Mission Earth Volume 10: The Doomed Planet

by L. Ron Hubbard

  The deadly expressions on some of the soldiers’ faces relaxed. It was the captain who laughed.

  “Now, we’re only under arrest,” said Flip. “We are just movie people, not dangerous like soldiers, so don’t worry that we’ll try to get away. Maybe Hisstee didn’t like some of the shots we took. Celebrities are funny that way. This will all blow over and there’s nothing like full stomachs. So let’s all just sit down and have a nice party. Girls, start looking in those lockers for some tup. Imperial grade.”

  She slipped a very sharp electric kitchen knife into her boot under cover of her gesture toward the lockers.

  The captain and the soldiers sat down.

  Several criminals studied covertly how to slip the power charges out of the blastrifles now leaning against tables.

  Madison handed the captain the half-finished bottle of LSD and Scotch.

  The electronics man pulled the Imperial chef’s Homeview set out of its locker and turned it on. His intention was to mask the sound of any commotion if Madison gave the signal to fight their way out of here. Comets, there were certainly enough shots and screams coming out of Homeview, as its crews covered battles and riots, to mask anything short of blowing up the whole Imperial Palace.

  PART EIGHTY-THREE

  Chapter 7

  Lombar Hisst struggled with the coronation robe and with a curse threw it in the corner. If he had appeared in Homeview in that, he had no illusions as to what the penalty would be.

  With care, he had built himself into a dominant position and, with care, he could have built it into Emperor. He might have even made it without a body and regalia, given enough dope to use on a conclave of Lords.

  But in some way he could not explain, he had been plunged forward too fast. He did not understand that it had happened through alcohol and LSD. But however it had happened, of one thing he was sure: Heads were going to roll!

  Curses were issuing from him in torrents. He was enraged beyond any rage he had ever felt before. He was actually quite deadly. He still had troops, he still had guns: he held the center of government. People were going to pay! And pay in blood!

  A cold shower did not help much. Lacking any other clothes, he got back into his scarlet general’s uniform. He went into the antechamber: it was cluttered but empty. He got into his desk and found some speed and heroin and gave himself a speedball, a powerful mixture of the two.

  Almost at once he felt better, even more deadly but more in control. Factually, at times of crisis such as now, Lombar Hisst was something to reckon with.

  The Apparatus General Staff had taken a large chamber at the front of the building. Lombar hit buzzers and very soon those who were at Palace City, the bulk of his generals, were sitting in the antechamber.

  “Now, give me your situation reports,” snarled Lombar. And in the next ten minutes he competently ordered a redisposition of troops without even touching his invasion staging areas. The generals were suddenly much heartened and barked orders into their own radios for relay. The population would soon be on the run.

  The general who had awakened him was glancing at his watch and Lombar glared at him with annoyance.

  “It’s the Homeview,” the man said. “It’s coming on in thirty seconds. May I activate the set?”

  Lombar snarled at him to go ahead.

  The picture was a running battle between retreating Apparatus tanks and a mob using air-trucks that didn’t seem to care what happened to them. At Homeview, a monitor switched and showed street fighting in the capital of Mistin against a background of smoke and flame.

  Suddenly, without erasing the Homeview panorama, a second, brighter picture came on. It was an overplay. That meant it was not coming from the Homeview studios: it was not even coming on Homeview lines. It was being battered into the network by some remote transmitter that might be anywhere, most probably in outer space.

  HIGHTEE HELLER!

  Behind her were pipes and dials that were probably the back of the bridge of a spaceship.

  Her eyes were very intense. Her voice was strong and clear.

  “Citizens of the Voltar Confederacy! Hear me! His Majesty Cling the Lofty is ALIVE! It was at his express command and wish that my brother, Royal Officer Jettero Heller, rescued him from captivity by Lombar Hisst.

  “The Chief of the Apparatus murdered legitimate successors to the throne. Then, by the use of poisons called drugs, he suborned the Grand Council and through this treachery has sought to usurp the throne!

  “At the ancient fortress of Spiteos, long since believed abandoned and radioactive, Hisst has stored enough drugs to poison this entire nation. And he intends to do so!

  “Here in my hands you see the Royal regalia: the scepter, chains and crown.” She held them up.

  “Army, Fleet, police, officials and citizens! Cast off the usurper! Rally to His Majesty and my brother Jettero Heller!

  “DESTROY THE APPARATUS AND LOMBAR HISST!”

  The picture went off, leaving the background view of running citizens and flames which had continued throughout.

  “Oh, my Gods,” said a general. “We’re finished! It was bad enough without that!”

  And then Lombar Hisst showed why Lombar Hisst, the commoner, had come so far. “Turn on the Army and Fleet command channels!” he barked.

  A general grabbed levers on another console. The Army General Staff channel was live. He shunted the incoming signal through a decoder.

  “ . . . and I don’t think we will get any orders from the Lord of Army. We’ve got to make up our own minds here. So it’s been decided to stay neutral. End.”

  “Get the Fleet!” said Lombar.

