Rumbold has no living relatives in the United States. His estranged wife believed he was an orphan and had been raised from early childhood in various institutions until he was old enough to be taken into the NBA’s talent identification program. Early on he was identified as a basketball prodigy, and he moved through the NBA program, college, and then into the NBA itself. Prior to his appearance in an orphanage little is known of Rumbold, and it appears basketball officials were so keen to sign him up, because of his obvious talents, that they ignored his background.
It was initially believed this troubled background had made Rumbold vulnerable to exploitation, though it appears the fortune he has accumulated in his time in the NBA is largely intact.
In news from Washington, leaks from the White House indicate further unease in the administration with President Chump’s performance. His policies are increasingly unpopular with the people who supported his campaign. Conservative politicians and key staffers alike are distancing themselves from a President who is now more popular with his former political enemies and the opposition than members of his own party.
Chump was given a standing ovation at an address he delivered at Berkeley University today. Not long ago, students at this liberal campus wouldn’t have tolerated a speech from a conservative politician, and any visit would likely have been the subject of protest action. However, as a measure of how far Chump has moved his administration to the centre of the political spectrum, and almost single-handedly killed off the blight of strict partisan politics and replaced it with a more moderate discourse, he received a respectful hearing in this bastion of free thinking.
In another blow for the Chump organisation, it has been revealed today that his Attorney General committed voting fraud in the last election, apparently voting twice. Attorney General Shifter responded to the allegations by announcing he had not voted in the last election and called into question the inability of the news media to fact check the story. Showed an image of him at the polling booth, he then blamed an intern for casting a vote on his behalf, without his knowledge.
As this story develops, reports are also surfacing relating to sexual harassment of unpaid interns of both genders by Shifter and his team. If these allegations are proven to be true then this will be the end for Shifter, the former Senator with impeccable Republican credentials who was drafted into the Chump administration to ensure the administration remained ideologically pure.
Shifter has long portrayed himself as a maverick who was not prepared to compromise on his strong Christian beliefs even if these ran counter to the constitutional rights of Americans and was a darling of the extreme right wing of his party.
More updates on this breaking story when it comes to hand and check our website for further updates.
In sports news...
Twenty
Mahmoud managed to excuse himself soon after Bruce had left with his child. The event they had watched was an entrée, because there was at least one further performance to follow, and once Bruce departed, Lake invited the Senators to join them in the box.
The indoSkidians took this as an opportunity to indulge in alcoholic drinks, which provided Mahmoud with an escape route he was seeking, since he had made it clear that he could not and would not drink any intoxicating beverages. He didn’t explain why this was the case: he thought it might be a little counter-productive, given the indoSkidian view on his religious beliefs and regular demands for a place of worship.
He knew the indoSkidians were alarmed by the number of newSkidians who had had arrived on their planet, and the impact this might have on their way of life. However, all these concerns seemed forgotten while they relaxed with their leader, comfortable in their belief their privileged world would never change, and they would forever form the ruling class of the planet.
As he left, Mahmoud was more convinced than ever the senate wasn’t the real seat of power. In all the time he had spent in the congress among the planet’s representatives, the only decision they had arrived at was to appoint him as commissioner for a sport he didn’t understand, and had no interest in.
Bruce wielded a substantial amount of power and influence and Lake, the titular head of the local government, deferred to him whenever he was present. Mahmoud believed Bruce was human: he certainly wasn’t an indoSkidian and didn’t seem to come from any of the other newSkidian groups who had ended up on the planet. He thought, somewhat illogically, he might be English, for the sole reason English appeared to be his native tongue and was also the preferred language for indoSkidians.
Mahmoud stepped off the conveyor at end of the street he lived in, deciding to walk the short distance to the house. It felt quite liberating to be going home to spend some time with his family this early in the day. Since he had become involved in the senate, he had been absent from his family for lengthy periods, leaving early in the morning, often arriving home after dark, which fell early at this time of the Skidian year.
He would be sorry to leave their new home behind when he and his family returned to Earth. Their chance of finding a similarly well-appointed house back home was non-existent and he suspected this would be true wherever on Earth they ended up. Mahmoud knew he was in denial regarding a return to Earth and expecting his family to follow him.
Making an escape was now at least a distant possibility. While reading up on the roles and responsibilities associated with his new role of Deputy, he discovered he commanded the Skidian Patrol fleet. One of the perks of his role was the ability to travel between various Skidian interstellar outposts on tours of inspection via the wormhole network or specially assigned space ships. All he had to do was work out how he could access this capability and get himself aboard a ship. It seemed obvious: it should be as easy as setting up a new computer, just plug and play.
However, no matter how hard he tried, he had failed to locate the entrance portal to a wormhole which would transport him back to earth or onto a space ship. He had tried to board several of them in the space park adjacent to the government buildings, but he had been unable to gain access. He hoped he would crack this problem one day: it was the only thing keeping him going and preventing him from slipping into depression.
