The mythologies of numerous Earth cultures identified north and the arctic regions with evil and death. I don’t believe it was convenience or coincidence that led the militaristic heads of the Earth council to construct their ill-fated Grand Cannon there; nor do I think that Khyron just happened to land his ship there. As water seeks its own level, so does evil seek its own place.
Rawlins, Zentraedi Triumvirate: Dolza, Breetai, Khyron
THE MILE-LONG ALIEN CRUISER LAY BURIED UNDER ICE AND SNOW, with only its igloolike gun turrets visible above the frozen, howling surface. No squad of Air Force personnel would come to investigate this one, nor would any human-chain prophylactic magic circle be formed to contain its evil intent. It was too late to watch the skies…
In the observation bubble inside the ship, Khyron, his burgundy uniform and forest-green campaign cloak looking none the worse for wear through two long years, sprang from the command chair as Gerao delivered his latest report.
“Are you absolutely sure of this, Gerao?”
“I’m certain of it, m’lord,” said Gerao, thrice lucky for having lived through the explosion of the reflex furnaces on Mars, the holing of his ship during a Daedalus Maneuver, and now the holocaust itself. He brought his fist to his breast insignia in salute.
“Our spies have reported that thousands of dissatisfied Zentraedi are leaving town after town. They are estimated to be around ten thousand, sir.”
“Ah, splendid,” said Khyron, clenching his right hand, the devilish eyes of his handsome face peering from beneath blue bangs. “A most interesting occurrence—well worth the two-year wait in this terrible place!”
Khyron, through either an act of prescient will or cowardice unheard of among the Zentraedi, had absented his ship and crew from the battle that had all but destroyed the last of his race. It certainly wasn’t Khyron’s plan to bring Breetai and Dolza into confrontation, so why allow the Botoru Battalion to get caught up in High Command’s madness? All along Khyron had maintained that the best way to handle Zor’s ship was to destroy it. Anyone should have been able to see that from the beginning. But instead the fools had attempted to capture the fortress, unaware of the Micronian malignancy spreading fast through the fleet. The existence of the Protoculture matrix Zor’s fortress was thought to contain was not, however, so easily dismissed. Indeed, Khyron had saved himself for this greater purpose; but the fact remained that his warship’s precious fuel and weapons supply were all but depleted.
He had hidden on the far side of the Earth during the catastrophic explosion that had wiped out Dolza’s four-million-ship armada—the armada that had once made his race the most feared throughout the Fourth Quadrant. Surely the Micronians had the traitors Breetai and Exedore to thank for their success, although how those two had gained any knowledge of the barrier shield’s inversion capacity was beyond him. In all likelihood it was a stroke of luck—and the judgment of fate for the Zentraedi.
Khyron had chosen to put down in the frozen wasteland of the half-dead planet in the hopes of salvaging something from the Micronian’s reflex weapon, the so-called Grand Cannon. But nothing remained of it.
He was aware, however, that his elite group did not represent the last of the Zentraedi; somewhere in the quadrant between Earth and Tirol, there was Commander Reno’s ship, along with the automated Robotech factory, still fabricating battle mecha for a handful of warriors. There were also the contaminated Zentraedi from Breetai’s fleet who had elected to stand shoulder to shoulder with the Micronians. Khyron’s own spies were at work infiltrating this latter group, in addition to the renegade bands of Zentraedi who had already abandoned the Earth population centers to inhabit the wastes; and Khyron knew that someday soon they would prove to be his allies. Then, Reno and Khyron would rebuild the Zentraedi war machine with the help of the Masters themselves. And once the Earth was incinerated, they would scour the quadrant for new worlds to conquer.
But first he needed to get his ship spaceworthy once again.
And now the word he’d been waiting for had finally come.
He turned to the one who had stood beside him through the long wait, in defiance of the old ways, a symbol of the new order of things.
“Our faith is vindicated, my dear Azonia.”
“Indeed.” The former commander of the Quadrono Battalion smiled. She was dressed like her lord, save that her cloak was blue. Her arms were folded, and she wore an arrogant grin. When her own ship had been holed by fire from Dolza’s armada, it was Khyron who had come to her aid, convincing her to abandon Breetai’s forces and join him. “Let them battle it out together,” he had said. “We will live to see the rebirth of the Zentraedi!”
“Their taste for the Micronian life-style was only temporary,” Khyron was saying. “I knew that after a little while they’d grow tired of it. And you see I was right!”
