Battlefield Earth

by L. Ron Hubbard

  He listened all along the bulkhead. The roar of the drone was too great to hear any breathing.

  For quite a while he expected the animal to pop out and shoot. But nothing like that happened. He finally concluded that the animal had crawled in there and died. There sure was enough blood. Bled to death, probably. Zzt beamed happily.

  Well, enough! Zzt decided he better get to work.

  He opened the door of the battle plane and switched on the local command channel and tried to wake up Nup. The dimwit certainly must be up there. Maybe asleep. Zzt impatiently threw on all the radio channels. That would blast the nincompoop out of his wits. Planetary had a habit of knocking in earbones at just a few hundred feet.

  “Nup, you crap brain! Wake up!” Nup's voice came back. “Who? Who's this?”

  “Look, Nup," said Zzt with controlled patience, “I know you are short on sleep. I know they didn't teach you the exact solution to all this in mine school. But, I feel that under the existing circumstances you might try to cooperate!”

  “Is this Zzt?”

  What a dimwit, what a flutter brain with its bearings burned out! “Of course it's Zzt!”

  “And you're down in the drone? Ah, I thought you were. But didn't Snit fly you out? If you were-'

  “Shut up,” roared Zzt. “Here's exactly what I want you to do. Take off and land that ship just above this door. Land it close to the edge above the door so it will break the wind.”

  Nup wanted to know break the wind from what?

  Zzt told him very unpleasantly. Nup, with ten minutes of fuel left, hastened to comply.

  Zzt intended to rob this damaged battle plane of its cartridges of fuel. He had been appalled at the skill it would take to fly it out this door. Then he had a happy thought. Maybe it carried some spares.

  He got up on the seat and started to rummage in the back compartment. A whole bag of cartridges! Dozens of them!

  But he saw something else. His breathe-mask exhale ports flashed. This stuff had radioactive dust on it! Of course, this wasn't surprising for packages that had been in a radiation-bullet battle, and it was not much, but it frightened Zzt. He flung the bag of cartridges out into the passageway and jumped out to stop them before they rolled into open spaces. Holding them at arm's length he shook the bag. He breathed on it cautiously. No flash. Good.

  He opened both doors of the battle plane. He wouldn't go near the back compartment. He did everything now at arm's length.

  He played a torch on the housings of both main drive and balance motors. His practiced eye detected a hairline crack in the right balance motor.

  Maybe it would run, maybe not. The crash hadn't helped. He reached underneath it and got a paw full of wires and tore them loose, scrambled them, and laid them back unconnected but out of view. One battle plane that wouldn't fly straight! Good.

  He got down under the plane and looked at the drone's main drive. Ah, there was his wrench. And the animal hadn't removed the plate. Good. He put the wrench back in his boot where it belonged.

  The pitch and roll of the drone changed drastically now. Nup had moved. The pitch was gone but the roll was much worse. However, it all had its good points. The drone was now crabbing and protecting the door from the wind.

  Gingerly reaching for the microphone, Zzt stood well away from the plane.

  “You in position?” he demanded. “It took a couple of times but-'

  “All right. Do you recognize a cable ladder?”

  Nup tried to explain that as a mining executive and a fully qualified pilot, he of course could recognize-

  “Fasten your end of the cable ladder to the cleats opposite the seat. Drop the weighted end of the ladder down here. Then lower an ore net on a line. And then a safety wire. All into this door. Got that?”

  Nup said he certainly understood it, but was there ore in the drone? He didn't quite understand-

  “Fuel cartridges! I’m going to send you up fuel cartridges.”

  “Oh, my. That's a relief! Will they fit?”

  Zzt didn't bother to answer. Of course they fit! All plane fuel cartridges were interchangeable. It was tanks to planes that didn't match. What a crud brain!

  The ladder's weighted end came whipping down. It fell on the wrong side of the tail that was jutting out of the door. The tail was wedged over.

  Zzt, feeling quite brave, reached in, waited for a correct roll of the drone, released the magnetic brake, shifted the plane with a massive heave only a Psychlo could manage, and reset the brake. Good, now he could get the cable ladder end where it belonged. He had clearance between it and the door edge. He lashed the lower end to a floor beam.

