Struggle for a Small Blue Planet

by Warwick Gibson

  "Are you saying the earthquake cascade has triggered seventeen new areas of volcanic activity?" said the Vice-chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

  Cleet didn't say anything, he just looked at the President. He had a sinking feeling he should have cleared this with him first. Though he wasn't sure how he could have done so – the man was working twenty hours a day as it was.

  The President looked sharply at Cleet, and must have seen the apprehension on his face. "I'll take this privately," he said quickly. "It's something Cleet and I have discussed previously."

  "No immediate danger, Cleet?" he said, and Cleet shook his head.

  "Good," said the President. "And now let's move on to more pressing matters. How many military bases have maintained integrity, and what sort of inflow of single people do we have?"

  The heads of the military branches hurried forward to present their data.

  That evening, an aide found Cleet in his office, and ushered him through to the Presidential suite.

  "Sit down, Cleet," said the President, looking up from a rather floral-looking sofa. His wife was with him. Up close he looked ragged, older. Cleet wasn't surprised. He wondered what he looked like himself these days.

  "You were talking about Theo's theories at the meeting today, that an alien race is behind the earthquakes, right?" said the President. "You think they're about to pop out of the ground and take over?"

  Cleet was surprised the President had grasped the implication so quickly. An alien emergence had to be a possibility. He looked hesitantly at the First Lady, and the President smiled.

  "Cleared at the highest level, Cleet," he said. "Knows more about what's going on than I do sometimes!"

  He rubbed her arm affectionately, and carried on.

  "You're saying these . . . creatures have been down there, beavering away, for hundreds of years – all in preparation for a coordinated emergence above ground in our lifetime." It wasn't really a question any more.

  "What are we, cursed?" said the President wryly. Cleet thought of Theo's description of the end of a great cycle of the world, and decided it wouldn't be helpful to bring it up.

  "Most of their development below ground could have been automated," said Cleet. "Hell, maybe all of it. Or they might live a lot longer than us. Or they might have been here for several of their generations. Science-fiction has already considered a giant ark travelling between star systems, taking many of our lifetimes.''

  The President nodded, but his face remained painfully serious. Cleet felt guilty for bringing him the news about the uplifts.

  "I don't know if we're even going to survive the earthquakes," said the President. "At least, in any way we would recognise from our own history. Now you're telling me we have to add an alien invasion into the mix?"

  Cleet shrugged. "Possibly. Probably. I don't know what else to tell you."

  There was a long silence.

  "Theo make it okay?" said the President eventually.

  Cleet nodded. "Got a message from a satphone on the reservation. He's helping them set up there. The people are coming back home, like he hoped." Then he had a question of his own.

  "Isn't there anything that could help us?" said Cleet hesitantly. "You don't have some alien technology hidden away from crash landings, do you?"

  The President laughed, and shook his head.

  "I don't know half of what our intelligence agencies get up to," he said, "or which countries they talk to. But I can't see the remnants of our military winning a fight with these creatures, if it comes down to that."

  22

  Southern Ute Reservation

  Colorado, USA

  Theo shifted in the saddle. He last rode a horse many years ago, but the skills he needed now were coming back. One of the tribal council sat easily to his right, a portly man named Byron Cloud, who was about his own age. The rest of the party were young men. They were wearing western clothing and packing rifles, but sporting symbols of their tribal allegiance. There were a number of Southern Utes badges, feathers in hat bands, and ribbons trailing from wrists.

  "Elevation 2,100 metres," said their guide, consulting an electronic meter in his hand. It wasn't GPS – that had stopped working a week ago – but it still told him a lot of useful things. Eventually, though, the small stock of batteries for it would wear out.

  By then the Utes might be able to rely on the small hydro station taking shape on the edge of the Colorado Plateau, two days ride behind them. The Mancos river wasn't large, but it had a steady flow. The Utes would try to keep the best of the new knowledge alive, while they restored the ancient knowledge of their people.

  It had been three and a half weeks since the earthquakes, though it seemed like a lifetime to Theo. Many of the Utes lived in caravans that, miraculously, had survived the shaking. Some locations had erected big canvas marquees they kept for gatherings. Hunting and foraging had started immediately.

  Already the Utes had sizeable herds of cattle, guarded by bands of well-armed riders. Theo had sent parties out in search of hardier goats as well, and the tribe had the beginnings of a rather mixed herd.

  It was Theo who chose the location for a new settlement – beside the Mancos river along a stretch of sandstone bluffs – and started excavating rooms from the soft material. It was old Hopi technology the people knew well. A hundred double-roomed apartments already housed more than five hundred people.

  He thought once again that the remote location, dry climate, old knowledge, and hardiness of the people, gave the Utes the best chance of survival of anyone in mainland America.

  "I'll get our exact position when we stop for the night," said the guide, "but for now we head north-west, along that wash and up onto the high desert."

  Theo nodded. Nearly all the Utes deferred to him now, even the tribal council. It wasn't what he wanted, but things got done faster that way. The young men in particular had a strong respect for him. He had taken his ideas to the Navajo and the Hopi early on, and they had embraced his vision of the future wholeheartedly.