Two years under the ice and snow had brought a strange new closeness between Azonia and her confederate—a closeness that had more to do with life than death: the stimulation of the senses, pleasure. Azonia believed it had something to do with the planet itself—this Earth. But she kept these thoughts to herself. If pleasure was the cause of the warriors’ desertion, she couldn’t blame them—Miriya included, although it remained a puzzle why she would bother to take a Micronian mate over a Zentraedi.
The fourth Zentraedi in the command center was Grel, who had been Khyron’s trusted lieutenant through many long campaigns.
Azonia shook her fist, mimicking Khyroa’s gesture of determination. “Now, look,” she announced. “If things keep going as planned, we can put together a battalion that I guarantee will take them!”
Khyron smiled to himself. It was only right that his underlings echo his sentiments, but Azonia had a lot to learn. What could she guarantee, save that Khyron would be victorious in the end? That Khyron would take them!
Nevertheless, he humored her without seeming patronizing.
“Yes, of course we shall.”
The Backstabber moved to the comlink of the cruiser’s command bubble to address his troops, who had gathered in the astrogational hold below.
“Now, listen, everyone,” he began. “You needn’t hide yourselves any longer! You are Zentraedi warriors! I want you to see to it that our former comrades are led here. Those who have established camps for themselves in the wastelands and those who have yet to leave the Micronian population centers. And I want you to tell all the micronized Zentraedi that if they join us, I will return them to their original size so that they too may walk tall and proud once again!”
The soldiers began to cheer their lord and savior with cries of “Long live the Zentraedi, long live Khyron!”
Khyron’s lips became a thin line as he took in the collective outpourings of his troops.
Yes, he promised himself, he would return the Zentraedi to their original size—their rightful place in the universe. And the destruction of planet Earth would be his first step in that direction, including the destruction of that secret weapon the Micronians had used so effectively against his race, that weapon the deserters had learned to embrace: that Minmei!
* * *
Kyle gave another look at his wristwatch: seven forty-eight and she still hadn’t arrived.
He glanced out from the wings of the stage. It was a small crowd who had gathered in Granite City’s open-air amphitheater (half a dozen giant Zentraedi in the far tiers, mesas and monoliths in the distance, a pink and blue sunset sky) but a vocal one nonetheless, clapping and shouting now, eager to bring Minmei on stage. The warm-up group was well into their second set, but the audience had already tired of them halfway through the first.
Kyle cursed himself for letting her out of his sight, especially after the previous night’s fight and that crazy stunt she had pulled on the Macross Highway.
“Hey, Kyle!” said someone behind him. There was an unconcealed note of anger in the voice, and Kyle swung around ready for action, happy to vent his own frustration and rage if the opportunity presented itself. Vance Hasslewood, Minmei’s booking agent, was striding down the corridor toward him.
“What’s the idea? Where the devil is Minmei?” Hasslewood demanded.
Hasslewood was wearing his customary aviator specs, a sweater-vested white suit and tie, and a scowl on his clean-shaven face.
“Minmei’ll be here,” Kyle told him tiredly.
“But showtime’s in just ten more minutes—you realize that?”
“She’ll show,” Kyle said more strongly. “Minmei is not the kind of singer who ignores her obligations. You oughta know that by now, Hasslewood.”
“I do know that. But just the same, Kyle, I want her here at least half an hour before showtime.”
“She’ll be here!” Kyle repeated, his patience fading fast. He gestured to the audience. “You know, you put on a pretty good act as a promoter, Hasslewood-attracting an audience that size.”
Hasslewood’s nostrils flared. He was getting sick and tired of having to answer to Kyle’s demands and criticisms and was of half a mind to turn his back on the whole deal. But he couldn’t bear the thought of leaving Minmei in the care of a hothead like Kyle. A drunk and degenerate—
“Hey, she’s here!” a stagehand called out.
As Hasslewood turned around, one of the band members ran up to him.
“Minmei’s here. She’s in her dressing room,” he told them, feeling it necessary to point the way.
Kyle snorted and shouldered his way past Hasslewood. He didn’t bother to knock at the dressing room door, merely threw it open and demanded:
“Where have you been?”
Minmei was putting on her face. She was wearing the same off-the-shoulder ruffled blue dress she had worn at the supper club the previous night.
“Sorry I’m late,” she answered without turning around.
“I don’t know why we’re even bothering to do this gig—there’s hardly anyone out there. This is the pits.”
“I don’t care that much about the size of the audience,” she said into the mirror. “I’m through worrying about all this, Kyle. I’m just going to sing for my fans, just the way I always have.”
“What’s with you?” he said, standing over her now.
