Well, that was when I decided that ol’ Vance needed to ease out of being Minmei’s manager and into a new setup. I mean, hey: what does twenty-five percent of Armageddon amount to in real money?
Vance Hasslewood, Those Were the Days
MINMEI’S BACKUP BAND AND ROADIES (IF THAT WAS THE PROPER name for them; they played only one town, but they clocked more miles than any other act in history) were used to taking their time setting up, running sound checks, getting mentally prepared for a concert or recording session. None of that today, though.
RDF techs and other personnel threw the setup together in a few minutes flat, a briefing officer making it clear to the musicians just how important this concert would be. The only one to object, a keyboard man who wasn’t happy with the way his stacks had been arranged, was menaced into silence not by the military people but by the other band members. Everyone knew what would happen if the Grand Fleet carried the day.
In her dressing room, Minmei tried to keep her mind off the greater issues and simply concentrate on her performance. Humming, she leaned toward her brightly lit makeup mirror, examining one eyelash critically. It wasn’t that she was unaware of the horrifying events taking place all around the SDF-1; it was just that she could do nothing about them except clear her mind and sing her very best.
There was a timid knock at her door, and three visitors entered. “Hi, Minmei,” said a rough but friendly voice.
Minmei smiled into her mirror at the reflection of Bron and the other two Zentraedi spies.
“We understand the pressure you’re under, Minmei,” Rico began.
“Going into battle can be very, um, taxing,” Konda added helpfully.
“We just wanted you to know we’re with you 100 percent and we know you can do it,” Bron told her, blushing. The other two nodded energetically.
“Oh!” She turned to them and came to her feet. She had spoken to them only a few times, even including the official hearings and meetings.
But she felt a kinship to them, a bond of empathy. Song had made them leave behind everything they knew, made them risk the unknown and commit themselves to a new life, even though that life held dangers and frightening enigmas. In that, they were very much like Minmei herself.
She put her hands out to them, palm to palm. “Thank you, Konda—Bron, Rico. You’re very kind.”
Konda cupped his hands around hers, and the other two stacked theirs gently on top. “You three are such wonderful men.”
“Minmei,” came the stage manager’s voice. “Two minutes.”
She kissed each of them on the cheek, then she was gone in a swirl of long, raven hair.
* * *
Instead of the seats of the Star Bowl amphitheater or a glass wall that looked on a recording studio’s engineering booth, Minmei and her band gazed at a great, concave sweep of viewport. The enemy warfleet was deployed before them. Below were the battle fortress’s upper works, and beyond the bow, the curve of the blasted Earth.
Combat craft were swarming from the super dimensional fortress; the warships of Breetai’s armada were forming up around and behind it, battlewagons and flagships at the lead for a do-or-die first impact.
The cameras and pickups focused on Minmei as she found her mark on the stage. She had decided to wear a simple full skirt and blouse, with a golden ribbon bowed at her throat.
“Wh… what’s your opener gonna be?” laughed her manager, Vance Hasslewood, nervously, mopping his brow with his handkerchief.
“How ’bout ‘My Boyfriend’s a Pilot’?” the bass man joked weakly.
“No,” she said firmly. “We’ll do the new one.”
They had barely rehearsed it; she had completed it only two days before. There was a chorus of objections from just about everyone, but she held up her mike and spoke into it firmly.
“This is the time for it.”
Now or never.
* * *
Tactical corps and civil defense mecha had been brought out on the decks of the battle fortress and the supercarriers. With their massed weapons added to the turrets and tubes of the SDF-1, short-range defensive firepower was more than tripled.
Out where the VTs were forming, as the cats slung more and more of them into space, the RDF fliers listened over the command net as Gloval’s voice came up.
“Attention, all fighter pilots. Once we enter the zone of engagement, there will be complete radio silence under all circumstances. Miss Minmei’s song, and only that, will be broadcast on all frequencies. As you have been briefed, we hope that will distract the enemy and give us the advantage.