  The general threw more levers and shunted to the decoder. As they were thirteen minutes in the future, they had the advantage of selecting any part of current signals as though they were past. After some blurs, the general settled in on the beginning of a Fleet transmission. The others in the room were very tense. An awful lot depended on this: if the Fleet stayed neutral, too, they could still win.

  “Admiral Farb here, Main Fleet Base at Hite. Calling Fleet Admirals Staff. Have just intercepted a public transmission from Hightee Heller on Homeview that concerns the political situation at Palace City and the general state. We are standing by, red alert, with six thousand combat vessels and fifty thousand Fleet Marines. Requesting analysis and orders.”

  A slight delay. Then, “Admiral Farb from Fleet Admirals Staff: Know: No orders or directions from Palace City or the Lord of Fleet. Consensus of Admirals Staff: although Hightee Heller is popular, she has no political status. The regalia displayed cannot be analyzed by lapidarists for authentication simply by being seen on Homeview. There is no proof that there are any drugs stored at Spiteos: charts list it as abandoned for the past 125,000 years. She did not produce the Emperor on the screen, which is, itself, suspect. Fleet Admirals Staff order, number available to all vessels and bases, is to restrain independent actions or demonstrations within your own units and to remain severely neutral. End.”

  “There you are,” said Lombar. “We are still in control. Issue Imperial Orders to the Army and Fleet, commending their neutrality and confirming it. Issue a statement to Homeview that it is a lie that there are any drugs at Spiteos, that the statements of Hightee Heller are simply a misguided effort to protect her brother. And go right on shooting the riffraff down in the streets: either they’ll get tired or we’ll run out of riffraff.”

  “Your . . . er . . . Sir,” said a general, “there ARE drugs at Spiteos.”

  Lombar fixed him with a sneer of contempt. “Mobs can’t get across that desert. Let’s get something clear: Properly defended, we can hold Spiteos for years. And another thing: in all our lengthy history nobody has ever been able to make a dent in Palace City. Not even the combined Fleet and Army could take this place. It’s been tried. We’re safe as safe and we’re in control.”

  He stood up. He reached for his cap. The generals stood. One said, “Are you going somewhere, Your . .
. er . . . Sir?”

  “Yes, I’m going somewhere,” said Lombar. “I’m going to grab a flying tank and get to Spiteos. Order another hundred thousand men in there to defend it. I’m going to make sure nobody exposes our store of drugs until they can be replenished by an Earth invasion. Meanwhile, see to the outer bunkers and defenses of this place. We’re in control and mean to stay that way.”

  He put on his cap and started to leave. Then he turned to them. “And you can stop this ‘Your Sir’ business, all of you! For better or for worse, I took the throne and don’t forget it!”

  “Yes, Your Majesty!” they chorused and promptly knelt.

  PART EIGHTY-FOUR

  Chapter 1

  J. Walter Madison had been perfectly correct about the Army’s General Whip: he had gotten the word when he saw his severed “head” on Homeview being presented to Lombar Hisst.

  The popular member of the Army General Staff had at once ordered a million troops to Calabar and taken the command of them himself. Making record time, he had promptly relieved the Apparatus forces who had been battling the rebels.

  The moment the Apparatus troops were spaceward ho for Voltar, General Whip, now in command of the offensive on Calabar, had penetrated a rebel radio band the Apparatus had been monitoring and had achieved contact with Prince Mortiiy.

  “Your Highness,” said General Whip, well known for his wit, “you will be pleased to know that I am officially dead.”

  “WHAT?” Mortiiy exclaimed.

  “I am probably the only casualty in history killed solely by Homeview. I have a million army troops at my disposal just landed on Calabar. I pledge my honor as an officer no treachery is intended: their officers are all loyal to me. What does Your Highness wish to do with them?”

  “Welcome to Calabar, General Whip,” said Mortiiy. “I am very pleased to bring you back to life. Use your troops to relieve my men in their defensive positions in case the Apparatus comes back. It would be embarrassing to them to fight on Voltar. Can you provide my forces with your transportation? We have some urgent visiting to do.”

  “It gives me great pleasure, Your Highness, to accommodate you. I only ask for a lock of hair from the head of Lombar Hisst when you amputate his windpipe.”

  “My pleasure, General Whip.”

  That was the conversation which led up to the Hightee Heller broadcast over Voltar. Now Mortiiy’s “urgent visiting” was being carried out.

  Captain Snelz was sleeping peacefully in his dugout at Camp Endurance just a few hours before the Hightee Heller message was to come over Homeview. He had no inkling anything was up. Camp Endurance, guarding Spiteos, was two hundred miles deep in the impassable Great Desert and aside from a few suicidal civilian airbuses—which had been promptly shot down—was disdainfully aloof from the riots which beset the planet and, indeed, all the Confederacy.

  Captain Snelz, with the philosophy of a one-time Fleet Marine—cashiered for cheating at dice—had an arm wrapped around his favorite harlot and was snoring peacefully. The five hundred credits from Heller had not only paid all his debts but had financed a winning streak, and he was now owed gambling IOUs from fully a fifth of the officers in the camp. He did not know he was about to become the hero of the Battle of Camp Kill.

