Battlefield Earth: A Saga of the Year 3000

by L. Ron Hubbard

  Half a million cubic yards of rock, moving down.

  A lot of it was apparently still in one piece. But that was an illusion. It was a clean slice of cliff, knifed off neatly. But inside it the rock was cracked and shattered and just before it hit the water it lost shape and tumbled in fragments. It had looked at first like it hadn’t left the bank. But there had been distance. Some of it struck nearly at the center of the lake.

  He watched the dam. Would it, too, crumble in slow motion and this whole lake go roaring down the gorge? He had set it up so the shock wave would go into the air, not down and through the ground. It had gone into the air, all right; witness what happened to his plane.

  The first wave hit the dam and a splatter of water soared a hundred feet above the dam top. Had he lost too much water there? No, that was just spray.

  Was the dam holding?

  He could not tell whether the underwater currents were carrying the rock into the low hole. He darted the plane sideways. Water was still roaring out under the dam. He watched.

  Was it his imagination that it was lessening?

  His attention was yanked off it by blue figures racing down to the powerhouse. They certainly had not waited!

  He looked at his watch. He only had two minutes to get this plane out of the air.

  With a pound on the console keys Jonnie lanced the plane down to an empty abutment. He killed its motor. He had to make sure it was off—his ears were ringing.

  Thirty-three seconds left to go. That was cutting it close!

  He went through the underground passage into the cone. He looked at the pagoda. Not even a tile had moved in that blast.

  Angus was at the console. The small gray man at the computer. Angus waved and shouted, “Power’s on! We’re firing!”

  4

  Somebody else had been busy in the last two hours. A different music was playing. It was very noble and dignified. It sounded vaguely familiar to Jonnie and then he remembered that a cadet had found a pile of what he called “records,” big things: if you ran a rose thorn held in a paper box around an endless circular groove and put your ear close, it sounded like twenty or thirty instruments playing; the ancient label on the record, mostly faded out, said the name of the piece was The Cleveland Symphony Orchestra. Lohengrin. This music was much like that but deeper, fuller, quite impressive! Jonnie suspected the small gray man had had a hand in that. Something from his ship? Music for the delegates to arrive by, of course.

  And something else that must be from the small gray man’s ship: there was a screen, meshed so you could see through it, all around the firing platform, and Dr. Allen was finishing putting it up. “Disease control,” he said cryptically as Jonnie passed by.

  Sweaty Chinese engineers crawled out of a duct hole with cheery faces. They had air circulating in and out now. The smoke had already cleared away. A good thing, thought Jonnie. A lot of different atmospheres would momentarily be whiffing across the platform at the instant of coincidence of spaces and during recoil especially.

  And the mobs of Chinese refugees from the village had changed, too. They may have lost their village but they had saved their possessions and these had been scattered about. Now the untidy bundles had vanished. Children and dogs were quiet down in the rifle pits and parents and others that had no immediate duties were standing about. They had on what must be their best clothes.

  An honor guard came out of a bunker and finished neatening themselves up with a tug here and a buckle there. Six of them, different nationalities, all in their best uniforms. No weapons, but the shafts of pennons. An aged Chinese gentleman—no, a Buddhist communicator dressed to look like a Chinese, wearing a silk robe with designs on it and a small cap—was taking position at the head of the honor guard. Of course, somebody who spoke Psychlo to greet the arrivals, yet who looked like a dignitary.

  It would be three or four minutes until the first one appeared and Jonnie walked toward the ops room. He didn’t get in. The boy, Quong, sprinted out, going somewhere fast, and Sir Robert popped out of the door and called after him, “And tell Stormalong to bring that other recognition book, too!” The boy hardly checked his pace, nodding in full run.

  Beyond Sir Robert the ops room was boiling with sound and movement as people worked.

  Jonnie opened his mouth to ask how it was going. But Sir Robert answered before he could speak. Sir Robert shook his head bleakly. “They’re using a new kind of bomb. The guns sometimes don’t explode it. And the idiots are burning deserted cities! Our drones are still running. Why would they want to burn an empty place that used to be called ‘San Francisco’? The last drone shot we had of it, there were just two bears walking down the street. We’re dealing wi’ daft imbeciles!”

