Black Genesis

by L. Ron Hubbard

  "Only the raving insane do things like that!" said Heller.

  "What do you mean, insane?" challenged the man with the revolver. "Pete there taught 'em himself. He really knows his psychology. And every one of those kids got Grade A in psychology. How could they be insane? Jesus, would you look at how hard their (bleepers) are! Great stuff, hey, Pete?"

  "Jesus, look at 'em," chortled Pete.

  Heller was backing up, I suddenly realized. Inch by slow inch he had been backing up. He was going to use a standard solution. He was going to run away! He was smarter than I thought.

  The half-dozen whooping young men, getting wilder and wilder with excitement, had herded Miss Simmons into the flatter area. A Hispanic leaped in and grabbed off her hat!

  Another leaped past her and hit at her hair. It came loose and showered around her shoulders.

  "Yippee!" screamed a black. "Don't she look wild!"

  "Killing a bunch of hoodlums isn't part of my job!" Heller said. Then he shouted, "Please quit this and get away while you still can!"

  "The only ones likely to be killed is you and that (bleepch)," said Pete. He shouted down, "Jesus! Start

  stripping her! Show me some skin! Oh, man, does this beat Sunday TV."

  Two of them seized her coat, one from either side, and yanked it off her, danced away and threw it aside.

  Two more dashed in past her flailing arms and tore at her shirt!

  Heller was backing up, inch by inch.

  "Blackie!" howled Joe down into the vale, "get behind her and get that bra off!"

  "Ah," sighed Pete in ecstasy.

  "Pedrito!" howled Joe. "Get the skirt! The skirt, man! Yank it off her!"

  As if in ultra-slow motion, Heller moved back further.

  "Heat her up! Heat her up!" shouted Joe. "Grab her from behind and heat her up!"

  "Get her down! Get her down!" howled Pete.

  Miss Simmons' foot lashed out at a man. He grabbed her shoe with a surging wrench, and tore it off her foot, laces and all. There was a crack.

  Miss Simmons' face contorted in agony. "My ankle!"

  Pete said, "Oh, Jesus, I like it when they scream!"

  Inch by inch, imperceptibly, Heller was backing up. The angle made by two tree trunks was closing. He was getting out of the shotgun's field of fire. In a moment he would be able to escape. Smart.

  Joe yelled, "Get her down! Get her on her back!"

  Pete shouted, "Strip her total like I taught you!"

  Joe let out a sigh. "Oh, wow! Look at that boy paw her!"

  Miss Simmons' voice rose to the tops of the trees. "Don't touch me! Don't touch me!"

  A Hispanic was watching avidly as Miss Simmons cried, "My ankle is broken!"

  Joe licked his lips as Miss Simmons' scream lanced through the glade.

  A wild-eyed white heard Pete's shouted order, "Get her begging for it!" He darted forward.

  Pete yelled, "Grab her legs!"

  Joe jerked as Miss Simmons' scream tore up from below.

  "Let Whitey go first!" howled Pete. "The rest of you have got the (bleep)! Whitey first!"

  Heller suddenly dived to the ground!

  The shotgun blasted with a roar!

  Heller was rolling to his left in a blur of motion.

  A revolver shot racketed.

  The man with the shotgun was trying to get around the tree which now blocked his aim. He pulled back.

  Another revolver shot sounded and a spurt of dirt leaped near Heller's head.

  Heller was rolling further.

  A sudden glimpse of a tree. The shotgun man lunged!

  Heller's hands shot out and grabbed the shotgun.

  The man screamed, flailing back a broken hand.

  Bark leaped from the tree! The racket of a revolver shot!

  A sight down the shotgun barrel at the revolver man!

  The buck of the shotgun!

  The revolver man's chest spurted red and he flew backwards.

  The shotgun man trying to get up!

  The swinging blur of the stock. The crack as the stock shattered. The shotgun man didn't have a face! Just red flesh and bone splinters!

  Heller sprang out into the path.

  The group around the girl were spread out, facing up the path, crouched and alert.

  A white youth yelled, "It's just one guy! Kill him!"

  A black and a Hispanic rushed forward.

