Battlefield Earth Read online

  Battlefield Earth

  L. Ron Hubbard

  This title is now better remembered for being transformed into one of the worst movies in history. Don't blame the book, however, which is well regarded in sf circles. This first-class adventure novel, which contains no trace of Hubbard's Scientology.

  One thousand years after the sadistic alien race nearly destroyed humanity, an alien teaches a human too much...

  BATTLEFIELD EARTH

  By L. Ron Hubbard [ 1 ]

  Part I

  Chapter 1

  “Man, “ said Terl, “is an endangered species. “

  The hairy paws of the Chamco brothers hung suspended above the broad keys of the laser-bash game. The cliffs of Char's eyebones drew down over his yellow orbs as he looked up in mystery. Even the steward, who had been padding quietly about picking up her saucepans, lumbered to a halt and stared.

  Terl could not have produced a more profound effect had he thrown a meat-girl naked into the middle of the room.

  The clear dome of the Intergalactic Mining Company employee recreation hall shone black around and above them, silvered at its crossbars by the pale glow of the Earth's single moon, half-full on this late summer night.

  Terl lifted his large amber eyes from the tome that rested minutely in his massive claws and looked around the room. He was suddenly aware of the effect he had produced, and it amused him. Anything to relieve the humdrum monotony of a ten-year [2] duty tour in this gods-abandoned mining camp, way out here on the edge of a minor galaxy.

  In an even more professional voice, already deep and roaring enough,

  Terl repeated his thought. “Man is an endangered species. “

  Char glowered at him. “What in the name of diseased crap are you reading?”

  Terl did not much care for his tone. After all, Char was simply one of several mine managers, but Terl was chief of minesite security. “I didn't read it. I thought it. “

  “You must've got it from somewhere, “ growled Char. “What is that book?”

  Terl held it up so Char could see its back. It said, “General Report of Geological Minesites, Volume 250, 369. “Like all such books it was huge but printed on material that made it almost weightless, particularly on a low-gravity planet such as Earth, a triumph of design and manufacture that did not cut heavily into the payloads of freighters.

  "Rughr, " growled Char in disgust. “That must be two, three hundred Earth-years old. If you want to prowl around in books, I got an up-to-date general board of directors' report that says we're thirty-five freighters behind in bauxite deliveries.“

  The Chamco brothers looked at each other and then at their game to see where they had gotten to in shooting down the live mayflies in the air box. But Terl's next words distracted them again.

  “Today, “ said Terl, brushing Char's push for work aside, “I got a sighting report from a recon drone that recorded only thirty-five men in that valley near that peak. “ Terl waved his paw westward toward the towering mountain range silhouetted by the moon.

  “So?” said Char.

  “So I dug up the books out of curiosity. There used to be hundreds in that valley. And furthermore, “ continued Terl with his professorial ways coming back, “there used to be thousands and thousands of them on this planet. “

  “You can't believe all you read, “ said Char heavily. “On my last duty tour-it was Arcturus IV-'

  “This book, “ said Terl, lifting it impressively, “was compiled by the culture and ethnology department of the Intergalactic Mining Company. “

  The larger Chamco brother batted his eyebones. “I didn't know we had one. “

  Char sniffed. “It was disbanded more than a century ago. Useless waste of money. Yapping around about ecological impacts and junk like that. “ He shifted his bulk around to Terl. "Is this some kind of scheme to explain a nonscheduled vacation? You're going to get your butt in a bind. I can see it, a pile of requisitions this high for breathe-gas tanks and scoutcraft. You won't get any of my workers. “

  “Turn off the juice, “ said Terl. “I only said that man-'

  “I know what you said. But you got your appointment because you are clever. That's right, clever. Not intelligent. Clever. And I can see right through an excuse to go on a hunting expedition. What Psychlo in his right skull would bother with the things?”