  The lowering safety wire gave trouble for it kept flying out into the windstream. Zzt radioed Nup to haul it back. Devil with it, he didn't need it.

  Zzt reached into the battle plane and pulled out a coil of safety wire from it. Then he couldn't figure out how to use it. He tied it to the battle plane in its proper ring but he didn't like the idea of being tied here. Suppose the plane moved or something. He left the safety wire on the floor plates. Devil with it.

  “Ore basket!” he demanded of Nup. It came down. It was heavy enough not to fly around in the three-hundred-mile-an-hour blast of cold air. As Zzt tied the cartridge bag into it he realized he hadn't inspected it for fuel. It probably also had ammunition cartridges in it. Well, who knew, they might need both.

  As soon as they flew off he was going to gun this interior, blow this battle plane to bits and just make sure. Damn animal. Damn Terl.

  A new thought hit him. It was a long way down. He better grab the jet backpack. Very gingerly, he reached an arm into the compartment and got it. There were two there. He brought out both. He threw one over the side and put the other on. Left the animal with no out. But of course the animal was dead. And good riddance. Damn Terl!

  “You all set?” he demanded on the radio.

  Nup said he was, but where was the fuel.

  Zzt let him pull up the fuel in the ore net.

  “You got it?” demanded Zzt.

  “Yes, I’m trying to check...just let me remove the spent empties and make sure the size-'

  “Blast you for a dimwitted crud! Stand by to steady that ladder. I’m sick of being down here in this crap-infested, monkey-cursed drone! I’ll take care of the refuel when I get up there. Don't put an ammunition cartridge into the fuel sleeves! I’m coming up and right now!”

  But he didn't come “right now.” He looked at the radio and then took his wrench out of his boot and slashed the radio to bits. Of course, he'd be shooting this thing to pieces in just minutes, but caution was always best.

  Zzt grabbed the cable ladder rungs and started up. He looked up. It was not a short climb. The Mark 32 cut off the windstream quite a bit but it was still a strong blast. He paused, made sure his mask wouldn't blow off, and climbed up the ladder.

  Chapter 3

  Jonnie lay on the cross-members of the canister storage area of the drone, gripped in a nightmare. He was in the cage again, a collar around his throat, and a demon was crushing in the back of his skull. He kept trying to tell the demon he would shoot it if it didn't stop, but he couldn't get the words out.

  He wrestled himself up from the nightmare. The roar of the huge drone engines beat against his head. He realized where he was. It wasn't the collar: it was the neck lanyard of the revolver; the heavy weapon was hanging down between the beams. He painfully retrieved it. There was a small amount of light in here and he swung the cylinder open.

  Just one shot left.

  He reached to his belt to see whether he had reloads. He didn't. The blast gun was lost.

  Before he passed out he had opened the first aid kit and tied a wound pad over his head and under the face mask straps. That was all he remembered after he had shot the flashlight out of Zzt’s hand. He could see it gleaming still, bent over a cross-member. No, that wasn't a flashlight. It was about four feet away and it seemed forty. What was it?

  A mec
hanic's mirror. So that was how Zzt observed him.

  What had awakened him? How long had he been out? Seconds? Minutes? The back of his head felt like it had been staved in, soft to the touch. Fractured skull? Or was it just swelling and blood-matted hair?

  He heard something clatter. Noise around the plane had awakened him.

  With a sudden feeling of urgency he made the effort and retrieved the mirror. He slid along the crossbeam and put the mirror to the hole.

  It was Zzt.

  His first impulse was to dart out and use this one last bullet. Then he saw the ladder end. And the ore basket going up. They were refueling the

  Mark 32!

  The sudden thought of what they could do with the Mark 32 back at the compound shocked him fully alert. He knew what he must do. Just now-wait!

  That was the hard part. He kept drifting off into a murky black sea of unconsciousness. He could hold on for a while but the wave would drown him again.

  Zzt was on the radio. No, he was smashing the radio with the wrench.