  A switchblade flashed.

  The other four spread out so they could encircle.

  Heller's foot struck the switchblade hand. The knife flew. The man screamed!

  A man seen between two others. He had a gun.

  Heller's foot extended like a battering ram. The man's gun arm crumpled!

  A whirl. Another knife! A foot up against the hand. The knife flew into the air!

  Heller spun on one foot, the other extended like a scythe. The flat of the foot tore the man's whole face off!

  Gods! Spikes! This was why Heller was wearing spikes!

  A knife blade glittering. It slashed down on Heller's arm and bit.

  A foot up toward the wielder. A down kick! The whole chest of the knife wielder ripped open!

  Arms seizing Heller from behind. A darting back of Heller's head, his own arms rising and casting off the

  grip-He spun!

  Spikes stamped against a thigh and, ripping down­ward, that foot hit the ground. The other foot coming upward.

  The whole throat of the man torn out!

  A blur of three men trying to get at Heller.

  A woolly head. A spiked foot driving at it. The grind of steel into bones!

  A Hispanic face. The blur of a foot kick. The whole side of the head coming off.

  A man's heels. He was running, trying to get away.

  A rush. A horizontal thrust of two spiked feet. They hit the man in the back. He went down in a skid of leaves. Heller landed upright. Man's head two feet below

  the spikes. Down came Heller. The soles were held in a V. They stripped the skin, ears and two huge slabs of skull off the head.

  Silence.

  Heller started checking them. Five were dead, ripped to pieces. The sixth had his whole chest open. Veins and arteries were pumping.

  The man came to. He screamed. He collapsed. The body went into the final twitches of the death agonies.

  Heller went up the hill. Both Pete and Joe were very dead.

  He walked back down, surveying the scene. It looked like a slaughterhouse. Blood was all over and leaves were churned into red mud.

  I was terrified. I had never had an inkling as to why he was wearing spikes. But I knew now. In a primitive land where other weapons were not legal, he had been walking around on his! Supposing I had not known this! I myself might have been a target! Oh, I would stay a long distance away from this Heller if I ever had to talk to him. He was dangerous!

  Miss Simmons, clothes torn, was lying there where they had left her at the first shot.

  She was propped on an elbow. She was staring at Hel­ler with wide, round eyes.

  He went over to her. He tried to get her to lie back. It must have moved her leg. She screamed in agony! She passed out.

  Heller examined her leg. The ankle was a compound fracture with a splinter of bone extending from it.

  He got a knife out of his haversack, picked up a broken tree branch and quickly made a splint. He pad­ded the ankle with wads of Kleenex he took from her purse and then taped the splints on with engineer tape.

  He tried to get her torn clothes together. He got her

  into her coat. She was still out cold. He found her glasses and put them in her purse and then tied the purse around her neck.

  He gave the churned ground an inspection. His spike tracks were everywhere.

  Heller looked down at his baseball shoes. They were coated with blood and fragments of bone and flesh.

  He did a tour of the dead men. He chose one of them and took the shoes off the corpse. He took off his base­ball shoes and pu
t them on the dead man's feet. Then he pulled on those of the dead man.

  It was a bad sign. He had already been reading G-2 manuals, obviously. As I feared, it was likely to make my work that much harder!

  After a bit of search, he found Miss Simmons' stick. He went over the scene again—and a gory scene it was, there under the darkening sky, wind now tugging at the hair and clothing of the dead.

  He picked up Miss Simmons and looked around again to make sure there was nothing left, apparently. Then he looked up the hill to where the shotgun man still lay, partially in view.

  "I wish you'd listened," he said. "I'm not here to punish anybody." He looked down at Miss Simmons' face. She was out cold. Then he looked up at the scud­ding sky and in Voltarian said, "Is this planet inhabited by a Godsless people? Has some strange idea poisoned them to make them think they have no souls? That there is no hereafter?"

  Well, that was Heller. Stupid and theatrical. It served his best interests to just dump Miss Simmons and shove one of those abandoned switchblades into her. You could tell he was not Apparatus trained, so maybe G-2 wasn't going to do me as much harm as I had thought.

