The Good Earth
by Peter Friend

My cheap plastic knees were all that saved me. I'd been out weeding my potato patch - not that it had produced any decent-sized potatoes since the viruses hit, but I still had to eat, after all. When my knees had started their usual aching and twitching, I'd got up to stretch and walk off the pain a bit. So the damned thing missed me by four metres.

It hit the ground with a hell of a bang. Knocked me clean over. Of course I landed on my poor knees and that set me off swearing, and then I noticed I was half- covered in dirt and runty potatoes and that set me off swearing even worse. Over the wire fence, Bill Sharples's skinny sheep had fled to the far side of their paddock, and I didn't blame them. The thing was no meteorite, I knew that much straight off. Too smooth and round and black, not natural looking.

It could have been something fallen off a plane, maybe. Except I still remembered seeing the wreckage after my poor Margaret's crash. Planes are just flimsy bits of aluminium and the like - this thing wasn't even dented. And it was the size of a car. If something that big had just dropped out of the sky, it would've done more than make a teeny little crater and knock an old man off his feet. I knew about stuff like that. Used to be an engineer - tractors, autoharvesters, most kinds of agricultural smart machinery. Retired now, sure, but not senile yet.

So whatever it was, I knew it had landed, not fallen. I wasn't all that surprised when it clicked and whirred and out crawled a smaller something, about the size of one of Bill's sheep - well, the size his sheep had been ten years ago. The something looked like a cross between a centipede and a pruning robot, but more alive than machine, somehow. It swivelled towards me, and wiggled arms or antennae or mandibles or whatever they might be.

"Um," I said. "Greetings on behalf...um... The people of Earth welcome...um... Gidday, I'm Jason Barrett." The creature - if that's what it was - turned away and stuck its front end into the dirt. That wasn't its way of saying hello, or so I assumed after a few minutes of nothing else happening. I limped back to the house and cleaned up the best I could. Then I called Rose Hurst, about the closest to a reporter or journalist we had around these parts, 'though she was retired the same as me. She told me she'd be here in five minutes and hung up before I could say goodbye.

I arm-wrestled my conscience for a minute, then called Constable Gleeson and left him a voice-mail. There'd be a big stink when news of this got out, and he'd grump at me for months if he were the last to hear about it. While I waited for them, I put the kettle on to boil and switched on the TV. Oh. There on the news channel was a trailer park in Mexico, with a black sphere and a crawly alien snuffling dirt, just like out my window. Then on came pictures of much the same thing in Brazil and Australia and the USA and all over. 

Rose arrived, saw my face, the sphere in the garden, the TV, and laughed. "You have no sense of history," she scolded. "Doesn't matter if you're not the first in the world - you're still the first in New Zealand. Well, as far as I know. Be a good boy and comb your hair and get ready for your fifteen minutes of fame." She rang some old friend of hers, and sure enough - five minutes later she was interviewing me and uploading a direct video feed from her eye-cam.

Twenty minutes after that, there I was on TV, an old fool grizzling about his bad knees. Never mind. It was the first time I'd ever been on TV and probably the last. I'd just got back to the kitchen to pour us a cup of tea when we heard Rex Gleeson's police Land Rover in the driveway. So of course we had to go out for another look. The crawly alien was still head down in the dirt and ignoring everyone. It seemed to be inching its way around the edge of the sphere.

We came back in and drank tea and ate rice crackers and watched TV for a bit. One had landed in France and some hunter had taken a pot shot at it. No one saw exactly what happened next, and the hunter wasn't telling, due to the perfectly round fist-sized hole through his chest.

"Hell of a thing," said Rex. That's what he'd said when the viruses hit our crops, when the food wars started, when the food wars ended, every time the beer prices rose, and when pretty much anything else happened. "Hell of a thing," he repeated, and we didn't disagree.

A truck ground to a stop outside.

"Oh, yeah, forgot to tell you," said Rex. "The army's sending over a few troops - some sergeant rang me to get directions. They want to keep the rubbernecks and gun nuts away." I opened the door and saw eight soldiers standing there. In charge was a young lady sergeant - pretty little thing if you liked muscles on a woman, and I did.