Minmei shot to her feet and faced him. “You worry about our take, Kyle! I’m just singing for myself, do you understand me? Just for myself!”
She pushed past him and left the room.
Her anger had taken him by surprise. Minmei just singing for herself? he asked himself, then turned to the door with a sullen look.
He’d see about that.
* * *
Back in New Macross, Rick, Lisa, and Max and Miriya Sterling were summoned to a briefing in Admiral Gloval’s quarters aboard the SDF-1. Hunter and Hayes had spent most of the day filling out reports concerning that morning’s incident with the Zentraedi malcontents. Rick was sore head to foot from Bagzent’s finger flick. Max and Miriya were sans Dana, their child, for a change but joined at the hip nonetheless.
Gloval looked plain tired. Perhaps, as a former Earth hero had once remarked, “it wasn’t the years, it was the miles.” He’d been spending more and more of his time in the old ship, and on those rare occasions when he did put in an appearance elsewhere, he seemed impatient and troubled. Gone was the tolerant, accepting paternal figure who shared the sense of fear and purpose that united the rest of them. In his place was a man of secret purpose, bearing the weight of the world on his narrow shoulders. Exedore, who in a sense had become his right-hand man, was also in attendance.
“What I’m about to tell you is strictly confidential,” Gloval told the four RDF commanders. “Not a word of this is to leave this room. If it were to get out, the damage would be catastrophic.”
The old man was seated at his desk; behind him the clear starry night poured in through the fortress’s massive permaglass window.
The commanders responded with a crisp, “Yes, sir.”
Exedore stepped forward to address them now, the whites of his eyes practically glowing in the dim room.
“Yesterday, we finally spotted the Zentraedi automated Robotech factory satellite. Space cruisers large enough to destroy the Earth with a single blast are being constructed within the satellite.” He caught their gasps of surprise and hastened to add, “Yes, it is a terrible thing.”
“Listen carefully,” said Gloval, more harshly than was necessary. He was standing now, palms flat against the desk. “I want you people to survey that system and bring me additional data on the satellite.”
The four commanders exchanged puzzled looks. There was something the old man wasn’t telling them—aside from answering how it was they were supposed to get offworld—unless of course he was planning to recommission the SDF-1 itself.
“Commander Breetai will fill you in on the details,” Gloval explained after a moment. “We have no way of knowing if and when the remaining Zentraedi will attack us again, but for our own defense we have to have as many space cruisers as we can lay our hands on.” He turned to them now to emphasize the point, “You understand that.”
“Yes,” Exedore said softly. His eyes were closed, his brow furrowed, and one could almost believe that he felt a twinge of pain at the thought of bringing warships to bear against his own kind once again.
Rick and the others voiced their assent: It not only meant that they would be leaving the planet again, it meant that they would be relying on the Zentraedi as well. And yet Gloval was right: It was for their own defense.
* * *
Minmei stepped onto the stage and grasped the microphone. Colored spots played across the plank floor, until at last a single rose-toned beam of light found and encompassed her in its warm glow. Her face was sad, blue eyes wide and full of loss. The crowd was chanting, “We love Minmei, we love Minmei,” but all she could think about was Rick, Kyle, those giant Zentraedi who had fought in the streets of New Macross only hours ago.
She felt as though she had failed everyone.
She had decided to scrap the first upbeat tune of the set and go immediately into “Touch and Go,” a laid-back number that started with a simple piano and string riff and bass slide but grew somber and melancholy at the F-sharp minor/C-sharp 7 bridge, with a sort of crying guitar distortion punctuation backed by a stiff snare beat.
I always think of you,
Dream of you late at night.
What do you do,
When I turn out the light?
No matter who I touch,
It is you I still see.
I can’t believe
What has happened to me.
Tears began to form in her eyes as she sang. The audience was mesmerized by her performance. She sensed this and began to experience an extraordinary sense of nostalgia and yearning, entering the tune’s bridge now:
It is you I miss.
It’s you who’s on my mind,
It’s you I cannot leave
behind.
If the connection could always be this strong, she said to herself. If only she had the strength to will things right, and good, and peaceful. If only she had the power to become that symbol once again, that perfect chord everyone would vibrate to…
The me who lost her heart—
To you who tore my heart
apart.
But loss was the world’s new theme; loss and betrayal, anger and regret. And what could she hope to achieve against such malignant power? She had tried and failed, and the day would come soon when song itself was but a memory.
If you still think of me
How did we come to this?
Wish that I knew
It is me that you miss
Wish that I knew
It is me that you miss…