  Jonnie made to go in past him and Sir Robert shook his head again. “You can’t do anything more than we’re doing. Have you thought what we’re going to tell these emissaries?”

  “No idea,” said Jonnie. “Shouldn’t we get Clanchief Fearghus down here?”

  “Naw, naw,” said Sir Robert. “No e’en a wee chonce! Edinburgh is gang up in flames!”

  Jonnie felt a contraction of his heart. “Any news of Chrissie?”

  “They’d a’ be doon in the shelters. Dunneldeen is giving them a’ the air cover he can.”

  Stormalong raced in with the book.

  Sir Robert took a look at Jonnie. “Go get yersel’ cleaned up. And think of something to tell these arrivals!” He shooed Jonnie off toward his room and vanished into ops. He closed the door behind him so the frantic sounds wouldn’t come into the platform area.

  Jonnie walked on toward his room. Just as he was about to duck into the passage the humming of the wires, which had been going on underneath the music, made itself known by stopping. There was a space of time and then a slight recoil.

  The Hockner emissary was on the platform. Noseless, holding a monocle on a stick, he was dressed in shimmering robes. He had a gold-colored hamper beside him.

  A bell on the screen pinged. The screen top edge lit with a purple glow all around. The Hockner picked up the hamper, looked about through his monocle and minced off the platform. The honor guard saluted and dipped pennons.

  He halted well clear of the disease-control fence. A messenger took the hamper from him. The Buddhist in Chinese clothes bowed.

  In a supercilious tone of voice, the Hockner emissary said in Psychlo, “I am Blan Jetso, Extraordinary Minister Plenipotentiary of the Emperor of the Hockners, long may he reign! I am empowered to negotiate and arrange final and binding amendments to agreements or treaties in all things political or military. My person is inviolate and any molestation cancels any agreements. Any effort to hold me hostage shall be in vain, for I shall not be redeemed by my government. At the threat of any torture or extortion, you are warned that I shall commit suicide instantly in ways unknown to you. I am not the carrier of any disease nor weapon. Long live the Hockner Empire! And how are you today?”

  The communicator dressed as a Chinese bowed and made a brief, fast speech of welcome, very pat, told him the conference would begin in about three hours and led him off to a private apartment where he could rest or refresh himself.

  Jonnie had an idea these arrivals would all be about the same, different only as to races, persons and clothes.

  He was trying to think of something to tell the emissaries. It was a bit of a shock for Sir Robert to infer that it was up to him. When that grizzled old veteran didn’t have any ideas— But then he must be terribly distressed over Edinburgh. So was Jonnie.

  5

  Jonnie ducked under the door beam to enter the passage to his room and a wave of dizziness hit him. So far, in trying to handle the dam, he had carried himself along on willpower and he had pushed the feeling aside. But now, with worry about Edinburgh and Chrissie,he felt he was not in very good condition to handle much of anything. He had taken quite a battering these last couple of days.

  He was not prepared for what he found in the passage just outs
ide his room. There were four people there and they were working on things he couldn’t quite make out. They had low benches, they were sitting on the floor, their heads were down, and their hands were flying.

  Mr. Tsung sensed his presence and bobbed up from the floor. He bowed. “Lord Jonnie, meet my wife!”

  The second person, a gray-haired Chinese woman with a kindly face, bobbed up, smiled, bowed. Jonnie bowed. It made his head feel bad. The woman popped down and went right back to work.

  “Meet my daughter,” said Mr. Tsung.

  The third person bobbed up, bowed. The daughter was a very beautiful Chinese girl, very delicate. She wore a flower in her hair. Jonnie bowed. It made his head feel worse. The girl sat down and went frantically back to work.

  “Meet my son-in-law,” said Mr. Tsung.

  A good-looking Chinese bobbed up from his bench with a clatter. He bowed. He was in the blue work uniform the mechanics wore. Jonnie bowed very slightly so the room wouldn’t spin. The young man popped down and sparks again flew from his tools.

