First and foremost we must accept who we are; only then can we gain a clear view of our motives. How well I recall being one of the important people, and how well I recall the effect that illusory self-image had on my decisions and motivations. Fallen from grace, I was rescued from what might otherwise have been a transparent existence. Unimportant, I learned to know myself. This forms the basis for the following lesson.
Jan Morris, Solar Seeds, Galactic Guardians
NOVEMBER 2014 CAME AND WENT, THANKSGIVING FOR THOSE who remembered it—not in remembrance of the pilgrims, though, but in memory of the feast held two years before, when the SDF-1 returned to its devastated homeworld and founded New Macross. Wild flowers covered the western slopes of the Rockies, and blue skies had become an everyday event. The cities had been peaceful, and there was no further sign of Khyron. Minmei was back on tour.
Rick and Lisa had been seeing a lot of each other. This morning she was in the small kitchen of her quarters, humming to herself while preparing sandwiches and snacks for the picnic she and Rick had planned. On routine patrol only days ago, he had discovered an ideal spot in the nearby forest. Lisa was in high spirits. She had a map of the area spread out on the table. It seemed like months since she had taken personal leave and years since she had done anything like this. And she owed at least some of her happiness to Claudia for getting her to be more honest with Rick; she had told him how special he was, and surprise of surprises, he had said he felt the same way toward her.
In his own quarters a few blocks away, Rick was getting himself ready. Lisa had said she wanted to take care of the food; all he had to do was show up on time. He was certain he could handle that much. It was strange to be out of uniform, almost frightening to contemplate a return to normalcy, days and days of uninterrupted peace. And that very sense of discomfort made him ask himself how similar the human and Zentraedi races had become: in their own way grown dependent on war.
The phone rang while he was shaving. He turned off the razor and went to answer it, figuring it was Lisa trying to hurry him along.
“I’m almost ready,” he said into the handset, not bothering to ask who was on the line. “I’ll be there—”
“Hi there, it’s me!”
Suddenly uncertain, Rick looked at the phone.
“It’s Minmei!”
“Oh, Minmei!” he answered, perking up. “Where’ve you been?”
“All over the place,” she said dismissively. “Where are you now?”
Rick looked at the phone again. “Home.”
Minmei laughed. “Oops, I completely forgot! I called to thank you… for saving me and… Kyle. I mean it.”
“You don’t have to thank me, Minmei,” Rick said plainly.
After a moment she asked him if he was free for the day. Rick hemmed and hawed but didn’t mention the picnic. She was hoping that he could make it over to Monument City—she had a few hours free before tonight’s concert. “I kinda made plans already.”
“Oh, please, Rick,” she purred. “I’m only here for today, and I’m sure whoever you’re going to meet won’t mind.”
Rick thought back to his conversation with Lisa, how he’d asked her to cancel whatever plans she had made so they could get together for the picnic. He looked at his watch and wondered what sort of last-minute excuse he could come up with. Sickness? A new war?
“Pleease…” she repeated.
“Uh, I guess it’s okay,” he said, relenting. “It’s not every day that I get to spend time with you.”
“It’ll be fun,” Minmei said excitedly. “You can see your friend any time, right?”
“Yeah…”
“Great! I’ll be waiting for you at the airport. And dress up,” she told him.
An old school chum showed up, Rick thought, replacing the handset. Somebody who just wandered in from the wastelands. Quickly he punched up Lisa’s number, but of course she had already left; more than likely she was already at the Seciele coffee shop waiting for him. Better to say nothing, he decided at last. Just not show up at all.
* * *
There are a hundred reasons why this is a good idea, Rick said to himself as he dropped his fanjet in for a landing on Monument’s new strip, not the least of which was the chance to put his little craft through some paces—it had been months since he’d taken it out. And of course it was good for his relationship with Lisa: putting his feelings for Minmei to rest and such. But “sudden business in Monument City” was what he planned to tell Lisa; he promised himself that he would take her on two picnics to make up for this.
He cut quite the dashing figure in his new gray jumpsuit as he jumped from the cockpit. He had changed from denim and flannel to his one and only suit and was wearing it underneath, a black scarf tied around his neck.
“I’m over here, Rick!” Minmei waved from behind the chain-link fence. “How’ve you been, flyboy?”
He approached her, smiling. She was wearing a tight-fitting sweater and skirt, heels, a large red hat that matched her belt, and big round tinted glasses.
“I don’t think I would have recognized you,” he confessed.
She laughed. “That’s the point, silly.”
Rick got out of the jumpsuit and stowed it in his carry case, while she ran to the gate, coming around to his side of the fence.
In a moment they were walking arm in arm, not saying much to each other. Rick felt uncomfortable in his button-down shirt and tie but tried not to convey it.
“Listen, Rick,” Minmei said at last, biting her lower lip. “I’m sorry to drag you away from your appointment. I hope he wasn’t mad at you, whoever he was.”
