Valle del Sibundoy, Colombia, January, 2078, Wednesday…

Roberto Ruiz looked out over the valley. At one time he imagined that it was beautiful. Now it was filled with oil wells.

Still home to one of Colombia's indigenous tribes, el Valle del Sibundoy was only a few kilometers from Pasto. It could have been in another star system as far as he was concerned. The Ecopetrol foreman had been born in Medellin. His wife and four children were back in Bogotá. For him extracting the heavy crude from the ground was hard work just by being away from home.

"Mi amigo, you are sad today," observed Diego, one of the Indian drillers.

His tribe still owned the land. They shared only a small percentage of the profits but it was enough that they had voted for leasing the wells to the Colombian government. They had little choice. The President and his people had threatened to relocate the whole tribe. His people could not tolerate leaving their sacred valley.

"Do you have a wife, Diego?"

"Soon. Maria Jose and I will be married this summer."

"Well, she's here, right?"

"Yes, sir."

"Mine isn't. That's why I'm sad."

"Children?"

"Them too. This job really sucks."

"But it pays well, so you do it. My excuse to Maria Jose is the same."

"She doesn't want you to work for me?"