  The smaller Chamco brother grinned. “I get tired of just dig-dig-dig, ship-ship-ship. Hunting might be fun. I didn't think anybody did it for-'

  Char turned on him like a tank zeroing in on its prey. “Fun hunting those things! You ever see one?” He lurched to his feet and the floor creaked. He put his paw just above his belt. “They only come up to here! They got hardly any hair on them except their heads. They're a dirty white color like a slug. They're so brittle they break up when you try to put them in a pouch. “ He snarled in disgust and picked up a saucepan of kerbango. “They're so weak they couldn't pick this up without straining their guts. And they're not good eating. “ He tossed off the kerbango and made an earthquake shudder.

  “You ever see one?” said the bigger Chamco brother.

  Char sat down, the dome rumbled, and he handed the empty saucepan to the steward. “No, “ he said. “Not alive. I seen some bones in the shafts and I heard. “

  “There were thousands of them once, “ said Terl, ignoring the mine manager. “Thousands! All over the place.“

  Char belched. “Shouldn't wonder they die off. They breathe this oxygen-nitrogen air. Deadly stuff. “

  “I got a crack in my face mask yesterday, “ said the smaller Chamco brother. “For about thirty seconds I thought I wasn't going to make it. Bright lights bursting inside your skull. Deadly stuff. I really look forward to getting back home where you can walk around without a suit or mask, where the gravity gives you something to push against, where everything is a beautiful purple and there's not one bit of this green stuff. My papa used to tell me that if I wasn't a good Psychlo and if I didn't say sir-sir-sir to the right people, I’d wind up at a butt end of nowhere like this. He was right. I did. It 's your shot, brother.“

  Char sat back and eyed Terl. “You ain't really going hunting for a man, are you?”

  Terl looked at his book. He inserted one of his talons to keep his place and then thumped the volume against his knee.

  “I think you're wrong, “ he mused. “There was something to these creatures. Before we came along, it says here, they had towns on every continent. They had flying machines and boats. They even appear to have fired off stuff into space.”

  “How do you know that wasn't some other race?” said Char. “How do you know it wasn't some lost colony of Psychlos?"

  “No, it wasn't that, “ said Terl. “Psychlos can't breathe this air. It was man all right, just like the cultural guys researched. And right in our own histories, you know how it says we got here?”

  "Ump, " said Char.

  “Man apparently sent out some kind of probe that gave full directions to the place, had pictures of man on it and everything. It got picked up by a Psychlo recon. And you know what?”

  “Ump, “ said Char.

  “The probe and the pictures were on a metal that was rare everywhere and worth a clanking fortune. And Intergalactic paid the Psychlo governors sixty trillion Galactic credits for the directions and the concession. One gas barrage and we were in business. “

  “Fairy tales, fairy tales, “ said Char. “Every planet I ever helped gut has some butt and crap story like that. Every one. “ He yawned his face into a huge cavern. “All that was hundreds, maybe thousands of years ago. You ever notice that the public relations department always puts their fairy tales so far back nobody can ever check them?”

  "I’m going to go
out and catch one of these things, “ said Terl.

  “Not with any of my crews or equipment you ain't, “ said Char.

  Terl heaved his mammoth bulk off the seat and crossed the creaking floor to the berthing hatch.

  “You're as crazy as a nebula of crap, “ said Char.

  The two Chamco brothers got back into their game and intently laser-blasted the entrapped mayflies into smoky puffs, one by one.

  Char looked at the empty door. The security chief knew no Psychlo could go up into those mountains. Terl really was crazy. There was deadly uranium up there.

  But Terl, rumbling along a hallway to his room, did not consider himself crazy. He was being very clever as always. He had started the rumors so no questions would get out of hand when he began to put into motion the personal plans that would make him wealthy and powerful and, almost as important, dig him out of this accursed planet.

  The man-things were the perfect answer. All he needed was just one and then he could get the others. His campaign had begun and begun very well, he thought.

  He went to sleep gloating over how clever he was.

  Chapter 2

  It was a good day for a funeral, only it seemed there wasn't going to be one.