  Jonnie looked at them. They were working dedicatedly and with near ferocity on whatever they were doing. Jonnie felt a pang of sorrow. If this conference failed, and if they lost, what suffering would await these decent people! These and the rest of the thirty-five thousand that were all that remained of the human race. He could not face the prospect of letting them down.

  He went into his room. Somebody else had used those two hours. Angus, probably, and an electrician. A rack with three viewscreens now stood against the wall beyond the foot of his bed. A button camera had been placed in the ops room for one screen, and he could see the huddled groups there, faces strained as they handled microphones and drone pictures and the operations board. Another button camera was trained on the conference room to broadcast to the second screen—the conference room was empty. The third button camera was on the platform and console and served the third screen.

  Even as he looked, the Tolnep emissary arrived. He was in shimmering green; even his cap was green. But he had on dirty blue boots. Huge glasses hid his eyes. He carried a sort of scepter with a large knob at the top and a green hamper on green wheels for his food and supplies. A reptilian creature although he walked upright and had a face and arms and legs. A genetic line from dinosaurs that had become miniature and sentient?

  He made his speech much like the Hockner, accepted the reply with an evil smile, folded his shimmering green cloak about his steel-hard body, and was led away to a private apartment. He looked like trouble.

  Jonnie was about to throw himself down on the bed when he was suddenly obstructed. Mr. Tsung had followed him in. “No, no!” said Mr. Tsung. “Bath!”

  Two Chinese had followed Mr. Tsung in. They had a steaming bath sitting on a mine dolly which they pushed to an empty spot on the floor before vanishing.

  “I happen to be just about exhausted,” said Jonnie in protest. “I will just wash my face—”

  Mr. Tsung slid around in front of him with a mirror. “Look!” demanded Mr. Tsung.

  Jonnie looked. Mud. Explosive stains. The black silk sling he had been wearing was a tatter of light tan. Silt was all through his beard and hair. He looked down and saw that somewhere he must have walked up to his waist in ooze. He looked down at his hands and he could not even tell the color of his skin. He looked like something no dog would have dragged out of the village garbage dump.

  “You win,” said Jonnie and wearily began to get out of his clothes. Mr. Tsung had a big mine bucket and as each garment was removed he dropped it with some distaste in the bucket, even the helmet and boots and guns.

  Jonnie climbed into the bath. It was not long enough to stretch out his legs, but the water came up to his chest. He had never had a hot bath before, only rivers and cold mountain streams. He felt the exhaustion oozing out of him. Indeed, he found with some surprise, there was much you could say in favor of hot baths!

  Avoiding the bandage on the arm, Mr. Tsung scrubbed industriously with a lathering soap and a brush. Suddenly he stopped work and there was a whispered consultation back of Jonnie. Then a touch on the top of each of Jonnie’s shoulders. Another consultation and one of Jonnie’s arms was held out by Mr. Tsung and a piece of string was stretched down the length of it.

  Jonnie was momentarily horrified to realize the daughter was behind him and he was naked in a tub! He turned his head but the daughter was gone. Mr. Tsung scrubbed on. He washed Jonnie’s hair and beard.

  Twice more the bath was stopped. Once to put a string around his chest. The second time to put a string down the side of his leg.

  Eventually Mr. Tsung dried his hair and beard with a towel and then wrapped a bigger one around Jonnie as he stepped out of the tub. He dried Jonnie off, having to jump up a bit to really get the shoulders now that Jonnie was standing. He put Jonnie in a soft, blue robe and only then permitted him to lie down on the bed.

  Thankful to stretch out at last, avoiding even looking at the screens, Jonnie was interrupted again.

  It was Dr. MacKendrick and Dr. Allen. The robe was loose and they got his arm out. Dr. Allen cut off the bandage, cleaned the area with alcohol that stung the nose—probably whiskey of not too good a distillation—poured some white powder in the wound and then made him eat some of it. More sulfa! Mr. Tsung was there with a bowl of soup while Dr. Allen put on a fresh bandage.

  Then the two doctors stood back. Jonnie, wise in such medical manners, began to suspect they were up to something. They had that false joviality doctors assume just before they take you by surprise and do something gruesome.