  Accordingly, it was with shock that he opened up his eyes and saw Heller standing by his bunk.

  “I’m dreaming,” said Snelz.

  “You’ll have nightmares if you don’t get up,” said Heller.

  “My Gods, I got you safely out of here some time ago! What are you doing back?”

  “A social call,” said Heller.

  “Who’s he?” the awakened harlot said, staring up in sudden terror at a figure dressed in the scarlet of an Apparatus general.

  “He’s a Manco devil,” said Snelz. “Get out of here, you (bleepch), and don’t open your face!”

  The harlot fled.

  “That’s an awful way,” said Heller, “to describe a combat engineer that’s simply dropped in to do you a favor.”

  “ME a favor?” gasped Snelz. “Comets, Jet, you’re going to get both of us killed. Rumor’s got it there’s a million-credit bounty on your head!”

  “Let’s not discuss small change,” said Heller. “What I have for you is utterly priceless. A commission as a colonel in the Fleet Marines. I know how you have longed to regain your former status.” He handed over an embossed scroll.

  “I was just a lieutenant,” said Snelz, but he took the commission with a suddenly shaking hand.

  “And this,” said Heller, handing him another paper, “is your resignation from the Apparatus, effective in a few hours. We want everything regular.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Snelz, holding the commission closer to the night glowplate. “This isn’t signed by Cling the Lofty, it isn’t signed by Emperor Hisst. It’s signed by Mortiiy. Comets! How the hells many Emperors are there?”

  “You get the idea,” said Heller. “It’s something we want you to help sort out. So please muster your company . . .”

  “Jet, this camp has just been reinforced and the commandant is expecting another hundred thousand men. My company is only a hundred. If we attacked this horde, we wouldn’t even wind up as blood blots. Suicide!”

  “I never thought I’d hear a Fleet Marine quibbling about odds,” said Heller. “But truthfully, I don’t want you to attack anybody. I only want an escort and a minor favor.”

  Snelz groaned but he got up and climbed into his uniform. He leaned out the dugout door and sent his sentry scurrying through the predawn blackness to muster his company. Stepping down the path, his feet got tangled in some straps and he bent down to pick up an object. It was an absorbo-cloak that made all detection signals null. Propped against a rock was a spacetrooper sled. “So that’s how you got in here,” said Snelz.

  “Let’s not go prying into the secrets of a combat engineer,” said Heller. “It has nothing whatever to do with the know-how of Fleet Marines, Colonel. Now, if you will just call over one of your men and have him pick up this musette bag, please. It won’t look right for an Apparatus general to be lugging things about.”

  The company had fallen in. In the dim blue lights of the camp, they were quite bored to see that they were acting as an escort to an Apparatus general. Then fifteen of them, Snelz’s old platoon, peered more closely and went rigid: they knew Heller very well. But, eyes straight ahead and trying to keep their hair from standing on end, they, with the rest, obeyed the evolution orders of their captain.

  In proper order, the company went over the chasm bridge to the far side of the great gap.

  The officer at the far barricade stood up alertly.

  “I’m inspecting your defenses,” said Heller in a gruff voice.

  The officer saluted and the company went on.

  Heller guided them along the rim of the mile-deep chasm. It was very dark and the path was treacherous. Across the gap they could see the great bulk of the castle Spiteos against the stars.

  Heller took the musette bag. He removed an object that looked like a small spear. He braced it in a rock. He sighted it in carefully. He went a few more feet and placed another one.

  “If you’re trying to blow up Spiteos,” whispered Snelz, “those little spears won’t do anything. They’re just rock-splitting missiles. We use them to prepare a breach in fortress walls. I know them. They won’t make a dent in that castle.”

  “Patience, patience,” said Heller. “Little by little, if we persevere, even the greatest task gets done.”

  “You’re crazy,” said Snelz.

  “A man is known by his friends,” said Heller and went on placing spears.

  They marched, then, back across the bridge. Heller inspected several gun emplacements, complimented the men in them and then walked back to the dugout. “Dismiss your men,” he said.

  Snelz, soaking wet with the tension of passing under the eyes of guards, did as he was told.

  “Now I don’t have time,” said Hel
ler, “to do the rest. So it’s up to you.” And he handed Snelz the musette bag. And in a few words explained to him what he wanted.

  Snelz stared at him numbly. “I sure hope I am on the winning side,” he said.

  “Just make sure you are, Colonel,” said Heller. And he slipped on the absorbo-cape, took hold of the spacetrooper sled and, with a grin at the palsied Snelz, took off vertically, up into the stars like a ghost.

  Snelz stood there for quite a while. There were no shots. He let out a sigh of relief. He knew now why the life expectancy of a combat engineer was only estimated at two years of duty. He looked at the musette bag in his hand. The life of a Fleet Marine colonel, he mourned, was evidently far less than that!