Battlefield Earth: A Saga of the Year 3000

by L. Ron Hubbard

  Sir Robert had not handled many of the details of this raid. There was no reason to change planning this late.

  Jonnie spent his last day at the Lake Victoria minesite neatening up what there was of his personal life. He was under no illusion that this raid was not dangerous.

  He wrote a letter to Chrissie that he knew the parson would read for her and put it in plain sight on his desk, the envelope marked “To Chrissie in Case of Something Happening to Me.”

  He had heard one wrote wills to leave personal possessions. He started one. All he had was his horses and some odds and ends of clothes. He couldn’t think of anything else he owned. Then he thought maybe Chrissie had occupied the Edinburgh house in his name, so he put down any interest he had in that or its contents and left it to Chrissie. Then he remembered he had a few books so he left those to Pattie. For the life of him he couldn’t recall anything else he owned. But maybe people would think he owned gifts like the chrome AK 47. They weren’t very many. Still, they might be. So he added a clause, “And anything else I am found to own shall be equally divided among . . .” and he listed the names of those men who had been closest to him. He thought for a while and then added Ker.

  He had also heard that you signed these things and got them witnessed so he did that. Then he put it in an envelope and put it alongside the letter to Chrissie.

  Feeling he had made things very orderly, he spent that evening making sure all his weapons and gear worked, that his radiation suit had no holes in it, that his air mask tanks were full and that half a dozen kill-clubs were in throwing condition. He put copies of the latest sales contract Terl had signed into his pouch. He checked the beryllium bomb case for safe carrying. He tested the edge of a hatchet to cut console cables.

  He felt he was ready and got a good sleep on his last night before the American raid. He had done everything he could. Now it was in the hands of the gods. Or a devil like Terl.

  Part 24

  1

  At the American minesite, Day 92 had dawned windy and cold. And then in midmorning, four hours before the firing time, it had begun to snow. It was not too late for snow, but this snow was a heavy one. It came down in huge soft flakes that swirled here and there in the wind puffs.

  Terl did not care. He was jubilant. This would be his last day on Earth.

  So far things had gone smoothly. From sunup to the moment it started to snow he had been outside, checking the wiring and cables. Almost lovingly, he had put a final polish on the firing points on the poles, the points which would change space and transport him once again to his homeland.

  He had a wonderful story all made up. He would come in with the tale of a mutiny, of a sellout to an alien race. And how he, Terl, fighting hard, had saved the company technology and was forced, alas, to use the ultimate bomb to make certain the company was not further betrayed. They would believe him on Psychlo. They would, of course, fire a camera back and check, but it would record a black smudge.

  Then he would retire, saying that the strain of it all had been too much. And one fine night, he would go to a cemetery and do a bit of quiet digging and become richer by ten gold coffin lids and two billion credits that he would expose bit by bit, saying he had profited on the exchanges of the various universes.

  It was a perfect plan.

  He had been idling about for a few minutes wondering when the Brigante special squad would come down from the mountains. He didn’t like to stay outside. He hated this planet too much. But today, the breathe-gas didn’t seem to make him ill, and after all, it was a great day.

  And here they were, the Brigante special squad. They had their bundle with them just as ordered. It was long and made to look like baggage. Just before the firing, Terl would open the end of it and one of Snith’s bodyguards would pop an air mask on it. And anybody seeing it would think twice about charging the platform!

  He told the special squad to just dump it on the middle of the platform and then stand by.

  Now for the next step. Terl went back into the compound and got the small forklift he had had parked there in the corridor, got on it, and went into his office.

  It was really a tossup whether he took the coffins first or the console. The coffins could stand the weather better. With a Brigante squad there, nobody could come up and steal them. They were too heavy.

  He paused for a moment, looking at his rug. There was a dust tread mark there. But then he thought he must have made it himself. His X mark was there on each coffin.

  With four rapid runs and very expert machine handling, he got the four coffins outside and dumped them on the platform—four trips. On each trip he cautioned the squad to be alert and watch them.