He turned into the street and stopped dead in his tracks. People were milling around, and as a pure reflex action he wondered if an armed mob had descended on them and he looked around for somewhere to hide. Then he realised there was a celebration of sorts in progress, and all the neighbours had come out of their houses to mix and mingle.
Mahmoud hadn’t realised there were so many people living close by, or what a diverse bunch they were. When they had first arrived and began to live on the street, he had imagined he lived in a community of like-minded people, many of his immediate neighbours came from his village, or had been fellow passengers on the ship headed to Europe, with a sprinkling of people from other parts of the Arab world. Now he realised the community was much more cosmopolitan than he had realised.
Mahmoud stared in astonishment at the crowd. It consisted of many dark-skinned people like himself, other refugees, and economic migrants from North Africa, mixing with Europeans who had been tied up with the Martian Reality Show. There was also a small number of indoSkidians.
Many older people were sitting in chairs outside their houses, and some enterprising groups had set up small open-air cafés serving coffee and, to Mahmoud’s horror, beer, and other alcoholic drinks. Children of all ages chased each around the adults, who chattered with each other in groups whose membership changed continuously.
Taking in the scene, Mahmoud was also horrified to discover a group of men from his village happily sitting around a table drinking coffee and smoking, while their wives and daughters were mixing freely with other men and women of all ages - completely unchaperoned! He was certain his own wife and daughter would be waiting dutifully for him at the house. Surely, they would not embarrass him by indulging in this kind of undignified behaviour.
A small ball of tension knott
ed in his stomach when he realised his confidence might be misplaced. If this was happening in his street, his family would want to be a part of it. He walked briskly towards his house, stepping around groups of people and politely declining any invitations to join in their conversations. He first caught sight of his son who, with a few of the older boys, were passing a ball between themselves. This pleased Mahmoud because his son needed friends of his own age. Then his heart sank when he realised it was an oval ball like the one used in the Stim event, not a football, and he recognised none of the boys. He didn’t think any of them were from his village, and that concerned him: he didn’t want his son to fall in with the wrong crowd, be led astray and develop immoral habits. Mahmoud firmly believed that his son should only be associating with good young men of faith at his age.
Mahmoud was about to remonstrate with his son, but then he saw his wife and daughter standing with a group of people around an open fire. It so was unusual to see his wife outside the house without her hijab, and he didn’t recognise her at first. Then he recalled a time prior to the recent troubles, and the breakdown of law and order back in the village, how many of the women had gone about their business in western style clothing, including his wife. It was only when the extremists had brought their guns, their strict interpretation of the faith, and intolerance for any view other than their own, that women were forced to renounce their hard-won freedom and were coerced into dressing the way their mothers and grandmothers had.
He hurried over to remonstrate with her, and demand she return to the house to clothe herself more modestly. But when he got closer to the little knot of people she was talking to, he became overwhelmed by a sense of warmth. It dawned on him that people could still worship the faith without being confined by historical baggage about how they should honour God, and how they should comport themselves. He understood that, while observance was still important, many of the rules which had evolved over time no longer had any relevance in a modern society.
Mahmoud had an intense sensation that he was the chosen one, and God was speaking to him, and him alone. God was saying “Worship me with your heart and your mind, believe in me and my teachings. But, always remember you live in a world and a time far removed from mine, and it is important to understand that for the faith to remain relevant, it needs to evolve and adapt. This is true on your home world and it is here on this new one. I favour a moderate interpretation of his teachings,” the voice in his head continued, “rather than extremist views which were based on a narrow interpretation of words uttered by my envoys hundreds of years ago, when circumstances were quite different.”
Mahmoud stumbled under the burden of this knowledge and tripped, almost landing flat on his face, catching the attention of his wife. She was surprised to see him this early in the day and immediately became concerned that he would be angry now that he had caught her outside without her hijab and the robes she normally wore in public.
Mahmoud smiled at her, content in the knowledge that God had spoken to him and given him direction and enlightenment. Whether his wife and daughter covered their heads or not wasn’t important in terms of their faith. However, he wasn’t sure he was comfortable with his son playing the oval ball game. This could be a problem for him: it wouldn’t look right for the commissar of the Stim events to encourage his son to take a different path.
Twenty-One
Zarif had arrived in the city to catch up with the other people from his village who had been uploaded to Skid. It had been remarkably easy to track most of them down. He quickly discovered they had settled close to the community he was living in. An app on his Book contained a directory of all Skidians, mapping their locations, and showed the transit systems he would need to use to visit them. The directory also gave the current address and the point of origin of newSkidians. A few had since drifted away, but most of them were still there.
“Interesting,” he muttered when he searched the database. He checked his own details and found he was living at a place called ‘The Farm’.
The Farm’s inhabitants were an interesting bunch now he had got to know them. Most were indoSkidians or fellow humans belonging to a class called newSkidians. This later group had been involved in the MFY program. There was a third class called ‘offworlders’, but he hadn’t nailed down much detail on them, except they were different somehow, though they also came from Earth.