  Yes. Stupid. He seemed to be casting about for com­pass directions. Then he began to move swiftly westward and south through thickets and trees, trotting along in a way that seemed to hold Miss Simmons level.

  Eventually he emerged from what must have been a vast expanse of parkland. He was soon on some streets.

  After quite a distance, a sign loomed ahead in the dusk:

  Van Cortlandt Park Subway Station

  He bought tokens and the person behind the glass didn't even look at him. He put two tokens in the gate.

  He was shortly on a train. It roared along. There were hardly any people aboard. A security guard walked by. Despite the bloody trouser cuffs, the torn clothes on the girl and the splinted ankle, the guard did not even pause as he passed.

  Empire Subway Station was there on the white tiles. Heller got off.

  Carrying Miss Simmons with no bounce, he moved smoothly along. He was on College Walk. He turned south on Amsterdam Avenue and halted at a door marked:

  Empire Health Service

  There were no lights on.

  He went across Amsterdam Avenue and walked into

  what must have been the emergency ward of a hospital.

  He waited a bit and a nurse passing through the waiting

  room saw him and came over.

  "Accident," she said. "Sit right there."

  She went off. She came back pushing a wheeled

  stretcher and patted it.

  Heller put Miss Simmons down on it.

  The nurse threw a blanket over her and tugged a strap tight over her chest.

  The nurse led Heller over to a counter. She got out some forms. "Name?"

  "She's Miss Simmons," said Heller. "Empire faculty. You can get the details out of her purse, prob­ably. I'm just a student."

  The nurse got Miss Simmons' purse and dug out insurance cards and so on.

  A young intern came down the hall and looked at Miss Simmons. "Shock," he said. "She's in shock."

  "Broken ankle," said Heller. "Compound fracture."

  "You got a slashed arm," said the young intern. He was lifting Heller's sleeve. "Needs handling. Looks like a switchblade wound. Student?"

  "Yes," said Heller.

  "We'll fix it up for you."

  Miss Simmons came to and started to scream.

  Another nurse came along with a tray and a hypo­dermic syringe. The intern got hold of Miss Simmons' arm. The nurse put a rubber tube around the arm. Miss Simmons was threshing about and the nurse couldn't con­trol the arm long enough to get the needle in.

  "That isn't heroin is it?" said Heller. "I don't think she's on horse."

  "Morf," said the intern. "The purest medical morf. Calm her down."

  Miss Simmons was lunging against the strap. She had her other arm loose. She was pointing at Heller. "Get him away from me!" She struggled to draw back­wards. "Get away from me, you murderer!"

  The intern and the nurse managed to hold her still. The nurse got the needle into a vein.

  Miss Simmons was glaring at Heller and screaming.

  "You murderer! You sadist!"

  The intern said, "Now, now, you'll feel better in a moment."

  "Get him away from me!" screamed Miss Simmons. "He's just like I thought!"

  "There, there," said the nurse.

  "Grab him!" screamed Miss Simmons. "I saw him murder eight men in cold blood!"

  "Nurse," said the intern, "mark that she's to be placed in an observation ward."

  She threshed further. "You've got to believe me! I saw him kick eight men to death!"

  "Nurse," said the intern, "change that to psychiatric observation ward."

  The morphine must have been biting. She lay back. Suddenly she raised her head and looked venomously at Heller. "I knew it! I knew it all the time! You're a savage killer! When I get well and out of here, I'm going to devote my life to making certain that you FAIL!"

  Oh, I was so relieved. I had been afraid all this time that she would be grateful to Heller for his preventing them from raping her, giving her the (bleep) and prob­ably killing her for kicks. But she was true blue to the end.

  The grimness was still on her face as she went under the full effects of the morphine and fell back.

  I did some rapid calculation. She would not be able to continue as teacher of that course this semester but she certainly would be his teacher again in late winter and the spring. She had ample time to flunk him. Or—oh, joy—hang him sooner with a murder rap!

  Bless her crazy, crooked and ungrateful heart!

  How wonderful it was to feel I had a real friend!

  And even if they put her under psychiatric care, that would change nothing. It never does.

