwood. I saw you. It’s always about you and what you want. That's all you care about,” Sue wailed, spun around and ran sobbing back into the house leaving Bruce and Little Bruce standing forlornly on the veranda.
Bruce turned to his son ready to give him a piece of his mind.
“I’m sorry daddy, I didn’t mean to make her cry. But I don’t want to stay here,” Little Bruce’s lower lip quivered, and he was on the verge of breaking into tears himself.
‘It’s OK, son,” Bruce told him. He really wanted to give the boy a gentle clip around the ear, but he knew this wouldn’t achieve anything.
“We’ll come back later and see if she’s settled down. OK?”
Bruce turned to leave and saw they had attracted another audience while the little domestic drama played itself out. If he hadn’t been embarrassed by his previous outbursts, he was now that some of his dirty personal laundry had been aired in public.
“Fuck.” He turned back to his son, grabbed his hand, and led him back the way they had come without engaging with anyone in the settlement. He was making a habit of making a scene when he was talking to Sue. It was the last thing he wanted to do in front of a crowd of Skidians. And he was bloody hungry.
Sixteen
Mahmoud Jibril gazed up at the senators settling in for the day’s debate. They were arranged before him in the tiered rows of seats and he drew a deep breath before opening the day’s session as the last one finally sat. He would have felt much more comfortable and inspired if he had been able to lead a prayer session at the start of each day’s business, but Lake had vetoed the concept.
“Your religion will play no part in Skidian political discourse,” Lake had told him emphatically.
Mahmoud wasn’t so sure. newSkidians now outnumbered indoSkidians by a considerable margin, and this would never change. Despite how hard the indoSkidians attempted to deny the newSkidians their rights, they would eventually be overwhelmed by the sheer weight of numbers. When this time arrived, they would have no choice but to accept the will of the majority. His only concern was whether believers of the true faith were in the majority, otherwise there could be a bloody struggle for ascendancy as they asserted their religious rights.
“A true Crusader heathen response,” Mahmoud had replied. “My people have learnt a few things over the years, and one of them is that the teachings of the prophet cannot be denied. They will prevail.” Sometimes Mahmoud got carried away with his dreams and fantasies and was temporarily oblivious to the realities of life on Skid.
Lake drew himself up to his full and not inconsiderable height, towering over Mahmoud. “In your capacity as my official deputy, you have access to the Skidian archives and should learn about the truth of the development of religion on your planet.”
Mahmoud had no time for apostates and heretics and was about to remind Lake of this until he finally remembered where he was and who he was talking to.
“Your Prophet was a good man, an intelligent man who believed he could do great things for his people by taking what he had learnt from us and applying this knowledge to improve life on Earth. As you will learn, this didn’t evolve quite as he expected. His teachings were hijacked and transformed into something quite different. This was the last time we attempted to attempt social engineering on your planet to accelerate the advancement of technological development.”
“I don’t want to hear any more of your blasphemy,” Mahmoud replied, covering his ears with his hands.
“I know your beliefs are strong,” Lake continued, more gently. Mahmoud could still hear Lake perfectly, even with a finger in each ear. Lake deemed to be speaking directly into his mind. “Read the history, the commentaries, and the analysis. Afterwards, if you are still firm in your beliefs I may have to consider your position in this congress. You will still be able to participate if you don’t come to your senses, but I will have to look elsewhere for my support team.”
“Very well,” Mahmoud replied. There was no way he wanted to relinquish his new-found position. He’d always fancied he could do a better job than most politicians, so he would have to give Lake’s edict some thought. While Lake had said nothing about the practice of religion, it was clear the Skidian Constitution, or what there was of it, only forbade religious involvement in the workings of the state and political discourse. Of the latter, there had been no public political discussion in generations. Until the famine had all but wiped out the indoSkidian population, the senate had been a toothless institution existing solely for the Chief Mati to keep an eye on the self-proclaimed elites and ensure their mischief-making was kept to a minimum.
“Is this why there are no mosques and other places of worship on this planet?”
“When people have full bellies and their spiritual and physical needs are fulfilled through other mechanisms, no Skidian has any need for religious observance, and haven’t for many generations.”
Lake chose not to mention the protocols the MPU enforced to deter public religious observance. Mahmoud might be his deputy and have access to information most Skidians would forever be oblivious of, but there was material Mahmoud would never be a party to. Some things were too ingrained in his psyche to ever be fully reversed, and his need for the comfort his faith gave him was one of these.
