Battlefield Earth (57 page)

    He lay half-awake in his bed, not really wanting to try.

The secret behind Jonnie’s lethargy was the feeling that he had failed. Maybe the bombs hadn’t landed on Psychlo. Maybe all this was just a brief interlude of peace for man. Perhaps soon the beautiful plains of his planet would once more be denied the human race.

And even if the bombs had landed and Psychlo was no longer a menace, he had heard of other races out there in the universe, savage races as pitiless as the Psychlos. How could this planet defend itself against those?

It haunted him at every awakening; it plagued his sleep. People now looked so happy and industrious, so revived. What cruelty if it were just a brief interlude. How crushed they would be!

Today would be just another day. He would get up, and a Russian attendant would bring in his breakfast and help Chrissie straighten the room. Then MacKendrick would come and they would exercise his arm and he would try to walk a bit. Something about there being nothing wrong, really, just having to learn to do it again. Then Sir Robert or the parson would come over and sit uncomfortably for a while until Chrissie shooed them out. A few more dull routine actions and another day would be gone. His failure oppressed him. He saw more clearly than they did how cruel a letdown this would be if the Psychlos counterattacked. He felt a little guilty when he saw a glad face: how soon it might turn to grief.

He had given the historian, Doctor MacDermott, a colorless outline of the drone destruction, all from the viewpoint of what one could or could not do if another one appeared, and

Doctor Mac had well supposed there was far more to the action than that, but he had been chased out by Chrissie.

Chrissie had just washed his face and he was sitting at a trolley table when he noticed something odd going on with the Russian attendant. It really did not thoroughly challenge Jonnie’s interest, for there were always Scots guarding him in the outside passage against intruders or disturbance- a guard he had at first protested and then accepted when they all seemed so upset at the refusal.

Jonnie had not seen this particular Russian in two weeks; others had been taking his place. Once this Russian had come in with a great big black eye and a triumphant grin on his face; questioned, Chrissie had explained that the Russians sometimes fought among themselves over the right to serve him. Well, this fellow looked like he could win any fight. As tall as Jonnie, heavyset with slightly slanted eyes, and dressed in baggy-bottomed trousers and a white tunic, he was quite imposing, his bristling black mustache standing straight out on both sides of his big nose. His name was, inevitably, Ivan.

After putting down the breakfast, he had drawn back and was standing there at the stiffest attention Jonnie had ever seen.

A Coordinator came slipping in the door, the Scot sentry scowling and privately vowing to send for Sir Robert by runner the moment the door was closed.

Jonnie looked at the Russian questioningly.

The Russian bowed from the hips and straightened up, looking stiffly ahead. “How do you do Jonnie Tyler sir.” His was a very thick accent. He did not go on.

Jonnie went on eating oatmeal and cream. “How do you do,” he said indifferently.

The Russian just stood there. Then his eyes rolled appealingly at the Scot Coordinator.

“That’s all the English he knows, Jonnie sir. He has some news and a present for you.”

Chrissie, with a broom in her hand, her cornsilk hair tied out of her eyes with a buckskin thong, bristled at this violation of proper announcement. She looked like she was going to hit both of them with the broom. Jonnie motioned her to be still. He was slightly interested. The Russian was so imposing and was fairly bursting with what he had to say.

Ivan barked off a long string of Russian and the Coordinator took it up. “He says he is Colonel Ivan Smolensk of the Hindu Kush- that’s in the Himalayan Mountains. They are descended from a Red Army detachment that was cut off there and intermarried locally; there are about ten groups in the Himalayas; some speak Russian, some an Afghanistan dialect. They really aren’t army units. ‘Colonel’ to them means ‘father.’ They’re really Cossacks.”

The Russian thought this was going on too long- it was more than he had said. So he rattled off another string. The Coordinator cleared up a couple of points and turned to Jonnie.

“This is very irregular,” said Chrissie, her black eyes flashing.

The Coordinator was already in awe of Chrissie and Jonnie had to tell him to go on. “It seems like when they found they could travel around- the steppes there are huge- a troop-that’s their name for a family unit-rode clear over to the Ural Mountains. They got on the radio to him-anybody can use a radio it seems-and they gave him some news. Our Coordinator there had told them about this base and that troop for some reason thought there might be a Russian base.

“They came back and radioed Ivan here about it and he took off-anybody can hook a ride on a plane; they schedule ’round the various tribes about once a week- and he rode like the wind he says on their very swift horses and he went to check it personally and he’s just come back and wants to tell you.”