  Now for the console. He tipped it up on edge to get at the hollow bottom. He unlocked a cabinet and got the booby trap and put it under the front edge of the bottom. He would not set it yet. He would give it ten minutes from when he operated the console at firing time. The length of the firing would be three minutes—he had decided to take it easy on himself—and the recoil time would be about forty seconds later. So six minutes and twenty seconds after he fired—bang! No console!

  He took it out and put it down on the oversized metal platform made for it, a platform about ten feet by seven feet, just inside the atmosphere-armor zone. All nicely figured out. The big bus bars which operated the atmosphere-armor cable had long since been installed on a raised board. He hadn’t expected snow but he had put a weather shield on the cable board. He hadn’t put a shelter for the console itself, so now he had to throw a piece of tarpaulin over it to keep snow off the buttons.

  Terl adjusted the console’s position and then got the forklift out of there. He simply dumped it. What did it matter? Those animals had left machinery all over the place—big magnetic cranes, blade scraper, diggers. What a mess!

  He got busy connecting the power cables from the poles to the console. It was quite a massive lot of cables. He didn’t want to trip on his way from the console, when he punched in the coordinates to the platform, so he bundled them all together. It made a snake about six inches in diameter.

  Terl double-checked the color codes. Yes, he had them all correct.

  He checked the armor cable by turning it on. A lot of new snow flew into the air in a circle. Yes, it worked. He turned it off.

  He checked the juice input to the console. All live.

  Terl looked at his watch.

  It was a full hour to firing time. Time to go in for a mouthful of kerbango.

  He surveyed the office. Last time he would ever see this place. Thank the devils!

  Terl opened his cabinets and began to dump anything and everything into the recycling bin. He opened the false backs and bottoms and consigned anything in them to oblivion. The habits of a security chief were too strong. He dumped all his reams of notes and formulas into the maw of the recycler. Then he noticed it wasn’t running. Ah, of course, he must have blown the compound fuses when he put that armor cable on. Who cared? This planet was going up in smoke anyway.

  He went to his closet and got his dress uniform and boots out and quickly changed. He put on his parade cap. He looked at himself in the mirror. Pretty good!

  Terl threw a few things in a travel bag. He looked at his watch. Twenty minutes to go.

  The snow, he could see through the compound roof, was coming down even heavier. Who cared?

  He put on a breathe-mask with a fresh pair of cartridges, picked up the beautifully wrapped—and very difficult to unwrap—ultimate bomb, picked up his travel kit, and left his office for the last time.

  All was ready outside!

  Five hundred Brigantes, bows protected from the weather, looking a bit huddled and cold even in their buffalo coats, had been marched up and now stood in the formation he had carefully pointed out. A total ring with its back to the atmosphere cable, a nearly solid wall of Brigantes.

  Captunk Arf Moiphy seemed to be the officer in charge of them all. Terl addressed him sternly: “Now you and your men
all understand that you are only to use bows and poisoned arrows and knives or bayonets. There must be no firing of powder or blast weapons.”

  “We’s gart orl dat!” called General Snith.

  Ah, good! General Snith and an honor guard of six Brigantes, all of them in air masks, were on the platform, armed with bows which they were protecting from the snow.

  Terl looked around. It was a bit hard to see through these snowflakes and gusts of wind. He had heard a chattering from somewhere.

  What was that? By the crap nebula, the whole Brigante tribe was gathered down by the morgue to see General Snith off! Amazing! The women were all bundled up against the snow and off-duty mercenaries were in among them. What a filthy mob! Good thing he was wearing a mask, for he knew they smelled awful.

  And there was Brown Limper Staffor and Lars Thorenson. They had come up on the plateau with a ground car and were standing there. The very people he wanted to see.

  Terl walked over to them.

  Instead of saying “Goodbye” or even “Nice to have known you,” Brown Limper Staffor said, “I don’t see Tyler.”

  Terl stopped before him. Brown Limper was all bundled up in some kind of expensive fur. Snow was falling upon his hair and collar. His eyes looked feverishly overbright.

  “Oh, he’ll be here,” said Terl. “He’ll be here.”

  Terl looked down at Brown Limper’s feet. There was a case there, a fat case about three feet long. Aha! Terl stooped and before Brown Limper or Lars could stop him picked up the case and, with a cuff of his paw, broke the locks.

