EarthUnder (The Meteorite Chronicles Book 1)

To Mom, she always encouraged me to learn. She recognized my wanderlust early on and encouraged me to travel the world at an early age.

To Dad, who totally approved when I told him I wanted to turn my space rock collecting hobby into a business.

To all of the wonderful people I have known and loved like family all over the world. You are my true family and you are all in my books.

Chapter One

Holy Grail of the Great Sand Sea

A
lone, relentlessly, numbingly alone, with nothing to do and nowhere to go, I sat covered with heavy wool blankets that stank of dander, hiding on the flat, cold, tiled roof of this desert home. I was alive and yet life had screamed to a screeching halt as warm, oily slime soaked down my side, life’s blood slowly pumping its way out of my body.

A short time earlier, I had felt something slice the edge of my neck followed by three punches to my left arm; one of those punches lifted the arm overhead. I heard the bangs echo through the open window of the third-floor room, shortly after the slugs had struck. Everything whirled about as I seemed to float to the floor in quarter speed. So this is how it felt to take shots from a gun. It wasn’t at all what I had imagined. Feeling sick, dizzy, and confused as things came back into focus, I struggled to stand again as the shock tried to take over my conscious thought. It made no sense that I heard the shots after the bullets struck their mark. It was like watching brilliant bolts of lightning flash to the ground in silence before the booms of thunder filled the air with explosive sound. Had I turned for any reason in that instant, there would have been three ventilating holes through my heart and another through my neck instead of small slices through only skin. The one under the arm that made the limb jump was a doozy. That one was going to leave a mark.

As my mind began to clear, I realized that it was time to run. Someone had decided they wanted my money and obviously would do anything to get it. In the blowing desert night, one could see only dust and darkness. Everyone had scattered and no voices could be heard. This was a bad day, but a lucky day all the same. I grabbed a small daypack I knew had a few things in it that lay near the bed and climbed up, thinking that the rooftops might be the best place to start running. It was easy to assume that getting a few buildings away might help avoid further ambush. I had nothing of value on me, but the guys with the guns didn’t know that. As far as they knew I was just another fool from outside their borders loaded with cash to buy rocks. I liked to think they were just trying to slow us down enough to take what we had. But that was a lot of shots landing in one small area near my ticker; this gave me a new-found level of concern and sense of self-preservation.

So for now the program was: keep moving and don’t leave a blood trail. Where was Zen, and how would I ever find him or he find me? Shuffling from wall to wall and roof to roof, I could taste the salty pall of thirst. Blood was drying in my shirt. This was good; since I could not see in the dark I had to trust that for now nature would care for these wounds. The daypack had a couple of old favorite shirts in it so by morning I could change. I wouldn’t want to walk the morning streets looking like a zombie—I raise enough suspicion just being myself. Turning to go to the next wall, I heard the plunk of a lone drop of water as it broke the surface tension in a wash basin. Slowing, I listened and crept towards the last sound of the drip. Then it plunked again just below me. Traditionally laundry is washed and hung to dry on these roofs, and this wash basin would be the perfect place to clean up and take a drink before moving on to safer ground.

This is a land where nearly any insect will take a bite of you, a land where everything hides from the sun. The searing sphere in the sky that gives life also takes it away. I had to adapt in one day to an environment that kills the natives, who have had a lifetime to prepare for survival. Nothing here lives far beyond the shadow of its own demise.

My mind spoke to me in two voices: one screamed at me to run; the other told me to stay put and rest. Bleeding and losing strength, I easily made the decision.

Just a few foggy days earlier, I was among humans who spoke my language and busily bustled about, managing their own affairs. I blended with my own kind in great comfort and with lavish ease. Now I appeared as a bright beacon in a dark world: light hair, skin, and eyes in a land of olive skin and black hair. I recalled someone once said how I seemed to feel comfortable in my own skin. Today I felt that this skin I was in was the enemy.