Mahmoud frowned. He was uncomfortable with Lake’s pronouncement. Religion provided hope for a better life after death: this was the attraction for people whose real lives were often short, uncomfortable, and desperate, so Lake’s view was an abomination to him. If Mahmoud was honest with himself, examining his own recent behaviour, he realised he had been less regular with his prayers than normal, while his need for faith had intensified at times. It was a confusing contradiction.
“Very well,” he repeated, “I understand.” But he didn’t really.
“Thank you for appreciating our position,” Lake replied, knowing full well it was almost impossible to change Mahmoud’s beliefs without a full and dangerous overhaul and rehabilitation of his neural structure. “Now. Today’s debate is an important one for Skid. We are going to discuss how our Stim event season is going to be implemented. Stim events are tremendously important to the Skidian people. Now a form of normality is returning to life on Skid, the time is right to start the events again.”
“What is Stim?”
“Stim is the greatest cultural event in the known universe bar none. It is the nearest thing to a mass participation cultural art-form you will find anywhere. It is the ultimate cultural and physical expression...” Lake ran out of superlatives. “I think you are probably too old and frail to physically participate, though your offspring should get involved. They will need to start preparing now.”
This confused Mahmoud. “If this is so important, how do I participate if I cannot get involved physically?” He was conscious of the need, despite any religious reservations he might have, to support local cultural activities if he was to flourish in this environment. He was a little taken aback to discover this man thought he was frail. When Mahmoud looked in the mirror he saw a physique a man half his age would be proud of.
“You and I will participate by watching. It’s quite acceptable to only be a spectator.”
“Are we going to debate this vital matter of Skidian identity? Or are you two going to continue your conversation, ignoring the representatives who have come together to ensure the rights and expectations of Skidians are upheld?” Niur, called out. Niur had taken on the mantle of self-appointed moral authority for the Senate.
“Very well, let us take our seats and begin. At this session, we need to decide if we have enough participants to reinstate all the senior squads of the old premier Stim competition league or whether we should only resurrect the teams where we have sufficient resources to fill the rosters, until such time more capacity becomes available. We also need to agree a start date for the events.”
Mahmoud was confused. In one breath, Lake had called Stim a cultural event and then in the next had talked about a competition. He was describing an organised sport, and there was a league involved. Mahmoud was also intrigued, because the senate was going to take some action for a change, instead of just prattling on.
A wave of excitement rippled round the auditorium, which astonished Mahmoud. The normally staid and formal indoSkidians had become animated and passionate in a manner he hadn’t experienced before. Most of the time, even when they were railing against the influx of newSkidians, the debate was staged and formulaic. Nobody was overly passionate about the subject, and Mahmoud never detected a sense of personal ownership or responsibility from the group. Each time the senate came together, it felt a lot like a role-playing session based on what the indoSkidians believed was expected of them, not because anything meaningful was going to result from the daily congress.
But at the mention of Stim, the representatives sat up straight and alert, stubbed out their cigarettes (Mahmoud had only just noticed how many of the Skidians placed their cigarettes in their noses to smoke rather than between their lips), ready to engage in the debate.
“I have undertaken some research,” Niur announced triumphantly, “and I believe there are more than enough newSkidians with the requisite physical characteristics to make up the numbers of all the old premier teams. Most of them will need extensive training, but we know from previous experience with the first offworlder, and reports from Myfair, that inferior versions of Stim are regularly enacted on the newSkidians' home planet. This would enable us to start the contests in earnest in a few months. I envisage a number of the newSkidians will be familiar with Stim or its offworld variant, and once the competition is up and running, we can import more Stim participants from the offworld to ensure we have sufficient depth to run a full planet-wide campaign.”
“Senator Niur, I thought you were dead against further immigration?” Lake reminded
“I am against opening up Skid to indiscriminate and unplanned migration simply to increase the planet’s population. Targeted migration, when we have identified indoSkidians don’t have the required skills to fill critical roles, is an acceptable practice.” Lake was unsure whether Niur really believed what he was saying. Apart from himself, few Skidians filled a role critical to Skid or any of the people who lived on the planet and Stim was hardly critical to Skidian survival.
“So how do we engage suitable newSkidians who have the required physical characteristics to fill the Stim rosters?”
“I don’t understand the question. It is not a matter of choice. It will be a requirement for full citizenship and integration into our society,” Niur explained.
“I don’t think that will be necessary, “Lake didn’t agree with Niur on this matter and he knew Bruce wouldn’t either. There were no specific requirements to become a citizen of Skid.
