Struggle for a Small Blue Planet

by Warwick Gibson

  Cal waved a hand to dismiss the idea. Doug understood. The SAS boss was always short of time, and fitting in something that wasn't essential didn't register on his radar.

  "Already wished them luck, and told them how important their mission is," he said, whisking a paper out of the files. Then he was gone.

  Half an hour later an old diesel truck, converted to cooking oil, bumped slowly along farm tracks toward Waiouru. Anything that could fly was still based there. Nothing could be allowed to draw attention to the Tangiwai or Moawhango sites.

  Both pools at the Burns complex in Waiouru had cracked and drained in the quakes, but the cantilevered roof had survived – though it was twisted at an angle the architects hadn't intended. The pools had been filled in and the two helicopters Cal still had at his disposal were based there, along with the few engineering capabilities that remained. A wall at one end of the complex had been knocked out and replaced with light canvas doors.

  "Don't take chances!" said Jeannie, as she embraced Cathy beside a large NH90 helicopter. Next to Cathy was the man who had welcomed her at the Tangiwai lab. He was also the team leader, Tomas.

  "I'll bring her back in one piece," he told Jeannie, with a smile. He was pure SAS, with a fairly basic science background. The other two, Eileen and Brun, were pure science, with a lot of hard survival training in the last few months. Cathy had dropped into bed exhausted every night of the last week, and hoped she would remember something from the intensive survival training. It had been a blur.

  Then the team were in the air, and heading south for the Ohakea air base. Ohakea had been a training base for the small New Zealand air force before the quakes, and Cal had men stationed there now. Their main job was to protect the aviation fuel supplies that remained, and restore a section of the runway. Cal didn't have transport planes on hand, but other countries might. He wanted to keep his options open.

  The helicopter would load up with fuel at Ohakea and head south-west down the coast and across Cook Strait. Then it would follow the east side of the Southern Alps to Fiordland. From there the team would have to find their way to a tunnel that was supposed to lie under Lake Adelaide.

  29

  Southern Ute reservation

  Colorado, USA

  "You better be damn sure about this,' said Severo, and his horse moved nervously under him. The cold wind of the barren plateau lifted a dust devil nearby.

  Theo registered a moment's surprise at the words. Severo had appointed himself Theo's bodyguard, and normally obeyed him without hesitation. Then again, the thought of a nuclear missile slamming into the citadel a hundred metres in front of them would make anyone nervous.

  "Came from the top," said Theo. "Cleet looked at the order from the Joint Chiefs of Staff himself. Davis-Monthan air force group in Tucson is going to hammer Citadel 78 with conventional weapons, and Citadel 78 is this sucker right here."

  "What are they sending?" said Severo, and Theo had to think for a moment.

  "Ah, Thunderbolts?" he hazarded. Was that what Cleet had said?

  Severo nodded. The brawny Ute had done tours in the military.

  "Warthogs," he said. "Oldies but goodies, and excellent against armour. They should be able to punch a few holes in this here tin can."

  Byron Cloud, on the other side of Theo, shifted in his saddle. The blotchy surface of the citadel, the size of a football field across its top and half as high, did look like a giant, half-buried, rusty tin can. Except the edges were rounded, and it did slope inward slightly at the top. Behind the three men a dozen Ute warriors on horseback formed up. They had finished scouting the area.

  "But no mention of anything nuclear," said Byron, labouring the point.

  "Nothing like that, gentlemen," said Theo firmly. Byron looked at a self-wind watch. It seemed out of place in a world where such precision was no longer required. Severo turned in his saddle, scanning the horizon on their left one more time. Only this time he didn't turn back toward the citadel. Theo tensed.

  "Coming in fast and low," said the big Ute. "From the south-west as expected. I make it to be one squadron at the moment."

  He scanned the horizon again. "There should be at least one other, probably from a different direction. If there is, then that's around 24 planes. I think it's time for us to find cover."

  Cover turned out to be a massive slab of rock they could all shelter behind. The riders dismounted and made a sturdy tether line for the horses in a gulley further back. No one wanted their transport to disappear if it was spooked by the noise.

  Theo took out field binoculars he had borrowed at the Mancos river settlement, and scrutinised the citadel. After a while he handed the binoculars to Severo.

  "Any idea what those four humps are round the top?" he asked.

  "Comms reception," said the bodyguard, and Theo kicked himself for not seeing it earlier. Modern technology had already adopted the dome shape for a dozen of its own communication purposes. It appeared the alien technology was not so advanced it was unrecognisable.

  "The raised platforms at the front worry me more," said Severo. "I bet you they open up in some way, and for a whole lot of reasons. But one of them will be a weapons platform, I guarantee it!"

  Theo didn't like the sound of that. Then they heard the thunder of the fighter planes for the first time, and saw the vapour trails as a wall of missiles streaked in from their left.

  "Another squadron!" shouted Severo, and Theo followed his arm to see the glint of sunlight as a dozen planes appeared from behind a ridge to their right, banking hard. Then a second wall of missiles leaped away, appearing to race the first set toward the citadel.