  Dark, stormy-looking clouds were creeping in from the west, shredded by the snow-speckled peaks, leaving only a few patches of blue sky showing.

  Jonnie Goodboy Tyler stood beside his horse at the upper end of the wide mountain meadow and looked with discontent upon the sprawled and decaying village.

  His father was dead and he ought to be properly buried. He hadn't died of the red blotches and there was no question of somebody else catching it. His bones had just crumbled away. So there was no excuse not to properly bury him. Yet there was no sign of anyone doing so.

  Jonnie had gotten up in the dawn dark, determined to choke down his grief and go about his correct business. He had yelled up Windsplitter, the fastest of his several horses, put a cowhide rope on his nose, and gone down through the dangerous defiles to the lower plain and with a lot of hard riding and herding pushed five wild cattle back up to the mountain meadow. He had then bashed out the brains of the fattest of them and ordered his Aunt Ellen to push the barbecue fire together and get meat cooking.

  Aunt Ellen hadn't cared for the orders. She had broken her sharpest rock, she said, and couldn't skin and cut the meat, and certain men hadn't dragged in any firewood lately.

  Jonnie Goodboy had stood very tall and looked at her. Among people who were average height, Jonnie Goodboy stood half a head taller, a muscular six feet shining with the bronzed health of his twenty years. He had just stood there, wind tangling his corn-yellow hair and beard, looking at her with his ice-blue eyes. And Aunt Ellen had gone and found some wood and had put a stone to work, even though it was a very dull one. He could see her now, down there below him, wrapped in the smoke of slow-roasting meat, busy.

  There ought to be more activity in the village, Jonnie thought. The last big funeral he had seen was when he was about five years old, when Smith the mayor had died. There had been songs and preaching and a feast and it had ended with a dance by moonlight. Mayor Smith had been put in a hole in the ground and the dirt filled in over him, and while the two cross-sticks of the marker were long since gone, it had been a proper respectful funeral. More recently they had just dumped the dead in the black rock gulch below the waterpool and let the coyotes clean them up.

  Well, that wasn't the way you went about it, Jonnie told himself. Not with his father, anyway.

  He spun on his heel and with one motion went aboard Windsplitter. The thump of his hard bare heel sent the horse down toward the courthouse.

  He passed by the decayed ruins of cabins on the outskirts. Every year they caved in further. For a long time anybody needing a building log hadn't cut any trees: they had just stripped handy existing structures. But the logs in these cabins were so eaten up and rotted now, they hardly even served as firewood.

  Windsplitter picked his way down the weed-grown track, walking watchfully to avoid stepping on ancient and newly discarded food bones and trash.

  He twitched his ear toward a distant wolf howl from up in a mountain glen.

  The smell of new blood and the meat smoke must be pulling the wolves down, thought Jonnie, and he hefted his kill-club from where it dangled by a thong into his palm. He'd lately seen a wolf right down in the cabins, prowling around for bones, or maybe even a puppy or a child. Even a decade ago it wouldn't have happened. But every year there were fewer and fewer people.

  Legend said that there had been a thousand in the valley, but Jonnie thought that was probably an exaggeration. There was plenty of food. The wide plains below the peaks were overrun with wild cattle, wild pigs, and bands of horses. The ranges above were alive with deer and goats. And even an unskilled hunter had no trouble getting food. There was plenty of water due to the melting snows and streams, and the little patches of vegetables would thrive if anybody planted and tended them.

  No, it wasn't food. It was something else. Animals reproduced, it seemed, but man didn't. At least not to any extent. The death rate and the birth rate were unbalanced, with death the winner. Even when children were born they sometimes had only one eye or one lung or one hand and had to be left out in the icy night. Monsters were unwanted things. All life was overpowered by a fear of monsters.

  Maybe it was this valley.

  When he was seven he had asked his father about it. “But maybe people can't live in this place, “ he had said.