“He should tell the Council!” said

Chrissie. “Jonnie is in no condition to be holding what they call audiences!”

The Russian let out another string.

The Coordinator timidly translated (he did not like crossing Chrissie; she was such a beautiful woman and such a celebrity herself). “There is such a base. It is as big as this one and just as full of atom bombs and hardware and dead men.”

Jonnie was vaguely interested. Might serve them as a refuge if there were a counterattack. “Well, tell him that’s fine and why not clean it up and use it.”

A brief interchange between the Coordinator and the Russian, and then fireworks! Russian splattered off the very walls.

Robert the Fox came in; short of breath from hurrying, thoroughly disapproving of anyone disturbing Jonnie as well as short-circuiting proper channels. But he paused. Jonnie seemed interested. Not much, but more than Robert had seen for a while. The veteran leaned back against the wall and signaled the Coordinator to go on.

The Coordinator was getting overwhelmed. He was quite used to dealing with important tribal heads and notables, but here he was in the company of three of the most important names this planet had ever had, especially Jonnie sir. But Colonel Ivan was almost stomping his feet for him to translate.

“He says that’s what ruined the whole human race. He says the valiant-red-army, trying to fight the capitalist-imperialist-warmongers (these are just names to him, Jonnie sir, he doesn’t have a political axe to grind) had their attention on each other and didn’t cooperate when an invader landed, and he says while tribal wars will and do happen, international wars among whole peoples are against the good welfare of the people. He says he is for the people of Earth and people didn’t stick together but fought, and this must not happen again. He’s very emphatic, Jonnie sir, and he says all the other Russian tribes are also.”

Jonnie pushed back the tray, and the Russian, suddenly remembering his duty, picked it up. He let out another broadside of Russian.

The Coordinator pulled out some papers. “They’ve retained literacy, sir, and he and some of the chiefs drew up some papers- they don’t have much paper so excuse its condition, I think they found it in that base- and they want your agreement to it.”

Jonnie looked tired to Robert the Fox. “This is Council business. The Himalayan chiefs are members of the Council.”

The Russian seemed to divine what he was saying and rattled off more Russian.

“He says no,” said the Coordinator. “This Council is over here on this continent and that base is over there on that continent. He says there are silos of nuclear weapons aimed at this continent and have been for a thousand years or so. And he doesn’t want anything to happen to you, Jonnie sir. So he wants a force of South Americans and Alaskans-he knows there are almost no North Americans left- to take charge of that base over there on your authority. He says if the Russians have charge of this base here, they won’t fire at Russia. And if people from this continent take charge of that base there they won’t fire on this continent. They’ve got it all worked out, Jonnie sir. It ’s all here. They worked it out in Russia. If you say all right, and put a little initial here…”

Robert the Fox was watching Jonnie. This was the first thing he’d seen the lad take even the slightest interest in. Robert knew it would probably be all right with the Council. He saw Jonnie looking at him. He nodded. Jonnie took the offered pen and wrote his initials on the paper.

The Russian seemed to almost deflate with relief. Then he rattled away at the Coordinator, who presently said, “He now has a present for you.”

Ivan put down the tray and reached into his tunic pocket. He brought out a gold disc with a big red star in the center of it and two lapel tabs of ancient braid. He gave them to Jonnie, waiting for him to accept.

The Coordinator said, “That is the cap ornament they found on the Marshal of the Red Army who was in charge of that base and those are his lapel tabs. He wants you to know that they are yours. And you are in charge of both bases.”

Jonnie smiled slightly and the Russian promptly kissed him on both cheeks and rushed out. Robert the Fox was holding the papers and Chrissie put the gifts in Jonnie’s buckskin pouch.

“If this had happened a thousand or so years ago,” said Robert the Fox, “maybe things would have been different.” Chrissie was shooing him to leave. Jonnie looked tired. “The Council will put this through and handle it. There might be vital materials in that base.”

“You might get it cleaned up and filtered,” said Jonnie. “It might help them if gas drones come again.”

When Dr. MacKendrick came to exercise his arm and get him to walk, he told Jonnie he was improved.

Jonnie alarmed him. “Not improved enough!” said Jonnie, a bit bitterly. “I may not have been so smart after all.”

- Part XVI -

     Terl sat in his dark hole and was gloomy. He was not with the other Psychlos; they would have torn him to fur fluffs. He was here in a cubicle that had once been used for cleaning supplies on the dormitories. It had been rigged with a breathe-gas circulator; it contained a narrow, twelve-foot-long bed; there was a little port that had been rigged to push food through- one could see the outside corridor beyond its revolving panes; and there was a two-way intercom inset below the door.