  Theo held his breath as the target disappeared behind a cloud of white smoke and brown dust. The scrapings Severo had taken were, he had been told, recycled sandstone from the plateau. Most of that sandstone covering was now being blasted off the citadel as he watched.

  "Two of the comms domes are gone!" shouted Severo over the din, as the aircraft howled overhead, crossing each other's exhaust trails, and banked for another pass.

  "Big dent on the left side," said Byron, and Theo saw what he meant as the smoke and dust drifted away. He looked at the flattened comms domes too, but shook his head. The attack wasn't getting through the walls and inside the citadel where it could do real damage. The hull integrity was still intact, and he pointed this out to Severo.

  "Our elite forces have technology like that," said the big Ute grimly, "materials that are soft enough to wear, but harden on impact to stop a bullet. This is something similar, but on a much larger scale. It bends, absorbing the impact, but it doesn't give way."

  As if to demonstrate what he was saying, the citadel shook itself in slow motion. The comms domes popped up while the dents in the outer wall flattened back to their original positions.

  Then one of the raised platforms along the top formed a strange grid pattern of hollows and projections. Balls of twinkling light rose out of it in a cloud that spread above the citadel. As more missiles came in on either side, the lights accelerated to meet them, and then the lights were gone. Almost instantaneously, the missiles winked out of existence. No explosion, no debris, and almost no noise. It was eerie to watch.

  The Thunderbolts were passing over the citadel for a second time when their engines cut out. The loss of power led instantly to a failure of the control systems. The planes slid out of the sky, most turning end over end.

  "Get out of there!" shouted Theo, feeling helpless, while the others looked on in shocked silence. At last the pilots began to eject, the seats hurtling away as the Thunderbolts rolled out of the sky. Theo counted nine parachutes a minute later, but that was all. Then the planes hit the ground. The thunder of the impacts, and eruption of fireballs, grew to a crescendo, then abruptly cut off. The Ute men around Theo looked stunned.

  "Survivors!" said Theo loudly, to get their attention. "Let's get moving. We have to find everyone who's still alive. And that means we have to check the impact sites!" />
  The young men scrambled for the horses in the gully behind them. Theo stayed back, and fished a satphone out of his pack. He'd told Cleet he would report in when he'd witnessed the attack, and that was what he would do now.

  He already knew that attacks on other citadels had failed. He'd been expecting the worst here too, but it was disheartening to see the Thunderbolts fail to do any damage, and be so easily destroyed.

  "We got through with a nuke in Texas," said Cleet, when Theo made contact, "and the Russians are claiming three citadels destroyed. We think that's because the Russians were the first to launch against the sites on their soil.

  "Some of the citadels that were attacked earlier today have launched cylindrical shapes that are now congregating at fixed points in orbit. We think they're building space stations of some sort."

  It wasn't good news. 'Sow the wind and reap the whirlwind,' thought Theo dispiritedly. The invaders would now hunt down anything they saw as a threat.

  "I think they'll take out the satellites as well," said Cleet, "but we'll find other ways to stay in touch. It's been good having your input, Theo."

  There was a silence.

  "If the bastards find us here at the Mt Weather complex," he continued, "it's been good to know you."

  "You too!" said Theo, and the conversation ended.

  30

  Berber village

  Atlas Mountains, North-west Africa

  The sandstone walls had turned to a kind of packed grit in the last few metres, and the tunnel opened out before what had to be an airlock. A large, square area was indented into a dull metal wall directly in front of them. Don put the indent at three metres by three, with a thin line denoting a large, square doorway just within it. So, he thought wryly, whatever built the airlock was not a small, wee beastie then.

  Slightly raised panels were scattered round the borders of the doorway, covered in tiny nodules in irregular patterns. It looked like the braille script used by the blind. The soft glow he had seen as they came down the tunnel was produced by the panels.

  "There are displays inside," said Izem. "Mainly holograms and multi-screens, and the visual script is different to what's on the panels. Whatever built this ship seems to process information as much by touch as by sight. They also seem to have compound eyes – you'll see what I mean once we're in the control rooms."

  Don wondered how many tunnels the Berbers had dug trying to find a way in. They must have hit the hull and gone sideways until they found this airlock. How many years after that had it been before they managed to get it open?

  Izem had told him his people had originally been digging for meteorites – highly prized items in early Islamic times – and an old legend had told of one falling at this spot. Once the citadels appeared, the Berber leader had quickly tied them to the ship they found here.

  "You mentioned screens," said Don. "Are there any pictures of the builders?"

  "Yeah, sure," said Izem, "if you can pick them out. It's a god-forsaken zoo in there. After a hundred and fifty years of study, we still don't know which species are intelligent, whether there are slave races, and how many are AI. Some of them seem to be entirely metallic, and some look genetically modified."

  Izem pointed to a raised section next to the door.

  "This is your way in," he said.

  Don figured the ship had to ID every living thing that came through its doors. It was a very human thing to do, oddly enough.

  He placed his hand on the raised section and jumped as something stung his palm.

  "It's taken a tissue sample," said Izem, seeing him flinch.

  Don looked at his palm. A small plug of skin had been replaced by a clear, wax-like substance.