  The Southern Utes Reservation, in South Colorado, covered 1064 square miles. Combined with the much larger adjoining reservations, it was a political statement covering more land than most of the smaller states of the American union. The native population was returning to the reservations now, and there was a lot of work to be done.

  Bringing in the urbanised Utes had been one of the first tasks. Most of the remaining fuel had gone on armed SUVs that travelled into nearby towns to collect families. Unfortunately the cities were 'no go' areas, and it still saddened Theo to have abandoned so many of their people.

  A day later, the war party ran into the first desperado camp.

  "Headhunters," said the scout, easing back into his place among the others. The smoke from the campfire had been seen miles off.

  Theo smiled sadly. The language was changing to meet the new demands placed upon it. A 'headhunter' was anyone who would kill to get the equipment, food or transport they needed to survive. They were usually back country men and women driven into inhospitable areas by the roving bands that made it out of the cities.

  Armed patrols had cleared most of the reservation of these people early on, and Theo had set up regular excursions to keep it that way.

  "How many?" he asked. The scout had counted seven men and three women, and two teenagers. There were the bloated bodies of several people in a side gully, and the odd mixture of stolen belongings typical of a headhunter camp. They hadn't bothered to bury the dead, but it also looked like they hadn't, yet, resorted to canibalism.

  The young men looked at Theo. He tried not to grimace as he thought about it. Eventually, he nodded his head. It was like putting a dog out of its misery. The headhunters would be dead soon enough, and this way, they wouldn't starve slowly. And they wouldn't make more raids on the lowlands, killing families just getting by themselves.

  There was still plenty of light in the day, and it was short work to set up a trap. Theo's current numb
er two, Severo, had spent some years in the military, and he set the others their tasks with deadly efficiency. He was one of many Utes who had taken the old names.

  When the trap was sprung, Theo kept pulling the trigger and trying not to look at the carnage. Severo and two of the others had stampeded the group toward the rest of the war party. Straight onto their rifles. Byron shook Theo's arm in the end, to tell him it was over. Every one of the headhunters was dead.

  They continued on until it was dark. Theo wanted to put as many miles between his people and the bodies as he could. The others humoured him. Somehow they knew that he was a living flame of compassion, of civilisation, and without people like him it was a few short steps back to savagery.

  Three days later they walked the horses down a slope toward a boggy wetlands in a huge depression surrounded by hills. Springs somehow managed to keep it going, and the many rings eroded into the sandy soil told Theo it had once been a lake. Now, the salty crust and stunted brush in the middle had been pushed up from underneath by the uplift.

  The little party halted at what they hoped was a safe distance away. The covering of mud and grasses had fallen from the sides of the uplift in places, revealing a rough, pitted surface the colour of damp brown rock. It could have been a natural phenomena, except for the regular shape. A flat area the size of several football fields now stood a good ten metres above the surrounding wetlands.

  There was a raw, mechanical groaning, deep within the ground, as they watched, and the citadel rose another few centimetres. Theo lifted a large knife from its sheath.

  "We need a sample of that stuff," he said, and started forward. Severo put his hand on Theo's chest. Nothing was said, but it was clear what he meant: Severo was expendable, and Theo wasn't. Minutes later Severo was back, the scrapings he had taken wrapped in a small skin bag.

  "Soft on the surface," he said, "but harder underneath."

  Theo took the offering. He wondered how he would get it properly analysed.

  A week later they were back at the Ute settlement, and Theo made a satphone call. It was a complicated affair now, controlled by governments, all users identified by code and password. He was put through to a switchboard, and identified himself a second time. Then he was talking to Cleet.

  "Strangest thing I've ever seen," he said, after he'd transmitted his report, "but there's no doubt the uplifts are artificial. How many others do we know about?"

  "Fifty something," said Cleet, "but there are huge areas of the world where no one is looking. There could be hundreds of these things.

  "Wish you were here to help us with this."

  "So do I," said Theo. "You're getting a lot more information where you are than I am, and the curiosity is killing me. But I'm needed here.

  "I'll keep sending in whatever data I can," he said, finishing the call.

  Then he sat in his office, inside the sandstone cliff, and looked out across the river. The window was basically a short tunnel to the outside, and had a removable shutter that could be placed inside it for wind or rain. There was no glass now.

  So it's finally happened, he thought. More or less as Ted Arms and Charlie Kettle had predicted. Something would, eventually, come up out of the ground. And now was the time of its emergence.

  PART TWO

  THE BERBER KINGDOMS

  23

  Boudghene Ben Ali Lotfi Airport

  Bechar, Algeria

  The EMARSS made a wide circuit over Bechar, before lining up its landing run.

  "Goddamn it, what a mess!" said Mosha tersely as the aircraft banked and they could see what was left of the city. Don nodded. A lot of it was sandstone block and clay, which used to be houses. Not now though.

  "Easy to rebuild," said Graham. The cultured voice was a surprise from the hardened warrior. All sorts of people ended up in the SAS. Graham was probably right. The people below would be slapping stones and boards together already. The beauty of simple construction methods – and no regulations.