“We must make maximum use of this element of surprise. Good luck to you all.”
* * *
Rick heard Gloval out, lowering his helmet visor. Skull Team was flying the few armored VTs the fabrication and tech people had managed to get operational. That meant that Rick, Max, Miriya, and the rest would be out at the very spearhead of the attack. Not something to dwell on.
In his heart, he wished Minmei well, and then he led Skull Team out.
* * *
She looked up to the camera and raised her mike on cue as the cone of spotlight shone down on her. In the control room, her image was on all the screens from many angles.
Life is only what we choose to make it,
Let us take it,
Let us be free
* * *
Rick hit his ship’s boosters. The blue vortices of its drives burned and shrieked. The armored VTs left trails of light, leaping into the dark. Conventional VT teams came after.
Breetai’s tri-thrusters, pods, and other mecha prepared to follow. Gloval and the Zentraedi had wisely agreed not to mingle their forces; in the heat of battle, human pilots would have a difficult time reading alien unit markings and telling friend from foe. Even the hastily added RDF insignia on the tri’s and pods might not be spotted in time.
* * *
In the command station of his flagship, Breetai stood with arms folded across his broad chest, a characteristic pose, staring up at a projecbeam. As he had admitted so long ago, hers was a voice to wring emotion from any heart. Perhaps the course to this moment had been set when he first heard it.
A tech relayed word. “My lord, this transmission is being picked up by Dolza’s ships.”
He nodded, watching and listening to Minmei.
We can find the glory we all dream of,
and with our love,
We can win!
His flagship trembled as its engines came up to full power. The front ranks of the armada moved forward at half speed, picking up velocity slowly. The SDF-1, in Attack mode, was accelerating along in the thick of them, its back thrusters blazing, a fantastic armored marionette of war.
Still engulfing Earth, below them, the Grand Fleet lay in orbit, seemingly paralyzed.
The human-Zentraedi alliance swooped down at it.
* * *
“What’s that on our monitors?” growled one of Dolza’s communications officers, his voice harsh and guttural.
His subordinate could barely tear his attention away from the song to answer. Such distraction when a superior was asking questions would have drawn quick, terrible punishment at any other time, but they were both hypnotized by Minmei.
If we must fight or face defeat,
We must stand tall and not retreat.
The subordinate shook himself a little and answered. “I don’t know, sir, but we’re receiving it on all frequencies.”
Then they both watched in fascination, ignoring the flashing of indicators and the beeps of comtones.
* * *
“We’re within firing range,” Vanessa said tightly. “No counterattack detected.”
“It’s working!” Exedore cried, watching the battle at Gloval’s side.
“This is it,” Gloval said calmly. “All ships, open fire.”
* * *
In that first gargantuan volley, the attacking force’s main problem was not to hit its own fightercraft or have its cannon salvos destroy its own missiles in flight. But the Zentraedi were used to that sort of problem, and fire control had been carefully integrated with the SDF-1’s systems.
It was an impact almost as damaging as the Grand Cannon’s; millions of Zentraedi, gaping at Minmei’s performance, died in moments.
Alarms were going off. The few Grand Fleet officers who could force their attention away from the screens could get no response from their troops short of physically attacking them.
As many of the Grand Fleet crews were beginning to notice the alarms, though, Minmei paused in her song; the band vamped in the background. A tall, dark figure stepped out into the spotlight with her.
Lynn-Kyle wore a look of burning intensity, his long, straight black hair swirling around him, taking her hand. “Minmei—”
“Yes, Kyle; I know,” she recited her line. “You’ve come to say good-bye.”
“Yes.”
Minmei wasn’t exactly sure where the lines had come from; everything was so hurried, so improvised. Weren’t they from one of the movies the two had done together? But Kyle was putting more into them than he had ever managed on screen. He had seen her run off after Rick. What was going through his mind?