I knew where I was going and had a guide who was a fine friend and whom I trusted with my life. My guide Zen knows all of the local dialects, and I can boast that I am well versed in two words: yes and no. One always knows that life’s path may lead to a fork, a place of difficult choice. But this time the choice was suddenly so easy. The lure of mystery, adventure, and reward was so blinding that it seemed there was no option. Right now the option of having stayed at home sounded simply swell; actually it sounded really corking great. Suddenly I was alone in another world: no food, no water, no friend, no path, only flesh, bone, and brain, standing on the same planet but surrounded by thousands of miles of other world. My mind’s eye visualized a shanghaied sailor waking on board a ship in the middle of an ocean. But this is the Great Sand Sea, just as hazardous and difficult to survive as drifting on the open ocean.

Zen was gone and I feared the worst for his fate. Zen is a dear and loyal friend who has always been there at my side on our journeys through his land. He is trustworthy and sincere. He has a keen sense of humor and he never runs short on energy. Zen is a kind spirit who loves family and friends. His approach to life and business is very philosophical, believing that all things happen for a reason and that we are guided by divine power. He is generous and unselfish, constantly giving his time and energy to others. Everywhere we travel together, small children gravitate to him like the Pied Piper. Having him with me on trips like this always encourages me to do more, to go that extra mile or ask the hard questions. I miss his bright, constant smile and his inquiring mind.

Right now I needed to find shelter for the night. The desert can cook you by day and freeze you by night. My biggest concern was to stay off the ground and away from all of those creatures that would end my journey in this first night. As excruciatingly tense as this predicament felt, I had to remember that these are the times that make good stories when I get back to my little corner of the universe. A part of me remained focused on the grail that got me to this crossroads.

Since childhood, my life’s direction has been driven by a lust to recover rocks from space. In my years in this science, I have become convinced that the first evidence of life elsewhere in the cosmos will be carried to Earth in a meteorite. Only the rarest types of achondrites appear to have the potential of bringing this evidence to Earth. Modern-day physics dictates that the most likely chance of finding life elsewhere in our solar system would come from the planet Mars. From time to time fragments of planetary basalt fall to Earth from Mars and are recovered soon after the fall. Currently, research is limited to these rare meteorites and from data sent to Earth by a limited number of Mars rovers. I am here trying to recover a piece of this material. Like the Romans who came here centuries before in search of precious stones, gold and silver, and other natural resources, I am here to find a stone many times more valuable than gold or even platinum. This harsh land has a long history of invasion by marauding forces. Each empire, having outgrown its own natural resources, turned to invading its neighbors. North Africa was a ripe plum ready to pick, and yet all that remains of those invaders over the millennia are the stone structures they left behind. The land and the sand always come back to the nomads: navigators of the Great Sand Sea. Each generation of nomads laughs at those visitors like me who thought they wanted to be there. I have to laugh at myself, as I am just another foolish rock hound like the Romans before me, but I am inspired to find where this leads me.

We were traveling from village to village along the edge of the Sahara, communicating to the local desert dwellers that we had money to pay for rocks from the sky. We were walking the knife’s edge. It’s risky to spread word that you are carrying cash to buy rocks, so I always make sure there is a back door in case the bad guys show up wanting something for nothing. This was one of those times when the lure of free money was more than someone could resist. Zen always refers to this type of people as mafia. Well, tonight there was a visit from the mafia. In the middle of the hot, dry, dusty night, Zen and I were separated in a flurry of shouts, shots, and fleeting footsteps. Zen had in his vest all of the daily notes and the money—my money and passport. In this land beyond electricity and telephones, I stood at the edge of the Great Sand Sea, on my left a village of homes made of mud and straw and filled with dark staring eyes. On the right…sand.

As I crept along the walls of houses, the light from the stars was snuffed by the dust blowing in the air. I recalled that late in the day we had met with a young man, Zed, to look at stones he had brought from the desert. We had met with him a week earlier in another village. He had three small children. One little girl, three-year-old Fatima, had overcome her shyness to peek through the fabric hanging in the doorway to the room where we sat on the floor discussing his stones. Her grandfather was in the room watching as we talked. Fatima had run to him and curled up in his lap to watch as well. The grandfather was an elder, one of the “Blue People” from deep in the southwest desert. Through his sun-baked olive skin glimmered a tint of azure blue that also flashed in his eyes. You could see in his face the deep weathered lines of years in the desert and yet his eyes had a youthful glint. He seemed to take a liking to me as more than just a curiosity.