"Jason Barrett? Pleased to meet you, sir. Sergeant Palmer. I'm afraid we'll have to shift you out of here for a day or so for your own safety."

"I ain't going nowhere," I told her, and she glared at me like she thought she could drag me out herself, and she probably could.

Rose came to the door. "You know what this is?" She tapped her eye-cam.

Sergeant Palmer nodded.

"Well," said Rose, "you can look bad tossing a sweet harmless old man out of his home, or you can look good having a friendly chat with the bloke who discovered New Zealand's first alien landing. It's up to you, but either way, I'll film it."

The sergeant rolled her eyes, walked back to the truck and argued with someone on her cellphone.

"A sweet harmless old man, am I?" I asked Rose.

"More sweet and harmless than her, anyway," Rex grinned.

"Shut up, the pair of you," said Rose.

Everyone stood there and watched the alien, which had shuffled further around the sphere and was now stopped in front of an old fence post.

"At least it doesn't look dangerous or nothing," said a corporal.

"Neither do land mines until you step on them, soldier," said the returning sergeant. "I want a fifty-metre razor wire perimeter around that thing, and I want it ten minutes ago. Keep your popguns loaded and ready, and keep your real guns handy too." She turned to me.

"Sir, in the interests of public relations, my superior officers have graciously agreed to let you and you alone remain here within the perimeter. Condition One: you let us use your house as our base of operations. Condition Two: you don't give me any shit whatsoever. Understand? Sir?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"And you there with the camera - you can film whatever you like, but you do it from outside the perimeter, just like anyone else. Okay?"

"Yeah, yeah. I don't see nothing too newsworthy right now anyway."

"I'll call you if anything happens," I promised Rose.

Rex politely escorted her out to her car, then left himself. The soldiers had that razor wire set up in no time. Impressive. Of course, guarding things is their main job these days. Usually it's supermarkets and warehouses, but apparently the sergeant had decided she could guard an alien the same way - put up a barricade, then look macho and wave popguns at anyone who got too close.

Since we were an hour and a half's drive from the nearest traffic light and my nearest hundred neighbours were underfed sheep, the actual guarding part shouldn't be that difficult. We hadn't seen another soul all morning. My little TV guest appearance had been subtitled 'Manuhiri, New Zealand', but you'd need one thick atlas to find Manuhiri - it was just a hill and a few dozen houses and a closed down general store, and I was three kilometres down gravel roads from even that. I liked my peace and quiet.

An hour later, we had our first sightseer - Bill Sharples from the farm next door. He didn't own a TV and only bothered with the radio for the morning weather forecast, so I guessed he was just curious about what was bothering his sheep and why I had an army truck in my driveway. He roared up on his four-wheeled farm bike but slowed down fast when he saw half a dozen popguns pointing at him. Bill had always grown a bit of wheat and he'd had soldiers around his property during the food riots. He'd seen popgun bruises, and what happened when people got hit in the eyes or balls or kidneys.

Riding on the back of the bike was Sparky, one of Bill's farm dogs. Sparky was a nosy young bitch and unconcerned by fences. Before anyone noticed, she'd leapt the razor wire and was running up to investigate the alien. Bill shouted at her and a soldier shot at her and missed before Sergeant Palmer ordered everyone to hold their fire - worried they'd hit the sphere instead of the dog, I supposed. We ducked, expecting laser death rays and a dead dog at the very least.

Bill, still standing, stared at us like we were idiots.

"Get down," yelled a soldier.

"Why?" asked Bill, who was stubborn and proud of it. Judging by her barking, Sparky was still very much alive, so I sneaked a look. Sure enough, she was bouncing around, wagging her tail and sniffing the black sphere and the alien as she would any visitor. The alien ignored her.

"Come here, girl," Bill ordered.

She took a final sniff, leapt the wire and ran halfway back to Bill, then became distracted and started sniffing the soldiers.

"Damned useless mutt," muttered Bill. "What is that thing, anyway?"

"An alien explorer, we think," I said. "One of dozens all around the world."