No matter. He took her into his arms. She turned her face up to his. The camera cut from a two-shot of their bodies pressed against each other to a close-up of a long, passionate kiss, Kyle no longer acting.
* * *
In the Grand Fleet, alien warriors groaned and made nauseated sounds.
“How can they do that?” “Most disgusting thing I ever—”
And yet there was something about it that kept them from looking away, an appalled captivation. It should be added that among the female units like the Quadronos, there was more absorption and less repulsion than among the males.
But all through the orbiting fleet, moans and growls and other reactions to the kiss turned into shrieks of dismay and pain as the alliance’s volley cut through the enemy ships, holing them, blowing them to nothingness.
* * *
Rick watched the kiss on a display screen and thought, not unkindly, Farewell Minmei.
Then, “Let’s get ’em!” he snarled over the tac net.
Someone must have managed to cut off the Minmei transmission from at least some of the Grand Fleet’s mecha. There were plenty of effective ships, more than plenty.
The Skull Team’s armored VTs bore in at the enemy, releasing barrages of missiles, fighting their way through Grand Fleet pod and tri-thruster defensive screens. Quadrono powered armor came at the VTs, too, less effective now that Miriya no longer led them. Miriya avoided engaging those.
VTs shifted configuration according to the needs of the moment; Battloid and Guardian and Veritech modes were intermingled. Pods and tri-thrusters mixed it up with them and opened fire. Space was one big killing ground.
The armored VTs were faster and more maneuverable than anything else in the battle as well as being more heavily armed. They pierced the enemy formations, ripping a hole for the rest of the attack force to exploit.
Skull Team seemed to be everywhere, unhittable and unavoidable. Many, many Zentraedi saw their Jolly Roger insignia—the skull and crossbones—and died instants later. The heavy autocannon buzz-sawed; the missiles streamed, leaving boiling trails. But for every enemy downed, three more dove in to try to seal the gap.
It’s love’s battle we must win.
We will win.
We can win!
The range was close now. Around the bowl in which Minmei performed, the ship’s mecha opened up. The Destroid cannon in particular put out staggering volumes of fire. Every battery the ship mounted—except for the monster main gun, whose energy demands might have damaged the SDF-1—was working overtime.
The Grand Fleet’s losses in the first moments of the battle were awful, but its numbers still gave it a vast edge, and some of the enemy ships were returning fire. The SDF-1 and the armada dreadnoughts forged on, blazing away in all directions. Enemy mecha were starting to get through to the alliance capital vessels now, despite the best efforts of the VTs and the armada’s pods, tri-thrusters, and powered armor.
But slowly, seemingly by inches, the allied force drew closer to Dolza’s headquarters.
* * *
Max and Miriya were like avenging angels, beyond any mortal power to resist or stop. Faced with the red-trimmed armored VT or the blue, all any enemy pilot could do was resign himself to death.
Rick had part of his commo and guidance equipment tuned for signals of life on Earth, especially from Alaska Base. If there was any sign of life…
A light cruiser was trying to break past the VTs for a go at the SDF-1. He went in at it, letting go a torrent of mixed ordnance, aiming for the vital spots the defectors had told the RDF about.
The cruiser fired back, and Rick decided this was one head-on he wasn’t going to survive. But all at once the cruiser expanded, armor flying off it like rind off a bursting melon, and then the vessel and its crew were scattered atoms and little more.
So violent was the explosion that Rick was distracted, avoiding being damaged by it. When he looked around again, he saw that a trio of Battlepods had loosed multiple spreads of missiles at him, and there was absolutely no hope of dodging them all.
He eluded some, jammed some of the others’ guidance systems, shot a few right out of existence—and the special VT’s armor protected him from several hits.
But that left still more to go for his vitals. In Battloid mode, he crouched, trying to shield himself. He nevertheless took several, right in the breadbasket. VT armor was good but not that good.
The damaged Battloid, leaving a wake of flame behind it, spun and tumbled for Earth, flopping lifelessly.