  “I always thought,” said Dr. Allen, “that Dunneldeen and Stormalong were wild. But I was out there when you blew that cliff in. You are the wild one, Jonnie Tyler. Do you always use a battle plane to light fuses?”

  Jonnie was about to inform him somewhat austerely that there had been no time at all to rig fuses when Dr. MacKendrick moved closer.

  “I suppose,” said MacKendrick, “it just seemed more natural to him.” A remark calculated to distract.

  And he took the long needle he had been holding behind him and, seizing Jonnie’s wrist, slid two inches of steel into a vein and pumped a full syringe of something into Jonnie’s blood.

  “Ow!” said Jonnie. “That wasn’t fair! You know I don’t like your needles.” The stuff burned like fire in his vein.

  “That’s for your dizziness,” said Dr. MacKendrick, smugly cleaning the needle. “It’s some stuff we found called ‘B complex.’ The venom and the relaxant and this sulfa all rob the system of it. You’ll feel much better very shortly.”

  “I’ve got enough to do,” said Jonnie, a bit cross, “without being shot full of holes.”

  Dr. Allen laid a hand on his shoulder. “That’s just it,” he said. “You’ve got far, far too much to worry about and to do. You’ve got to learn to let others help you. Let them contribute as well. You do splendidly. Let others help too!” He gave Jonnie a pat on the shoulder and they left.

  The soup had made his stomach feel better. After a bit he raised his head and bobbed it. He wasn’t as dizzy as he had been.

  Another couple of emissaries had arrived on the platform. The ops room looked frantic. He was worried about this coming conference. Jonnie thought he had lain around long enough.

  “Tsung!” he called. “Please get out my best buckskin suit.” Yes, he would let someone else contribute. Mr. Tsung could dig up his buckskins.

  The result was totally unexpected. Mr. Tsung flashed in, drew himself up to his full five feet, and said, “No!” Then he struggled to find more words from his meager store of English. “They lords!” He couldn’t say what he wanted to say.

  An amazed Jonnie saw Mr. Tsung tear out of the room and come back in a moment with a coordinator for the Chinese, one who spoke Mandarin. Mr. Tsung was blazing away at the coordinator with every shot in his magazine. Mr. Tsung died down. The coordinator opened his mouth to speak. Mr. Tsung thought of something else, battered the coordinator with it
, and only then stood back with a “so there” expression and put his hands in his sleeves and bowed.

  The coordinator, a black-bearded Scot, took a deep breath. “You’re maybe not going to like this, MacTyler, but you have gotten yourself a diplomatic manager. I know these Chinese, and when they get their minds set on something, they’re worse than my old woman!”

  Jonnie had lain back. He addressed the ceiling. “And what is wrong with my simply asking for my best buckskin suit to be laid out?”

  “Everything,” said the coordinator. “Just everything.” He sighed and began to explain: “Mr. Tsung is a descendant of a family that served as chamberlains to the Ch’ing dynasty—those who ruled China from the man-date 1644 a.d. to about 1911. Maybe eleven hundred years ago. That was the last dynasty before China became a People’s Republic. The court and emperors were not Chinese; they were a race called ‘Manchus.’ And they needed a lot of advice. Tsung says his family served them well, but times changed, and because they had served the Manchus, his ancestors were exiled to Tibet. It was the western powers that overthrew the Manchus, Tsung says, not his family’s advice. So Mr. Tsung here is really a ‘Mandarin of the Blue Button’ according to ancestry, a lord of the court.

  “He says all the family records and scrolls are with the Chinese university library you put in a vault someplace.”

  “Russia,” said Jonnie. “They’re in the Russian base, though Lord knows how it’s holding out right now!”

  “Well, good,” said the Scot. “He says he could read you some of it but he doesn’t have it here. But his family always kept up on its background, expecting someday a dynasty they could serve would come back into power. They have long memories, these Chinese—imagine waiting eleven hundred years to get back a job!”

  Mr. Tsung detected this was wandering off track and he nudged the coordinator’s arm and made gestures that clearly said, tell him, tell him!

  The coordinator sighed. He was not sure how Jonnie would take this. “He says you are ‘Lord Jonnie’ and”—he got it all out in a rush—“you can’t go around looking like a barbarian!”