  A Thompson submachine gun! So he was right to distrust this animal. One shot from this thing during a firing could blow up the platform!

  Terl took the weapon by the barrel and with his paws bent it in a half-circle. He threw it aside. “That was not nice,” said Terl. “You could have blown up the whole place!”

  Brown Limper didn’t seem upset. His eyes still looked furtive.

  Terl took Lars’s belt gun, took the cartridge canister out of it, and threw it fifty feet away. “No firing!” said Terl, waggling a cautionary claw in front of their faces. Did Brown Limper have something else? Terl wondered. He looked quite unhinged but not about the guns.

  “Here,” said Terl, in a cajoling tone of voice, “here is a nice present to make it up to you.”

  He handed Brown Limper the thoroughly wrapped ultimate bomb. It weighed about eighty pounds, and as Brown Limper took it, he almost dropped it. Terl, in some apprehension, caught it before it could fall. Terl managed a smile as he restored it to Brown Limper.

  “It’s a nice gift,” said Terl. “Open it when I’m gone and you’ll find the answer to your most golden dreams. Something to remember me by.” No danger in giving it to them: it would take them an hour to get the wrapper off. Then one lift of the lid and bang—no planet!

  Terl patted Brown Limper on the head. He glanced at his watch. Still plenty of time. He walked over toward the platform. Captunk Arf Moiphy called his men to attention. Terl marched on by.

  With a bold and martial step, Terl walked to the console.

  He reached down and closed the bus bar on the atmosphere-armor cable. Snow flew up all along its length. Good! He was now safe! A solid wall enclosed the console and platform and beyond that a solid wall of armed bodies.

  He glanced at his watch. He had plenty of time. He walked over to the baggage and kicked his own kit into the pile. The Brigantes had brought quite a mound of air bottles for themselves.

  General Snith, militarily dressed in a buffalo coat, his “diamond” in his cap, his crossbelts jammed with poisoned arrows, gave him a chest-pound salute. But he asked, “You gonna change de money fer tsure?” He pointed to a huge mound of money, Brown Limper notes.

  “Absolutely,” Terl reassured him. “Credits go where credit is due! Besides, you have me hostage, don’t you?”

  Snith was reassured.

  And speaking of hostages, Terl leaned over the long bundle and opened the top of it. Black, glaring eyes pierced him. He beckoned to the Brigante so assigned and the man pushed an air mask on the face and shoved the bottle onto the chest. He buckled the bottle on. He had almost gotten bit!

  Terl looked at his watch. The time was coming up. He walked over to the console.

  He moved the toggle switch in the upper left-hand corner to the up position. He threw on the activating bus bar. The console’s top buttons glowed.

  Terl sat there counting down the seconds. Then he punched in the long-since-memorized coordinates. He checked his watch for the exact instant. He punched the firing button.

  He reached down and activated the ten-minute time bomb.

  The wires began to build up a hum.

  Out of the tail of his eye he saw a man rise up beyond the Brown Limper car. Somebody jumping up. Somebody in a radiation suit. Terl looked hard and suddenly realized it looked like and must be the animal.

  Ha! Brown Limper had gotten his Tyler after all.

  Terl walked over to the center of the platform.

  The hum was building up. What joy to think of being safe on Psychlo in just under three minutes!

  2

  Brown Limper Staffor had seethed when Terl discovered the submachine gun. But the sight of the barrel being bent almost double had caused him to hold his peace. This huge monster was strong.

  So he stood there and accepted the gift. Actually it must be gold, it was so heavy. He had no qualms about accepting gold even if it looked like a bribe. He had earned it. But his mind was only slightly on all that. He was still looking avidly for Tyler.

  But he decided he would wait until Terl was safely at that console.

  He saw Captunk Arf Moiphy salute. Saw the Brigantes draw up and begin to take poisoned arrows from the crossbelts. Saw the performance on the platform. Terl had somebody else there in the bundle. Tyler? No, it couldn’t be Tyler or Terl would have called out. Maybe it was Tyler. Maybe Terl was double-crossing him! No, it couldn’t be Tyler. Who was it? But yes, it might be Tyler. They put an air mask on whoever it was. They meant to take somebody to Psychlo!