  Does Simmons succeed in ending Heller's mission?

  Read MISSION EARTH

  Volume 3 THE ENEMY WITHIN

  About the Author L. Ron Hubbard

  Filled with a dazzling array of other-world weapon­ry and systems, L. Ron Hubbard's Mission Earth is a spec­tacular cavalcade of battles, of stunning plot reversals, with heroes and heroines, villains and villainesses, caught up in a superbly imaginative, intricately plotted invasion of Earth—as seen entirely and uniquely through the eyes of the aliens that already walk among us.

  An unprecedented event in publishing history, so mo­mentous that a new word—dekalogy (meaning a group of ten volumes)—had to be coined to adequately describe Mission Earth's sheer magnitude and mastery: 1.2 million words in ten epic volumes that surpass even his last tri­umphant, internationally acclaimed best-selling master­piece, Battlefield Earth.

  Born in 1911, the son of a U.S. naval officer, L. Ron Hubbard grew up in the great American West and was acquainted early with the rugged outdoor life before he took to the sea. The cowboys, Indians and mountains of Montana were balanced with an open sea, temples and the throngs of the Orient as Hubbard travelled through the Far East as a teen-ager. By the time he was nineteen, he had travelled over a quarter of a million sea miles and thousands on land as he prodded and asked and recorded his experiences in a series of diaries mixed with story ideas.

  Returning to the United States, Hubbard's insatiable curiosity and demand for excitement sent him into the

  sky as a pilot where he quickly earned a reputation for his skill and daring before he turned his attention again to the sea. This time it was four-masted schooners and voyages into the Caribbean as Hubbard mixed adventure with an education that was to serve him later at the type­writer.

  While Hubbard's first articles were nonfiction and based upon his aviation experience, he soon began to draw from his travels to produce a wide variety of stor­ies: adventure, mysteries, travel through the Far East, westerns, detective, and finally, science fiction.

  In 1938, Hubbard was already established and recog­nized as one of the top-selling writers of the field, but a n
ew magazine wanted new blood. Hubbard was urged to try his hand at science fiction. The red-headed author protested that he did not write about "ray guns and rock­ets" but that he wrote about people. "That's just what we want," he was told.

  The result was a barrage of stories from Hubbard that changed the face of science fiction and excited intense critical comparison—then as now—with the best of H. G. Wells and Edgar Allan Poe. Today, Hubbard is recognized as one of the "founding fathers" of the great Golden Age of Science Fiction who, like Robert Heinlein and a few other grand masters, continues to develop and significantly enlarge the contemporary literature genre he helped to create.

  At the same time, Hubbard's prodigious and contin­uing creative output over more than half a century as a professional writer has assumed the proportions of a true publishing phenomenon—with more than a hundred novels and novelettes, more than two hundred short stor­ies (published under his own name and such no-less-celebrated pen names as Rene Lafayette, Kurt Von Rachen and Winchester Remington Colt, among others),

  and more than twenty-two million copies of his fiction, in a dozen languages, sold throughout the world.

  To celebrate his golden anniversary as a professional writer, L. Ron Hubbard wrote Battlefield Earth: A Saga of the Year 3000. The epic quickly moved onto every national best-seller list with the author and book receiv­ing critical acclaim.

  Publisher's Weekly described Mr. Hubbard as "a superlative storyteller with total mastery of plot and pacing."

  The Buffalo Evening News said Battlefield Earth was "vintage hard science fiction, done by a master story­teller."

  Kirkus Review said Battlefield Earth was "a huge (800+ pages) slugfest. Mr. Hubbard celebrates fifty years as a pro writer with tight plotting, furious action, and have-at-'em entertainment."

  Now, with the Mission Earth series, readers get a bril­liantly conceived fusion of high science fiction adven­ture, rich comedy-satire and hilarious social commentary in the great, classic tradition of Voltaire, Swift, Verne, Wells and Orwell.

  Unlike anything in the annals of science fiction, Mis­sion Earth is told with the distinctive pace, artistry and humor that is the inimitable hallmark of L. Ron Hub­bard, one of the most prolific and influential authors of the twentieth century.