  The world-wide 'quake was now two days behind them, and the Berbers were known to be a hardy race. They would have already buried their dead and got on with life. Then Don heard the chime that preceded an address from the cockpit.

  "Strap yourselves in," said the pilot, "and brace. We could be doing cartwheels down the runway when we land."

  It was no exaggeration. There were several vehicles on the tarmac, and a lot of wind-blown debris from the 'quakes. The control tower looked badly hit, and the radio had not been answered.

  The pilots had picked the cleanest looking section of runway, though an initial flypast hadn't told them much. Don was impressed with their sense of duty. This was likely to be their last flight – ever – and Bechar was a hell of a place to end up, but they were intent on completing the mission. At least no one had shot at the aircraft yet.

  That possibility concerned Don now. Ouakda, a few kilometres west, was the public airport for Bechar. Boudghene was much older, and was covert military. Jo hadn't been able to get access to the highest levels of US intel yet, but she certainly knew her way around shady information.

  Boudghene was assumed by US intel to be a refueling post for a number of Arab states, many of whom had modern fighter plane capability. Don couldn't see anything moving near the runway, but he got the team ready for a firefight. In the end, it wasn't hostiles that caused the first problem.

  "Bags we don't do that again," said Mosha, when he and Don stepped out the side door of the EMARSS straight onto the tarmac. Born of Ethiopian refugees, his phrases had the feel of a textbook about them at times. Nonetheless, he had every reason to 'bags' the landing not be repeated.

  The right wheel had struck something as they touched down, and the supporting strut had collapsed, tipping the aircraft to one side at 100 knots. The fuselage had squealed along the runway, rotating at least 360, until the other wheel strut had given way. The plane had bucked them around in the last hundred metres, but come to a stop without tipping over. Don doubted it would ever be salvageable.

  The plane had landed well short of the battered control tower, and that suited Don fine. The ruined building was a great place for an ambush. Nothing else seemed to be a threat, and Jo was currently helping Bull and Graham make up backpacks inside the plane.

  Top of the agenda was getting off the runway alive and finding their contact. After that it was a matter of finding somewhere safe to drop off the two pilots and the technician. Algeria had always been a cosmopolitan country, and it had a high standard of living before the quake. If the three men could make it to Algiers on the coast, they would have options.

  Don saw a solitary figure walking toward the plane from the other side of the control tower. Whoever it was had a limp, and would take a while to reach them. Don said a few words to Mosha, who disappeared back inside the cabin. He picked up an M16 and settled into the shadows. Don would have cover if things went bad.

  "You come for Izem," said a wizened old man, when he eventually arrived. He spoke in a halting, and heavily accented, English. His clothing was made up of faded Western items, topped by the universal desert headgear of wound cloth.

  "Izem?" said Don slowly.

  "Li-on," said the man, who seemed to feel a translation was necessary. Don wondered if the man had mistaken them for big game hunters. But here, on the edge of the Sahara?

  "Izem come," said the man, appearing to make a decision. He limped back the way he had come, and waved theatrically toward the ruined control tower. Moments later a red flare arced up from behind it.

  Don swore. That could bring every opportunist and troublemaker in the area down on the plane. The old man turned back to him, and made a placating gesture.

  "No problem," he said carefully. "Izem come now." Then he limped away. It seemed clear from the context that Izem was a person. Don figured Cal had organised the meeting, but the flare still worried him. He told his team they had five minutes to leave the plane.

  Ten minutes later they were on the edge of the r
unway, in the shade of a large sign, and setting down their backpacks and weapons. The plane made an attractive target sitting out in the open and Don was pleased to get away from it.

  The sun was low in the sky when an old flat-bed truck rumbled over a rise at the end of the runway, and turned in their direction. It must have come along one of the dry river beds that skirted the foot of the Atlas mountains. A number of men rose to a standing position on the back of the truck, holding extraordinarily long-barrelled rifles.

  Don's team spread out, with Jo following Mosha's example. Good girl, thought Don idly, as he tried to see who was in the cab. The haiks of the men were topped by extravagantly constructed tazzarit. He was pleased he remembered these words from his brief research. The outer robes were worn over a body-length tunic, and the turban was carefully shaped to counteract the heat of the sun. The colours were a lot brighter than he had expected.

  The truck lurched to a stop beside the sign, and the men climbed down. They were mostly lean and tall. A rather princely looking man emerged from beside the driver, and the others waited for him to speak.

  Don knew the type at once. Born to be a ruler, and good at inspiring loyalty. The man seemed to sense that Don was in charge, and moved in his direction. One of the other men kept pace beside him.

  "You are Ljudevit Maric, and these are your men," said the Berber leader, as a statement of fact, though he looked quizzically at Jo for a moment. "I am Ridha Izem, and this is my personal bodyguard, Udad Halliche."

  "Actually, it's Don now," said the tall man. "Due to some . . . thing that happened in the States."

  The man looked amused. He seemed to connect Don's discomfit to the unexpected appearance of a woman on the team. Don didn't like the implication, but he didn't correct him either. He surveyed the man more closely. There was nothing much to the Berber leader's build. He was of average height, and slight, but he had an air of unshakeable confidence, and his eyes missed nothing.