"I was told hundreds," said Sergeant Palmer.

Bill snorted. "Aliens don't look like that in the movies. Doesn't even have any flashing lights."

The old fence post next to the alien cracked and toppled over, apparently eaten through.

He snorted again. "If it gets bored, send it over to my place and it can help me tear out a few old tree stumps." He rode off, followed by Sparky yapping cheerfully.

"It is kind of boring. Thank God," said a soldier and crossed himself.

I had to agree. Not that I was a flying saucer nut, but I'd have expected a bunch of visiting aliens to...well, more than roll round in our dirt. I went back inside and found a soldier peeling potatoes at my kitchen table.

"Hey, I can't feed all you lot."

"Relax, we brought our own spuds," she said. "Wouldn't say no to a few fresh herbs if you've got some to spare, though. And have you got any cinnamon? I was thinking of doing an apple pie."

"Pies aren't the same without wheat flour. Pastry goes all soggy."

She grinned and pointed to a brown paper sack. "We got plenty of flour. Real flour, the virus-resistant stuff - a gift from a grateful government bakery after we shot an arsonist last month."

"You stick to your peeling, potato girl. I'll make the apple pie, my Margaret's special recipe."

My little kitchen wasn't built to feed nine people at once, but I rummaged around, found some spare pots and bowls and we managed okay.

Potato girl's name was Liz, and she seemed nice enough, for a soldier. Had a bit of a fixation on food and guns, but she was in the right job for it. Once everything was cooking, I turned the TV back on to see if there were any updates on the aliens.

Yes and no. Nearly four thousand identical spheres had been found so far, dotted all around the planet. Apparently none underwater or in the polar regions, and not many in desert areas. Iran had just two, and Iraq none - Iraq was accusing Iran of stealing one. Two others had been found here in New Zealand, one a bit north of Auckland and one close to the State Highway near Timaru. Both were attracting more media attention than mine. On came an interview with some crackpot who reckoned the spheres weren't aliens and hadn't fallen from the sky either - they were really the nose cones of an underground communist invasion force which had tunnelled all the way from a secret military base outside Moscow. He'd downloaded top secret CIA documents from the Internet that proved it.

"Ingenious," Liz giggled. "That explains why no one saw them coming. Them commies are smarter than I thought."

A newsflash cut off Mr Communist Invasion Theory mid-sentence. Someone had fired a shoulder-mounted missile launcher at the sphere on the Israel-Palestine border. The sphere had exploded, turning several hundred people and a lot of sand into a pool of molten glass and ash.

"Holy shit." Liz tore outside to tell the others. I looked out the window at "my" alien. It either hadn't heard the news or didn't care. After completing its first circuit of the sphere, it had moved out a little and was now working on a second circle just outside the first.

Most of the soldiers ran in to hear the announcer answer the more obvious questions. No, it hadn't been an atomic or nuclear blast. No, none of the other aliens had reacted in any way so far. Yes, the Palestinians were blaming the Israelis and vice versa.

"Still so keen to stay here?" the sergeant asked me.

I shrugged. "I'm seventy-six come April. I've lived my life. It's you young ones who have something to lose." Oops. Judging by their faces, they were all thinking the same. "Hey, relax. Not many missile launchers around here. Lunch is ready. Who's hungry?"

Okay, I'd depressed everyone, although I hadn't meant to. No one had much of an appetite, even for my apple pie, which had turned out just fine if I did say so myself. Eventually I turned off the TV, shooed them all outside and started washing the dishes, glad I wasn't a young soldier.

It was a long tense dull afternoon. A dozen locals popped by for a look, but for all they could see beyond the razor wire, they might as well have stayed home and watched TV. And a van full of young scientist types came and took photos and measurements.

"So, have you geniuses worked out what they're doing yet?" I asked them.

"You tell me," one said.

"Hunting for truffles?" I suggested.

He smiled. "That's a new one. Makes as much sense as most theories we've heard. A kid at a petrol station told us the aliens are negotiating with a race of super-intelligent worms who secretly rule the world."

