Excerpt from the second novel in the Skid Chronicles series
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Excerpt
“Do
the people back at the ranch think like Mischief and his cronies?” Mitch asked
as they sped away from the industrial complex.
“They
want something called collective leadership there, they want to vote for their
leader,” Myfair replied, shaking his head not comprehending how they had
developed such bizarre notions.
“A
power crazy megalomaniac on one hand and a bunch of hippy commie democrats on
the other, not a happy state of affairs. I wonder what the rest are like?”
Mitch muttered to himself. It’s just like home he thought morosely and it
suddenly struck him how polarised the politics of his nation was and how he had
contributed to the legislative impasse that deadlocked the nation politically.
Neither his side or the other could actually do what they really knew was
required to save the nation from falling over a financial precipice at some
point in the near future because they had locked themselves into fiercely
partisan positions that they felt they couldn’t retreat from even if it was for
the greater good. Secretly they all did just enough to stave off financial
Armageddon happening on their watch.
Myfair
didn't understand what Mitch meant and didn't really think he wanted to know.
Nor did he want to know what other fledgling power structures were sprouting
elsewhere around the planet that he would have to deal with at some stage. Not
just yet.
“Voting
for a leader isn't all that bad a thing,” Mitch ventured, “but this business of
collective leadership has got to be stamped out quickly.” He added letting his
own well developed prejudices surface. It was ok to act like a dictator as long
as you were more or less democratically elected and had more and bigger guns
than anyone else.
At
least they agreed on something Myfair thought, wondering if it was such a good
idea to lean too heavily on Mitch. Already he felt as if events were moving out
of his control, as if he were on the verge of tumbling headfirst into an abyss
with no chance of saving himself.
First;
the Aotearoians had rebelled against him after earlier pledging their support
for his leadership. Then Mischief had developed his grandiose delusions of
power. The only bright spot was that Mischief had been quickly brought to heel,
but what damage had been done in the process?
Already
a significant number of Skidians had experienced life without a Chief Mati and
were getting used to the idea of making some of their own decisions, could they
ever be brought back into the fold?
And
what of the other Skidians he hadn't even sought out yet? Myfair tried to grasp
the size of the job ahead of him and failed. He suddenly felt as if it was all
too much for him, the task seemed to stretch away into the future and he
couldn't imagine where it might end.
“What are they doing down there?” Mitch asked,
breaking into Myfair's train of uncertainty.
“Where?”
Myfair asked following the direction of Mitch's pointing finger.
Myfair
banked the patrol craft and looked downward on an almost primeval scene. A
group of desperate Skidians, emaciated and clad in the filthy tattered remains
of their robes were milling around the body of an ivop.
Myfair
watched as several of the group raised large stones into the air and brought
them down on the head of the animal. Myfair thought he could see bright red
blood spurting into the air as the ivop suddenly lurched to its feet, leaving
several of the Skidians on the ground as it stumbled off.
Immediately
the rest of the Skidians were onto it again, knocking it to the ground again
and this time it didn't stir again as they beat it to death with their rocks.
“Christ,”
Mitch muttered as the Skidians tore at the carcass, tearing away strips of skin
from wherever they could and stuffing bloody flesh and offal into their mouths.
Mitch
was stunned by the sight of the Skidians tearing at the bloody flesh with their
bare hands almost totally oblivious of his presence as Myfair landed the patrol
ship and they disembarked. A few heads swung their way as they gingerly approached
the group but most of them were too engrossed in their impromptu orgy to give
the visitors a second glance.
In
his time Mitch had experienced some pretty devastating sights, mainly second
hand via reports on the television or in special briefings which he thought had
affected him to the point where he had mobilised the vast resources of his
country to help where he could. But here standing on a planet far from home the
full impact of the misery suffered by people after a disaster of any kind, really
struck home in a much more devastating and personal way than he had ever
experienced previously.
He
had seen people in rags before, seen people waiting patiently for food that
wouldn't arrive in time to save their emaciated bodies. He'd seen people vainly
scrabbling through the wreckage of their homes after a tidal wave or
earthquake. He'd watched reporters and various public figures imploring the
wealthy to assist the disaster stricken, using their celebrity status to prick
at consciences, stirring the nation’s guilt which was assuaged by band aids
that lasted until the next catastrophe. Mitch had squirmed in frustration as he
tried to deal with obdurate leaders who wouldn't accept aid with strings
attached, while their people starved and squirmed even more when he was
pilloried by his electorate for failing to act to help when it was clear he
should.
But
he'd never felt as impotent as he felt now or felt a greater urge to do
something practical to help as he watched these desperate Skidians.