  Jonnie gathered himself up, tensing to dive out through the hole. He watched carefully with the mirror. Zzt went over to the ladder. He started up. He stopped with just his legs visible below the door.

  In a wave of pain, Jonnie got out of the canister loading slot. There was a safety line on the floor plates. He grabbed it and gave it a tug. It was secured to his plane. In his condition he did not want to lapse unconscious and fall out that door. He rapidly swung the safety wire around his waist and secured it with a hasty loop.

  Zzt's legs were gone.

  Jonnie checked the revolver to make sure the one shot was going to come up under the firing pin when he cocked it.

  He swung himself onto the ladder. It was blowing outward from the drone.

  The bottom end was fastened inside the door but he was now out over empty space, protected from the windstream by the tail of his battle plane. He went up several steps.

  Jonnie had a clear view of the Mark 32. The cockpit lights were on; the door was being held open by Nup's foot. Zzt was a third of the way up to the plane.

  For a moment Jonnie thought he was too late. He thought Nup had hoisted the fuel cartridges out of sight. But no. Nup had the caps off the fuel receptacles and was examining them. For numbers? And he had the whole ore basket in his lap!

  Zzt was howling at Nup, something about opening the door wider and steadying the cable. Zzt climbed further. The ladder was protected by the angle of the Mark 32 but there was still a tearing wind. It was ripping Zzt's jacket. He roared again something about opening the door, the words lost in the roar of the drone and the scream of the wind.

  Jonnie cocked the revolver. The face mask protected his eyes. He could have shot either Zzt or Nup. He didn't. He carefully allowed for wind and elevation. The already high muzzle velocity of a Smith and Wesson .457 magnum was increased by blasting caps in its cartridges. He must be very careful. Only one shot.

  Nup kicked the door further open, the ore basket in plain view on his lap. Then Nup saw Jonnie and yelled and pointed, and Zzt looked back down.

  Jonnie fired!

  He tried to duck back inside an instant after the shot. He was not quite fast enough.

  Enough fuel and ammunition for twenty battles not only went up, it also flashed down into the open fuel and ammunition receptacles!

  The roar and almost instantaneous concussion hit Jonnie like a sledge hammer. He went outward over black space.

  The safety line held and snapped him back inside the door.

  In that confused instant, as though it were a still picture, he saw Zzt on fire just starting to fly out into space. He saw the whole Mark 32 leap in an exploding ball high in the air.

  Jonnie hit the floor plates just inside the open slots so he wouldn't slide back.

  The concussion had been too much for his head and he was passing out again.

  An idiot phrase passed through his mind just before a deeper darkness blanketed his senses. “Old Staffor was wrong. I’m not too smart. I just cost myself the only target search beams can pick up.”

  The drone was not rolling now that it had been relieved of its unstabilizing weight.

  The body on the icy floor just inside the door did not move.

  The lethal cargo soared onward toward Scotland and the rest of the world, its goal the final obliteration of the remainder of the human race, the ones it had missed a thousand or more years ago.

  Chapter 4

  The small boy sped on feet of fire through the underground passages of the dungeons of the castle. He was soaked with the rain that fell outside. His bonnet was askew. His eyes were glowing with the urgency of a message he had carried for a two-mile sprint through the dawn twilight.

  He identified a room ahead and tore into it, shouting: “Prince Dunneldeen!

  Prince Dunneldeen! Wake up! Wake up!”

  Dunneldeen had just settled down in his own room, in his own plaid blanket for a nice comfortable snooze, his first in quite some time.

  The small boy was wrestling with excited hands to light a candle dip with a ratchet flint device.

  So it was “Prince” Dunneldeen now.

  They only called him that on feast days or when somebody wanted a favor. His uncle, Chief of Clanfearghus, was the last of the Stewarts and entitled to be called King, but he never made anything of it.

  The light was burning now. It shone upon the sparsely furnished stonewalled room. It showed the rain-drenched, excited black-eyed boy, Bittie MacLeod.

  “Your squire Dwight, your squire Dwight ha' sent a message, who he say is most urgent!”