The database contained a wealth of information about his fellow villagers, and those who had been a part of the MFY program, and he brought himself up to date with what they were doing.
He discovered Mahmoud had somehow become involved with the government on Skid. This was baffling because Mahmoud was an uneducated man, and an unlikely leader. He was also a notorious busy-body and gossip, as might be expected of a café owner. Maybe those characteristics were also useful prerequisites for a career in politics.
His new friends Bill and Stig were busy attempting to hack into the planet’s network infrastructure. Unsuccessfully, so far. Morris Thwaites, like Janice, Robert, Bill and Stig, was from the MFY program. Zarif had watched The Martian Show when he could get a reliable network connection, but like everyone else had never connected the program with asteroids and aliens until he had arrived on Skid.
The most interesting of them all was undoubtedly the crazy old man who called himself Mitch. If he wasn’t the discredited, and allegedly deceased, ex-President of the United States who had been resurrected on the other side of the galaxy, then he was a very good facsimile of the man.
Funnily enough, despite the way Zarif had ended up on Skid, followed by the trauma of his unrequited passion for Janice, he was surprised to discover he was beginning to enjoy life in the little community. His religion and race marked him out as very different to everyone else, but he quickly discovered nobody at the settlement cared about these things. The newSkidians certainly didn’t seem to care if his religion was different to theirs, but then most of them didn’t seem to worship a God anyway, except Mitch. They didn't care if he didn’t want to drink with them either.
He had always believed the crusaders hated his people, and this had been drummed into him from an early age. Clearly this wasn’t the case. In hindsight, he realised he had been fed propaganda about westerners from an early age, and he'd been happy to believe it. When he discussed this with Bill, Bill had responded saying; “We’re all at the mercy of our political leaders, the media, and religious fanatics who dominate public discourse and shape our opinions. So, don’t feel bad about it.”
With these words ringing in his ears, Zarif decided to seek out some of his fellow villagers to discover what they were making of their new lives and asked his new-found friends if they wanted to tag along with him.
Mahmoud was surprised to find Zarif in the small group around the barbeque talking to his wife and daughter. He had been momentarily distracted by the newSkidian adults he didn’t recognise tossing an oval ball around with his son and a few other boys. Where had they come from? he asked himself. Before he could ask them, they all trotted over to a small grassy area and started an impromptu game which, he was relieved to see, looked like Stim, but without the violent tackling.
Mahmoud decided his wife and daughter required more urgent attention than his son and nodded in Zarif’s direction, acknowledging him as he joined the group. Mahmoud knew Zarif's family and their business had been destroyed by a bomb. It had come as no surprise to discover Zarif, who had a better education than most and nothing to hold him to the village any longer, had joined the exodus in search of a better life, and greater personal security.
Mahmoud wanted to ask Zarif where he had been since he had been spirited away from the asteroid, just after they had discussed Omar’s disappearance. He also wanted to ask if he knew where Omar was, because Omar was a hothead and they could do without his brand of extremism on Skid.
But he had a bigger problem to deal with before he spoke to Zarif. He was unsure how he should greet his wife in public without humi
liating them both. He could see she was nervous in the way her body tensed as he approached. Clearly, she hadn’t been expecting him to return home so soon.
He walked up to his wife, taking her hand in his own while he stood alongside her.
“Good afternoon, everyone.” Everyone in earshot relaxed now it became clear Mahmoud wasn’t going to make a scene. This became a challenge when he noticed his daughter staring intently at Zarif, and the young man shyly smiling back at her. Zarif hadn’t made a move to stand closer to her yet and talk to her directly. I he did, Mahmoud wasn’t sure how he would respond.
Mahmoud didn’t completely approve of Zarif. However, he realised there might not be many decent alternatives for his daughter here and she could probably do a lot worse in her choice of a partner. He couldn’t tolerate the thought of her becoming smitten with a young westerner or indoSkidian.
He put these thoughts aside and listened into the conversation. There was only one topic under discussion.
“Do you know where we are?” someone asked him. They knew he had been given a position in local government and would know more than they did.
Mahmoud bit his lip. What was the point in providing the newSkidians with a Book if they didn’t consult it? He knew the answer: they were much happier sitting around moaning about their lot.
“We’re on a planet the indigenous people call Skid. Haven’t you been advised of this yet?” Mahmoud couldn’t help himself.
“Well yes, but we didn’t know whether to believe it or not. I have used my Book, but now it seems to have developed a fault,” the man, whom Mahmoud recognised from his village, continued.
“Did you think about getting it fixed?” Mahmoud asked, exasperated with the response.
The man shrugged his shoulders in response. “I decided the westerners had found somewhere else for refugees like us to be sent out of the public eye. Fixing a faulty Book would surely be the last thing on their list of things to do.”
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