  No, it couldn’t be Tyler.

  But maybe it was.

  When the snow had jumped up from the ground, Brown Limper had been slightly startled. But nothing had happened except that Terl went over to that bundle.

  Ah, finally Terl was going back to the console. Brown Limper had been told the wires would begin to hum.

  He would wait for that.

  It was hard to see in this snow. The white glare of it and the swirls in the wind gusts kept blanking out things.

  But he could listen.

  He thought he heard the hum start. He couldn’t be sure. The wind was making sounds and that Brigante mob was yelling goodbyes to General Snith. Brown Limper thought he had better wait until Terl walked back to the platform center before he moved.

  In the back of the car was another submachine gun. Brown Limper had thought of everything.

  The moment Terl reached the middle of the platform, Brown Limper would dive into the back of the car, get the Thompson submachine gun, load it, and race to that platform edge and spray the whole place. It must be Tyler in that bundle!

  Brown Limper stood there, holding the “gift,” waiting for Terl to walk away from the console. The yells of the Brigante tribe and the whir of the wind made it impossible to tell whether the hum had started. He would have to be sure.

  He had better wait for the last moment. Then Terl couldn’t rush off the platform to stop him.

  He didn’t hear the thud of running feet behind him.

  Suddenly two hands reached out and grabbed at the “gift!” A radiation-masked face and an air mask under the radiation mask.

  Then he saw the blond beard through all that leaded glass.

  Tyler was right on top of him!

  “Run!” yelled the face.

  The hands whipped the “gift” away from Brown Limper.

  “Run for your life!” came from the half-hidden face
.

  Then the man turned and, carrying the package, sprinted toward the hangar side of the compound. The figure was growing thinner in the snow, hard to see.

  “Shoot him!” screamed Brown Limper to Lars.

  He whirled. Lars was running away! He was already a hundred feet away and half-hidden in snow flurries. He was running as hard as he could toward Denver.

  But then something registered with Brown Limper. That voice! He knew Tyler’s voice. Even through masks and shields he did not think it was Tyler’s voice. It had sounded Swedish.

  But Tyler must be around. Around someplace.

  Brown Limper tore his way to the door of the car to get the other gun. The door on that side was locked.

  With the whimper of despair, Brown Limper raced around the car. He had to get to that other gun.

  And even as he went, above the snow, above the yells, he heard Tyler’s voice from the platform. Unmistakable! He must hurry.

  3

  Dwight rose cautiously just behind the lip of the ravine. He was dressed in a radiation camouflage suit with an air mask behind its lead-glass faceplate.

  As Terl first entered the platform area, Dwight held the mine radio close to his shield glass and said, “First alert!”

  Dwight had been chosen as officer of the outside raiders because he could be depended upon to follow orders exactly, without deviation, and as one of the lode mine crew chiefs, he could handle men.

  They had lain since shortly after midnight in the lead coffins buried at spaced intervals around the platform’s perimeter.

  The coffins had been positioned long since by Ker and cadets in the night while they laid the armor cable. They had been covered with dirt and now were also covered by a layer of snow.

  It had been no trick to slip in last night. The Brigante guards, drunk on drugged whiskey as they had been every night for two months, had detected nothing.

  Dwight had a streak of superstition. It all had gone almost too smoothly. Jonnie was inside that atmosphere cable area, buried in a coffin just at the edge of the firing platform. Fire from outside would not hit him: they had tested that. But the thought of Jonnie in there, alone with those savage beasts, made Dwight numb. He had tried to get Jonnie to let somebody else do it, but Jonnie had said no, he would not put a man to that risk: somebody had to be in there to shut off the armor cable, use a remote control to complete the action of the crane, and lower an armored dome down over the console to protect it. The crane could not get the dome cover through the atmosphere armor unless it was shut off. Something about a switch position that had to be determined at the firing, a switch that might automatically shift once the humming stopped. And somebody had to cut the cables away from the console. Dwight had wanted to send three men in—Jonnie had said that many wouldn’t fit in the dome with the console.