But it would be good to get as many newSkidians involved as possible as it would help them integrate into Skidian society. Stim had always had a positive effect on Skidians. It was an obsession every indoSkidian lived for, and participated in, at some level. Success in Stim offered a pathway for the low-born to escape from the lower classes, join the ranks of the aristocracy, and potentially gain a seat in the Senate. Just enough Stim players, the truly exceptional ones, had made this leap to keep the dream alive.
“Is there a requirement for any further discussion? Are there any further questions before we put this to a vote?”
“If we only have the capacity to resurrect a few teams, which uniforms, and colours will be used?” someone interjected, starting a furious row about history and tradition and the criteria they should use to prioritise the order of the resurrection of the teams in the league, and how it was the right time to correct historical injustices, instead of perpetuating them.
“What are we actually voting for?” demanded another Senator.
Mahmoud felt the debate dissolve into the meaningless, confused gabfest he had come to associate with the Skidian government discourse which, much to his surprise, he was now an integral part of. He let his mind drift onto other matters that were important to him, but like the politics of this place, beyond his control.
His wife and daughter had now completely discarded their headgear in an act of defiance. His daughter had gone further and met people her own age without a chaperone. His son had decided he didn’t need to listen to his father any longer. The prospect of being humiliated before his peers by these public displays of rebellion brought tears to Mahmoud's eyes. He wiped the moisture away with the back of his hand and hoped nobody noticed his little emotional moment. He was sure other men were also busy dealing with rebellious children and wives, but this knowledge didn’t make it any easier for him.
With a jolt, Mahmoud returned to reality as Lake turned to him and announced: “You have been appointed chief commissioner of the revitalised Stim league. This is a great honour. You will be responsible for arranging the events calendar.”
Mahmoud wasn’t sure how to respond. How could this be an honour when he didn’t even know what was required of him?
“Don’t worry, we will allocate resource to do the actual work to complete the squad preparations and make sure the events go off without a hitch,” Lake said, to reassure him. “It is a tremendous honour,” he repeated, but Mahmoud was unmoved.
“There is an exhibition event at the main arena in Sietnuoc getting underway shortly. We will attend, and I will personally introduce you to Stim.”
Mahmoud didn’t know what to think. He’d been prepared for the usual long, boring, and pointless debate. He’d conditioned himself to attend these sessions because he believed his involvement would eventually result in special privileges for his family and maybe a pathway home. Now he sensed that if he was offered a way home, his family wouldn’t come with him. Being a part of the government was also a way of keeping busy without having to get too deeply involved. Unfortunately, he was now in charge of an important Skidian cultural event that he knew nothing about. It didn’t seem fair.
While he was getting used to the idea, one of the large heavy doors at the entrance to the chamber creaked open. The westerner responsible for Mahmoud's plight entered, followed by his three wild dogs. Today he also had a young child with him. There was no disputing who the boy’s father was: he was extremely fair, and his father’s feat
ures were easily recognisable.
“Hi, Lake. Hi, Mahmoud, how’s it going?” Bruce asked. “My boy was supposed to stay with Sue, but she has thrown a tantrum, so he’s going to spend the day with me.”
Mahmoud noticed the representatives gawked at the boy in astonishment, and a stunned silence had descended on the senate. Hadn’t they ever seen a child before?
“Very well,” Lake announced. “This looks like a convenient time to end this session. We are going to attend a Stim exhibition event at the main Sietnuoc arena. Do you want to join us?”
“I didn’t think you had enough players to put some teams together.”
“We may have sufficient resources to have two full rosters, but we will initially need a few androids to fill in the gaps.”
“That sounds like a great idea. Let's go.” Bruce didn’t feel like doing anything useful anyway. “I was going to start my tour of the main population centres to try to find out how people are feeling, but it can wait until tomorrow. How many indoSkidians will turn up, do you think?”
“I expect most of the indoSkidian population will be at the arena. This is an important milestone for us, an indication life is returning to normal, and no indoSkidian will want to miss it.”
How big is this stadium? Mahmoud asked himself if it could accommodate all the indoSkidians on the planet. It must be huge.
Breaking news – The mid-term election results - what does it mean for the United States?
Months out from the mid-term elections, the President’s behaviour was predicted to be a catalyst for change in the balance of power in the Congress and Senate, and lead to the implosion of his party. However, a month in politics is a long time and it is clear these apocalyptic predictions have been off the mark.
The President has reneged on virtually every promise he made on the campaign trail. His new administration has adopted a much more centrist position than would have been thought possible of any President. The coalition of ultra-right conservatives, the small government libertarians, the white 'American First' ideologues who put him into power, and their billionaire paymasters have found themselves marginalised, while the President pursues a very different political course.
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