  His father had looked at him wearily. “There were people in some other valleys, according to the legends. They're all gone, but there are still some of us.“

  He had not been convinced. Jonnie had said, “There's all those plains down there and they're full of animals. Why don't we go live there?”

  Jonnie had always been a bit of a trial. Too smart, the elders had said. Always stirring things up. Questions, questions. And did he believe what he was told? Even by older men who knew a lot better? No. Not Jonnie Goodboy

  Tyler. But his father had not brought any of this up. He had just said wearily, “There's no timber down there to build cabins. “

  This hadn't explained anything, so Jonnie had said, “I bet I could find something down there to build a cabin with. “

  His father had knelt down, patient for once, and said, “You're a good boy, Jonnie. And your mother and I love you very much. But nobody could build anything that would keep out the monsters. “

  Monsters, monsters. All his life Jonnie had been hearing about the monsters. He'd never seen one. But he held his peace. The oldsters believed in monsters, so they believed in monsters.

  But thinking of his father brought an unwelcome wetness to his eyes.

  And he was almost unseated as his horse reared. A string of foot-long mountain rats had rushed headlong from a cabin and hit Windsplitter's legs.

  What you get for dreaming, Jonnie snapped to himself. He put Windsplitter's four hoofs back down on the path and drummed him forward the last few yards to the courthouse.

  Chapter 3

  Chrissie was standing there, her leg being hugged as always by her younger sister.

  Jonnie Goodboy ignored her and looked at the courthouse. The old, old building was the only one to have a stone foundation and stone floor. Somebody had said it was a thousand years old, and though Jonnie didn't believe it, the place sure looked it.

  Even its seventeenth roof was as sway-backed as an overpacked horse. There wasn't a log in the upper structure that wasn't gaping with worm holes. The windows were mainly caved in like eyeholes in a rotted skull. The stone walkway close to it was worn half a foot deep by the bare horny feet of scores of generations of villagers coming here to be tried and punished in the olden days when somebody had cared. In his lifetime Jonnie had never seen a trial, or a town meeting for that matter.

  “Parson Staffor is inside, “ said Chrissie. She was a slight girl, very pretty, about eighteen. She had large bl
ack eyes in strange contrast to her corn-silk hair. She had wrapped around herself a doeskin, really tight, and it showed her breasts and a lot of bare leg.

  Her little sister, Pattie, a budding copy of the older girl, looked bright-eyed and interested. “Is there going to be a real funeral, Jonnie?"

  Jonnie didn't answer. He slid off Windsplitter in a graceful single motion. He handed the lead rope to Pattie, who ecstatically uncoiled herself from Chrissie's leg and snatched at it. At seven Pattie had no parents and little enough of a home, and her sun rose and set only on Jonnie's proud orders.

  “Is there going to be meat and a burying in a hole in the ground and everything?” demanded Pattie.

  Jonnie started through the courthouse door, paying no heed to the hand Chrissie put out to touch his arm.

  Parson Staffor lay sprawled on a mound of dirty grass, mouth open in snores, flies buzzing about. Jonnie stirred him with his foot.

  Parson Staffor had seen better days. Once he had been fat and inclined to pomposity. But that was before he had begun to chew locoweed-to ease his toothaches, he said. He was gaunt now, dried up, nearly toothless, seamed with inlaid grime. Some wads of weed lay on the stones beside his mouldy bed.

  As the toe prodded him again, Staffor opened his eyes and rubbed some of the scum out of them in alarm. Then he saw it was Jonnie Goodboy Tyler, and he fell back without interest.

  “Get up,” said Jonnie.

  “That's this generation,” muttered the parson. “No respect for their elders. Rushing off to the bushes, fornicating, grabbing the best meat pieces.”

  “Get up,” said Jonnie. “You are going to give a funeral.”

  “A funeral? ' moaned Staffor.

  “With meat and sermons and dancing.”

  “Who is dead?”

  “You know quite well who's dead. You were there at the end.”