  "Once it knows you," said Izem, "the door will automatically open. It will let you straight through every time".

  He made a cautionary arc with his finger. "Though all the people so far have been Imazighen."

  Don had heard the Berbers calling themselves this. He made a mental note to use the word in future. Then he looked at the airlock, and at Izem, who was trying to hide a smile.

  Pushing the thought of being turned into mincemeat by over-zealous alien machinery out of his mind, he strode forward. The door slid back in four sections, opening into darkness. Izem followed. Hidden lighting came on as the door closed behind them.

  "The lights were far too bright when we first gained entry," said Izem, leading the way. "Which suggests their home planet is closer to its sun than ours – and probably hotter – but everything we think about them is guesswork.

  "It took us years to find out how to change simple things like that. Sometimes we would turn a subsidiary system off by mistake, and get it back months later. It was very much trial and error.

  "No one could breath the air in here at first. Not sure if it had gone bad, or these creatures breath something different to us."

  Don was more intrigued by his surroundings. A long corridor curved away left until it ran out of sight. It had a cross-section like a square that bulged at the sides, and it was much too high for any human. If the builders walked upright, if it wasn't a freight passageway, these creatures must have been three metres tall.

  Two, much narrower, corridors turned off on either side, and then the men came to an oval indent in the wall on their right. Like the airlock, it was surrounded by a number of panels packed with raised nodules. Izem expertly pressed in a number of places, and the oval section slid sideways into the wall.

  "One of the control rooms," he said, and strode over to a bank of panels at chest height. There was nothing in the room that looked like a chair. Izem pressed in more places. Three clear sheets of a glass-like material popped up, each directly behind the other. They were a metre tall, though much wider. Izem input something, and a display came up.

  Earth lay in the middle of the first screen, with cutaway shots showing each continent in detail, all in blues and greens. Behind that the same picture of earth had different cut away schematics, and everything was in reds and browns. The last sheet was in golds and a faint tinge Don figured was somewhere in the ultra-violet spectrum. Looked at from the front, it was a riot of shape and colour, impossible to decipher.

  "Compound eyes," said Izem. "At least that's what we're thinking. The two halves of our brain are connected by an information conduit that's only the size of a large coin. These guys must have several divisions like that, and their brains must be a whole lot more specialised than ours."

  It was sobering. What in God's name was the human race up against?

  The control panels ran around three sides of the room, and the remaining wall curved away in a semi-circle dotted with more instrumentation. Strange 3D patterns shimmered on the walls above each of the control panels, creating an uncanny feeling of depth. Pictures, landscapes, or technical diagrams, it was impossible to say.

  The patter of something like feet ran across the ceiling above them and down the wall behind the control panel. Don backed up sharply.

  "That's Al Majnun," said Izem, a broad grin on his face. "The Madman. Winds you up a bit at first. He, or it, or whatever you prefer, follows us around when we're inside the ship. Most of us think it's a malfunction in the life support systems."

  The noises in the wall disappeared, and Don relaxed. "If there were a crew," he said, "they would have to be long lived. Ships have been landing here for at least 200 years, according to Cal."

  "Or they might breed across the generations," said Izem.

  "What if this is the last one still alive, gone mad with boredom?"

  Izem laughed. "Well, we didn't think of that, but what would it live on? We've found no food storage, and no systems for animal waste."

  "Still," said Don, "something must explain why this citadel didn't push its way above ground when the others did."

  Then a smile played across his face.

  "This is what you've been trading with the Germans to get your muskets upgraded," he said. "You've been feeding them technology that'
s a bit more advanced than what's on the market."

  "More or less," said Izem, nodding his head. "But there's more to that story. A German explorer named Friedrich Rohifs came this way in the mid 1800s, and saved the life of one of my ancestors. He stayed with my family for a long time.

  "In the end we showed him the ship, and swore him to secrecy. Rohifs' descendants run a company making alloys for truck and trailer parts, and a special team works on the artefacts we send them. That's where the muskets come from.

  "Though deciphering this technology is not as easy as you might think. Most of the components don't make sense until our own science has invented something similar. We had no idea about the complex wiring we found here until electronics came along, and later motherboards."

  "And the alien weapons?" said Don hopefully, but Izem shook his head.

  "Sure, my grandfather adapted some parts from the ship to butcher Gaddafi's column eighty years ago, but that exhausted the energy cells they run on, and we still don't know how to recharge them."

  Don had always known they couldn't arm the whole world with what they found here, but to find nothing was deeply disappointing.

  31

  Mount Weather underground complex

  Washington, USA

  The Situation Room was full. The idea that some news might be 'classified', and not available to all, had gone out the window. Everyone knew that humanity had its back to the wall, so information was shared freely.

  It was a mark of the interest in this meeting that non-essential personnel had to apply to the National Security staff to be sure of a seat. The entire room wanted to know what the alien response had been to the world-wide military attacks launched twelve hours earlier. It had been an attack with minimal effect on the alien positions.

  "Mr President," began a senior NS staffer. "Everything you are about to see is recorded, for reasons you already understand. But these images are the most recent we have, and they are indicative of the alien response around the world."