“We
must do something”
“What
do you mean?” Myfair appeared surprised by the question. It hadn't occurred to
him that he could do anything, except maybe point them in the general direction
of Aotearoa.
“We
must do something to help these people.”
“Like
what? Myfair asked, not thinking about the patrol craft that could easily transport
this small group of Skidians to Aotearoa, a patrol craft that carried ample
supplies of synfood. Instead he made sure his dazier was ready for instant
action in case the situation turned nasty.
“What
about food? There must be food aboard and clothes,” Mitch added,” and couldn't
we transport these Skidians to Aotearoa?”
“Yes,
but why should we do that?”
“Myfair
you want to lead these people, why don't you show some leadership and help them?”
Myfair's
mind wasn't focused on the scene as Mitch's was, he just couldn't help but
wonder how a Skidian could stoop let himself or herself go as these ones had.
“But
what about our meeting with Mischief?”
“Oh
fuck Mischief, we can deal with that ratbag later. First lets’ do something for
these poor sods.” Mitch didn't wait for Myfair's reaction and walked up to the
group.
They
were an even more pitiable group at closer range. Bony arms and legs, covered
in open sores stuck out of their dirty torn robes. They all wore dull desperate
expressions, now splattered with blood and gore as they feebly tore at the dead
animal's carcass. Most of them didn't even have access to where the flesh was
bared Mitch saw, the weaker ones being pushed out of the way. They didn't
appear to have decent weapons either, or even knives, though as he approached
one or two of them raised rocks ready to throw in his general direction.
Prepared to defend their meal.
“Over
there is your leader,” Mitch pointed to Myfair, thinking as he did so that the
simple act of saving these poor souls from their desperate existence would
ensure they saw Myfair as their saviour. “He has come with food and clothing
and the promise of a new better life.”
None
of the Skidians really looked interested in what Mitch had to say. But then slowly
it seemed to dawn on a couple of the weaker ones that there might be better
pickings elsewhere.
Weakly
they made their way toward the space ship and then broke into a painful parody
of a run that made Mitch wince just to watch them as a robot appeared at the
patrol craft's door pushing a trolley laden with synfood.
Mitch
was almost caught in the crush as the rest of the Skidians suddenly realised
what was happening and rushed for the trolley. They jostled each other out of
the way in their haste as the stronger among them shoved the weak out of the
way. Nevertheless there was enough for all.
Within
minutes most of them were throwing up whatever they had eaten, but this didn't
seem to deter anyone and they continued to gorge until finally they were sated.
Mitch
was impressed with the way Myfair finally reacted and also with the utility of
the Skidian patrol ships. Myfair might not be able to think of much himself but
once he got the general idea he was a hard man to stop.
While
the rest of the Skidians were emptying the food trolley into themselves and then
vomiting it out again Myfair had set up a mini camp complete with showers, had
laid out fresh clothing and was moving among his subjects and accepting their
thanks with humility and grace.
Mitch
became a little indignant. Wasn't saving them his idea? After a moment he
decided - maybe this is better and he considered just how far he might be able
to go before Myfair realised he was having his strings pulled like a puppet. He
sat himself on the ground beside the patrol ship, half listening to the tales
of incredible hardship and realised just how thin the veneer of civilisation
was for perhaps all so called civilised people.
The
remnants of Skid that he had been exposed to seemed to indicate a well ordered
and highly sophisticated society supported by a level of technology that made
his head swim. But as soon as the Skidians had experienced a break down in
order and were failed by their technology, this group at least, had rapidly
degenerated into something primitive and quite frightening. Resorting to
cannibalism, living off corpses and worse when their world crashed around them.
They had barely survived where most of their fellows had perished. Who were the
lucky ones?
Now,
full of food, freshly clothed and washed, secure in the presence of a leader
who's right to rule they recognised these Skidians were transformed once again
to their former selves. Or almost. Mitch could see it in their eyes, he
recognised that the trauma of their experiences would stick with them for a
good long while, if they ever left them. This was something that he had seen
before as he visited one disaster area after another and seeing the haunted
looks of the survivors as they struggled to put their lives right.
I
wonder what they will want now? To return to their cocooned former existences
or would they strive for more control over their own lives? Mitch thought they
would more than likely opt for the former approach. Having experienced a life
of deprivation they would go for the option that ensured a life of security and
full bellies and to hell with anything else. Mitch couldn't find it in himself
to blame them and thought it would be rather interesting to see how they mixed
with the Aotearoians most of whom had never experienced such privatisation.