The place was strong enough; he had already tried every means of opening it and escaping. He was not chained, but every hour of the day and night there was a sentry with an assault rifle just outside.

It was really the fault of the females, both the animal females and Chirk. His hindsight was a bit faulty, but not his conviction that it was correct. Always a master of self-delusion, Terl was at his best these days.

When he compared his present lot with the beautiful dream of being wealthy and powerful on Psychlo, being bowed to by the royalty and trembled at by everyone else, he quivered with suppressed rage. These animals were denying him his due! Ten beautiful gold coffin lids lay moldering in the company cemetery on Psychlo, of that he was utterly certain. The delicious thought of slipping out there some dark night and exhuming them was second only to the thought of the wealth and power that would ensue.

He had befriended these animals. And how had they treated him? A mop closet!

But Terl was nothing if not clever. He roused himself now and began to think hard and brightly. Now was the time to be the calm, cool, masterful Terl.

He would get to Psychlo. He would get these animals and this planet destroyed, finally and forever. He would dig up those coffins. He would be bowed to and trembled at. Nothing must stand in his way!

He began to tally up the bits and scraps of leverage he had. First, of course, it went without saying that his own cleverness was his chief asset; he agreed with himself on that. Second, he was almost certain the first animal he had caught had forgotten that there was a hefty charge of explosive left buried in that cage. Third, there had been three remotes: one was still in his office, one had been seized, but the third was just inside that cage door in case he somehow got tricked or trapped in there. That third one would have enabled him to blow up the females or shut off the power to the bars, and he was certain it had not been found. The fourth piece of leverage was a pretty big one and the fifth was gigantic.

Leverage!

     Sitting there in the semidark he thought and thought. And after several days, he knew he had it. Every point in its torturous pattern of events was perfectly channeled, perfectly conceived, and ready to be put in train.

The primary stage was to get himself put in that cage. Good! He would do it.

So it was that a very mild, personable Terl noted one morning that the sentries no longer wore kilts. Gazing out through the revolving panes of the food slot, he carefully concealed his elation. He sized the creature up. It had long pants, strapped boots, and a half-wing insignia on its left breast.

Terl might be a top graduate of company schools but he was no linguist: that was part of the arts, and what self-respecting Psychlo had anything to do with those? So an element of luck had to enter in here.

“What,” said Terl in Psychlo through the intercom installed in the door, “does that half-wing stand for?”

The sentry looked a bit startled. Good, thought Terl.

“I should have thought it would have two wings,” said Terl.

“That’s for a full pilot,” said the sentry. “I’m just a student pilot. But I’ll have my full wings someday!”

Terl laid aside his conviction that you couldn’t understand animals. While arrogance demanded nonrecognition of them, necessity demanded he recognize them. This thing was talking Psychlo. Chinko accent, as would be expected, but Psychlo.

“I am sure you will earn wings,” said Terl. “I must say your Psychlo is excellent! You should practice it more, though. Talking to a real Psychlo would help.”

The sentry brightened up. Suddenly he realized that that was perfectly true. And here was a real Psychlo. He had never talked to one before. It was quite a novelty. So he told Terl who he was, that being easy to discuss. He said he was Lars Thorenson, part of the Swedish contingent that had arrived some months ago for pilot training. He did not share the ferocity of some of the Scots against the Psychlos, for his people, way up in the Arctic, hadn’t had any previous contact with Psychlos. He thought maybe the Scots exaggerated things a bit. And by the way, was Terl a flier?

Oh, yes, Terl told him, and it was quite true. Terl was a past master in all types of flight, battle tactics, and stunts like flying right down into five-mile-deep mine shafts and picking up an endangered machine.

The sentry had drawn closer. Flight was very dear to him and here was a master. He said that their best flier was Jonnie, and did Terl know him?

Oh, yes, Terl not only knew him, but back in the old days before there had been a misunderstanding, he himself had taught that one a few tricks: it was why he was such a good flier. A very fine creature, actually; Terl had been his firmest friend.

Terl was elated. These were cadet sentries, standing watches in addition to their schooling to ease the considerable load on regular personnel.

For several days, each morning, Lars Thorenson improved his Psychlo and learned the ins and outs of combat flying. From a master and a one-time friend of Jonnie’s. He was quite unaware that if he put some of these “tricks” into use he would lose the most elementary fight in the air, and later others would have to shake the nonsense out of him before he got himself killed. Terl knew well it was a risk to play this trick, but he just couldn’t resist it.