There were lots more theories that night on TV. Even the regular channels ran three-hour news specials. Made a change from reporting the Chinese famine and the Australian civil war. The scientists couldn't agree on anything. Neither could the crazies.
Maybe the crawly alien creatures were alive. Maybe they were machines, or remote control robots run from the spheres, or aliens wearing space suits, or vehicles being driven by teeny aliens sitting inside.

Maybe they were just taking soil samples, or eating soil, or laying eggs. Maybe they were dancing a welcome ceremony to the intergalactic cosmic community, or building landing pads for a really big alien invasion force hiding behind the moon.

Maybe they were giant mutant cockroaches, their DNA scrambled by the same viruses that had decimated world food production and triggered the food wars. No one laughed at that one. Four women in Colombia said they'd been kidnapped and impregnated by the aliens, two guys in France claimed the aliens had swapped their brains ("swapped them for walnuts," suggested Sergeant Palmer), and some Russian fourteen-year-old covered in aluminium foil claimed to be an alien ambassador.

After two hours of assorted fruits and nuts, I gave up and went outside. "Any news?" asked one of the soldiers on sentry duty, fooling around with a pair of night-vision goggles.

"Just more of the same crap. What's our alien doing?"

"Nearly finished its fourth circle. Didn't slow down at all when it got dark. It's still leveling the ground as it goes, and pushing rocks and stones out to the side." Hmmm. That matched one of my own theories, one I hadn't told anyone. I begged a try with his fancy goggles and - once I'd worked out how to focus the things - watched the alien for a minute. Yup, it was doing a real nice job, if I was right.

I wished the sentries and the alien a good night and went back inside. Didn't expect to sleep too well, what with the TV blaring away in the lounge, but I slept like the proverbial baby.

I woke at 7am as usual, forgetting anything was out of the ordinary until I heard snoring in the next room. The lounge was full of soldiers in sleeping bags. I sneaked past without waking anyone and went outside. Beautiful spring day. The hills shone green with growing grass, just like before the viruses. From this distance, you couldn't see the deformed stalks, wouldn't guess that Bill Sharples could only run half the sheep he used to.

Sitting in the sun were the two soldiers on sentry duty, both fast asleep and unaware that the alien wasn't doing what it had been yesterday. It had finished perhaps a dozen circles, leaving a four or five metre wide ring around the sphere, all level and smooth. I couldn't have done better myself. Now it was waddling around again, carrying a pile of round grey pellets in one of its limbs. That settled things for me.

I walked over to my tool shed, found what I'd need, then carried it back over to the alien. Maybe I should have called Rose first, but I couldn't use my phone without waking the soldiers up and I didn't know what to tell her anyway. I scrunched down on my knees - ouch, a little too quickly - and started.

Dig, twist. Dig, twist. Trying to match the alien, which stopped and watched me.

Dig, twist. Dig, twist. Then, real slow, I reached out and took four of the grey pellets from the pile in the alien's limb. One in each hole, cover them up, pat them down, just like the alien had been doing.

"Step away from the alien, sir." Sergeant Palmer's voice, followed by the click of her popgun's safety catch.

"You won't shoot me. You might hit the alien by mistake, and you know what could happen then."

"Step away from the alien, sir. Please."

"No need. Me and the alien are getting along just fine. We're gardening," I lied. Half-lied.

"Oh, good. Have fun," she said. With just a hint of sarcasm.

Dig, twist. Dig, twist. The alien wiggled its limbs then dumped a handful of grey pellets in front of me.

"Thanks," I said, and carried on digging and planting, ignoring the sergeant yammering on her cellphone, ignoring the sounds of the soldiers running out to watch us.

"What are you planting?" called a soldier.

I looked up, looked out over the surrounding hills, the dying trees, the fields where wheat and oats and barley once flourished, where potatoes once grew larger than golf balls.

"No idea," I said. It was the truth. The alien and I were planting seeds, I knew that much, but they might be anything. Some marvellous new crop to feed the planet. Or some monstrous alien weed to choke us all. There was no way of knowing. For better or worse, I was helping the aliens terraform Earth. It could hardly turn out worse than what we'd already done to ourselves. 