  Ah, this was different. Dunneldeen got up and reached for his clothes. “Squire” Dwight. Probably Dwight had used that because “copilot” would be an unknown word to this child.

  “Your gillies are afoot asaddling a mount. Your squire ha' said 'twas most urgent!”

  Dunneldeen glanced at his watch. It meant that the twelve-hour radio silence was over, that was all. Probably a babble of news. Dunneldeen had no idea at all that things had gone other than successfully at the other minesites or that they'd succeeded at the compound. He got back into his flight clothes. No hurry. He took his time.

  What a busy night it had been. His and Dwight's plan had been to bring the

  Chiefs across the sea to celebrate the victory. They had landed both ships on a flat place two miles off so as not to shock the people, and he had borrowed a horse from a startled farmer he had known and ridden in.

  He had gotten his uncle, Chief of Clanfearghus, out of bed, and gillies had flown to light the fires on the hills to gather the clans to hear the news. The minesite in Cornwall was no more. They would be free to roam the whole of England!

  The Chief was very fond of his nephew Dunneldeen who was, in fact, his heir. He liked Dunneldeen's style. A true Scot. He had listened enraptured as Dunneldeen had given him a thumbnail but torrential account of all their doings. And if Dunneldeen were a bit incautious, the Chief gave his attention while making very sure to reserve judgment and act in a wise way on the general scene, without spoiling Dunneldeen's flair. So he had ordered the beacons lighted. He was cautiously thrilled.

  Dunneldeen had then gone to see a lass and had asked her to marry him, and she had said, “Oh, yes! Oh, yes! Oh, yes, Dunneldeen!”

  That attended to, he had come home for a nice snooze.

  Bittie seemed to be trying to remember something else. He was hopping from one bare foot to the other, squinting up his eyes, wiping at his nose. Then the boy seemed to abandon his effort. Dunneldeen was almost dressed.

  The boy's eyes caught the sword on the wall. It was a claymore, used in battles and for ceremony. It was a real claid heamh mar, five feet long, not just a basket hilt saber. Bittie was gesturing at it, indicating the prince should wear it. Dunneldeen shook his head to signify no, he wasn't going to take it this time.

  When he saw the eagerness die in Bittie's eyes, Dunneldeen relented. He took it down and handed it
to him. “All right, but you carry it!” The sword was a foot taller than the boy. Worship, awe, and joy sprang up in the boy again as he draped the hanger around his neck.

  Dunneldeen checked his gear and went out. The castle passages and halls were as warm with gillies. They had lochaber axes in their belts and were bustling around with a hundred chores in preparation for a gathering of the clans. Dunneldeen had really thrown a firebrand into the scene. Nobody had been briefed. They didn't know what was going on. Dunneldeen had come home. Orders had been given. Somebody said the Psychlo minesite was no more. There was an awful lot to do.

  The ancient ruin had remained a ruin above ground so as to attract minimal attention from drones that had gone over for centuries. Some said the place had once been the seat of Scottish kings. It s dungeons had been expanded and it was a fortress in itself.

  Two gillies had Dunneldeen's own horse saddled and it was prancing about. The gillies were smiling broad welcomes to Dunneldeen.

  He mounted, and at a signal they tossed the boy up behind him, claid heamh mar and all.

  It was raining. A storm apparently had moved in. It had been clear when they landed but now the dawn was thick with overcast.

  It was at that moment that Bittie

  MacLeod remembered the rest of the message. “Your squire,” he said to Dunneldeen's back, “also say to 'squiggle'!"

  The boy's accent was thick, not the accent of an educated Scot. “To what?” demanded Dunneldeen.

  “I misremembered, I couldna think of the word,” apologized the boy. “But it did sound like 'squiggle.' "

  “Scramble?” asked Dunneldeen. The word that meant emergency takeoff.

  “Ah, so 'twas, so 'twas!”

  Dunneldeen was off like a shot and two miles were never eaten up so fast by a horse.

  They came plunging to a stop on the flat-topped knoll. Dunneldeen looked wildly about. Only the passenger plane was there. He flung himself off the horse and flung the reins to the boy. He opened the door and leaped into the passenger plane, reaching for the radio.