Terl corrected the sentry’s Psychlo up to a point. And then one morning he said he himself would have to exactly clarify certain words and really they should have a dictionary. There were lots of dictionaries, and so the next morning the sentry gave him one.

With considerable glee, Terl went to work with the dictionary when the sentry was off duty. There were a lot of words in the composite language called “Psychlo” that were never actually used by Psychlos. They had leaked into the language from Chinko and other tongues. Psychlos never used them because they could not really grasp their conceptual meaning.

So Terl looked up words and phrases like “atone for wrongs,” “guilt,” “restitution,” “personal fault,” “pity,” “cruelty,” “just,” and “amends.” He knew they existed as words and that alien races used them. It was a very, very hard job, and later he would look on this as the toughest part of his whole project. It was all so foreing, so utterly alien!

Soon Terl was satisfied he was ready to enter his next stage.

“You know,” he said to the sentry one morning, “I feel very guilty about putting your poor Jonnie in a cage. Actually, I have a craving to atone for my wrongs. It was my personal fault that he was subjected to such cruelty. And I wish with all my heart to make amends. I am overwhelmed by guilt and I pity him for what I did. And it would be only just if I made restitution for it all by suffering in a cage like he did.”

It made Terl perspire to get it all out, but that only added to his contrite look.

The sentry had made a habit of recording their conversations, for he studied them later and corrected his own pronunciation, and since he had never heard a lot of these words in Psychlo before, he was glad he had it all on disc. Terl was also glad. It had been an agonizing performance!

The sentry, having the evening free, digested all this. He decided he had better report it to the Compound Commanding Officer.

There was a new Compound Commander, an Argyll, very well noted for his prowess in raids in earlier days and very experienced- but not in America. The ease with which a radiation bullet could blow up a Psychlo had given him a bit of contempt for them in their current state. And he had a problem of his own.

Literal mobs of people from all over the world got off planes and took tours of the compound. The Coordinators showed them around and pointed out where this had happened and that had happened. Many-hued and many-tongued, they were a bit of a nuisance. And almost every one of them wanted to be shown a Psychlo. Most had never seen one, no matter that they had been oppressed by them for ages. Some very important chiefs and dignitaries had enough whip with the Council to get special permission. That meant an extra detail of guards the commander did not have; it meant taking people down into the dormitory levels where they should not be; it actually meant a bit of danger to them for some of those Psychlos down there were not reconstructed!

So the commander toyed with this idea. He went out and looked at the cage. Evidently it could be wired- in fact it was wired- with plenty of voltage to the bars. If one put up a protector in front so people would not touch the bars and get hurt, he would be relieved of these nonsense tours into the dormitory.

Further, it appealed to him to have a “monkey in a cage.” It would help morale. And it would be an added attraction. He could plainly see that somebody might want to make restitution and do amends. So he mentioned it sketchily to a Council meeting. They were very busy and had their minds on other things and he omitted to tell them it was Terl.

Technicians checked to make sure the cage wiring was live and could be shut off easily from the outside where the connections and box had been fastened to a pole, and that a barrier was erected to keep people from electrocuting themselves.

It was a very elated- but carefully downcast- Terl who was then escorted under heavy guard and put in Jonnie’s and the girls’ old cage.

“Ah, the sky again!” said Terl. (He hated the blue sky of Earth like poison gas.) “But I must take no pleasure in it. It is only just that I will be confined here, exposed to public view and ridicule,” (he had looked up some new words) “and mocked. It serves me right!”

And so Terl went about his duty very honestly. The crowds came and he looked ferocious and leaped about, glaring at them through his breathe-mask glass and making little children scream and flinch outside the barricade. He had heard of gorillas-beasts over in Africa- beating their chests, so he beat his chest.

He was a real hit. The crowds came, they saw an actual Psychlo, they even threw things at him.

They had heard that he put Jonnie in a collar, and young Lars visited him one day and told him, through the bars, that the crowd wanted to know where his collar was.

Terl thought that a great idea. A couple of days later, five guards came in and put a heavy iron collar and chain on Terl and fastened him to the old stake.

The Compound Commander was quite happy about it. But he told the guards that if Terl showed any sign at all of trying to escape, they were to riddle him.

Terl’s mouthbones wore a private smile as he capered and postured. He rumbled and roared.

His plans were working out perfectly.