It occurred to me that I might find my way to this house and that I could climb the outside stone steps to the roof, where I might huddle up to survive the night. Typically, there is laundry on the roof and heavy blankets that I might use to keep warm. If I was discovered they might recognize me and give me shelter in spite of my trespass. I reached the house, and found that, fortunately, the burly blankets were predictably piled in a corner of this rooftop haven. As I curled up under the layers of wool, the adrenaline began to wear off and sleep took hold of the night. A blanket thrown over the wall, creating a makeshift lean-to, kept much of the blowing dust and sand from my lungs.

Dawn came in a blink. Covered in dust, my throat was parchment and my tongue was sandpaper. There was more stirring under the blankets than just me. As I stumbled to my feet, the night’s collection of insects scrambled to find new cover. Several children watched me limp half-awake down the worn stone steps to street level. As I turned to move on, their ball rolled in my direction. I deftly dribbled it a bit and passed it their way. They laughed and pointed; I felt the tension fade and could hear the amusement in their laughing voices as I walked away. One of them called out an almost nondescript thank-you in desert dialect. I simply waved over my shoulder the international symbol for “yep, no problem.”

As the day grew brighter and warmer, one could feel it, taste it, smell it, hear it, and in my case…fear it. My stomach was howling at me that its needs were most crucial, while my brain was trying to figure out where to go and how to get there. The thought occurred to me that it might be better to move by night and rest by day. It might even be easier to forage for food and water in darkness. The idea was to continue on the quest for the stone that brought me here. Although it seemed to be an insurmountable challenge, this might make a really great story someday.

Walking alongside an ancient, massive stone wall, I came to a small cross-street where a group of boys noticed my profile. They descended on me as moths to a flame. A tourist in these parts was a rare novelty, and their shouts drew more attention until I was surrounded four deep in mischief and mayhem. Out from the shadows came the swift movement of a lone elderly man with a gurgling, gruff voice and loud shouts, arms flailing and cape flying as he slapped ears with the flat of his hands and gestured with swings of his arm for the boys to flee. As suddenly as he appeared, he was gone again through an archway in the wall. I stood for a moment as stunned as if I too had been boxed on the ear. Just then the old man reappeared from the opening, and as I looked up from my silent glare, I realized this was Fatima’s grandfather. As he drew closer he smiled as an old friend would and blessed me with his greeting. He fired several brief questions at me, but I could only make meaningless gestures and failed attempts to communicate. He grabbed my arm, his walking stick in the other, and led me to a nearby café (two tables and a few chairs outside a doorway). Some words were exchanged and hot tea was brought to our table, followed by pocket bread filled with sardines and hard-boiled egg. He saw in my eyes how much this meant to me and he gestured that I proceed to eat. A boy walked past and stared at us sitting there. My host shouted a few commanding words at him, and he ran off. We sat in painful silence, enjoying the meal. As people meandered by, I watched them watch me. Soon the young man that was abruptly sent away returned with one of the grandchildren, Fatima’s older brother, in tow. This was the boy I had passed the ball to earlier today.

“Good morning, sir,” he said as he came near. The elder slipped a coin to the errand boy and off he ran, shouting the same “thank you” I had heard from the soccer player this morning. The boy introduced himself as Khal. He explained that his father taught him what he had learned from others. Suddenly life felt filled with comfort and ease. Simply being able to speak and have my words understood was this day’s greatest luxury.

“Wow, you speak English,” was my astonished reply. Khal waited wide-eyed for my next words. I asked him to introduce me to his grandfather. His reaction was a look of confusion with suspicion. My guess is that he couldn’t understand my request for an introduction given that he saw us there, sitting together, eating, and having met the day before. I looked at Khal, then his grandfather, and put my hand on my chest to say, “My name is Bryce Monroe Sterling.” The elder understood better than Khal, and he laughed softly, looked to the boy, and spoke. Khal’s eyes stayed with his grandfather, whom Khal introduced, saying, “His name is Sharif.” We all smiled and laughed a bit.