Rick cleared his throat. “Uh no, he wasn’t mad… I rescheduled my appointment with him…” Minmei pressed herself against him, her hand caressing his arm. People were checking them out as they strolled by. “Aren’t you worried that someone might recognize you… and me, and, er…”
“I’m never worried with you,” Minmei sighed. She turned him around and reached for the knot in his tie, adjusting it. “I’ve never seen you in a suit before. You’re very handsome—you look important.”
Important? he asked himself. He remembered how good it felt to be in denim and flannel—strange but good. And here he was in a suit, wandering around Monument City with a star on his arm, looking important, and receiving compliments left and right. What did Minmei have in mind? he wondered. Lisa had wanted to picnic and hike.
Minmei had rented a vehicle for them to use. Rick climbed behind the wheel and followed her directions into the city. Monument was about the closest thing Macross had to a sister city. It had been founded by Zentraedi once under Breetai’s command, who had rallied around the crashed warship towering out of its lake the way humans had around Lake Gloval’s similarly situated SDF-1. Monument had spearheaded the separatist movement and had recently been the first to be granted autonomy from the Macross Council.
She sensed that she might have done something wrong, but she had only been trying to show him how she felt about him. If flattery wasn’t going to work, she had hopes that the restaurant she was leading them to would do it: beautiful view, great food, soft music… It was probably more suited to quiet dinners than early lunches, but it had been difficult enough to block out even a few midmorning hours from her busy schedule. And there were only so many excuses she could come up with to convince Kyle that she needed private time.
Chez Mann was an anachronism, a sumptuously decorated theater restaurant with window walls, crystal chandeliers, and tuxedoed waiters, which, for all its pretensions, ended up looking like an airport cafeteria. An arrogant maître d’ showed them not to the secluded table Minmei requested but to a deserted-looking one along the window wall, while a lifeless pianist noodled his way soullessly through an old standard.
“Do you like it?” Minmei said when they were seated. “My producer has a friend who’s part owner. Movie stars come in here all the time,” she continued, pressing her point.
Rick regarded her quizzically. Minmei seemed incapable of accepting the present state of the world. Movie stars: There weren’t more than a handful of entertainers left on the entire planet, let alone in Monument City! In fact, if anything, the notion of entertainment was reverting back to much earlier forms of storytelling and what amounted to religious drama and reenactments.
“Who cares about movie stars?” Rick said harshly.
Minmei smiled at him. “Well, I’m a movie star, and you like me.”
“I liked you before you were a star, Minmei.”
Her first reaction was to tell him: I’ve always been a star. Miffed, she said: “You mean you don’t like me just because I happen to be famous?”
“I like you,” he reassured her, but she had already turned her attention to something else. Rick glanced down at his watch and thought again about Lisa. When he looked up, Minmei was sliding a present toward him.
“Just my way of saying thank you, Rick.”
He didn’t want to accept it. It wasn’t, after all, like he’d done her some sort of favor. But she insisted, claiming that she had looked all over for something special. Finally, he shrugged and opened the wrapping; inside was a winter scarf of handwoven alpaca wool, as rare as hen’s teeth these days.
He put it around his neck and thanked her. “I’ll think of you whenever I wear it.”
“It looks good with that suit,” she commented, hoping the nervousness she felt wasn’t visible. It was so important to her that he understand how she felt.
“Makes me feel like Errol Flynn,” Rick joked, striking a pose.
She laughed. “All you need is a sword.”
Minmei wanted to reach out and take his hand, but just then the waiter appeared with cocktails and set them on the table. The moment spoiled, she looked across to Rick and said: “Why do waiters always seem to serve people at precisely the wrong time?”
The waiter, a long-haired would-be actor with a pencil-thin mustache who had had a bad morning, returned: “And why is it that movie stars always seem to find something to complain about?”
Rick stifled a laugh, happy to see Minmei taken to task. But it hardly fazed her. He joined her in a toast to “better times” and began to feel suddenly at ease. They began to talk about the old times—for the two of them, a period of scarcely four years. To Rick it felt like yesterday, but Minmei seemed to think those times a million years ago.
“Some things time can’t change,” Rick said cryptically.
She nodded. “I know. Sometimes I think my feelings haven’t changed at all.”
It was an equally vague sort of response, and Rick, recalling Minmei’s feelings, wasn’t sure he wanted things to return to yesteryear. He decided to be straightforward—the way Lisa had been with him recently—just to see where it would lead.
“I still think about you, Minmei,” he began. “Sometimes at night, I—”
There was some sort of commotion at the door; the maître d’ was shouting, insisting that the man who had shoved his way past him was required to wear a tie before entering. The long-haired man turned out to be Lynn-Kyle.
Both Rick and Minmei had turned their attention to the scene; now they were staring at each other blankly. Minmei took Rick’s hand, squeezing it, her eyes brimming with tears.
“Please Rick, you’ve got to promise me: Whatever he does, whatever he says, you won’t interfere.”
“But—” he started to protest.
“Promise me!”
Rick’s lips became a thin line, and he nodded silently.
In a moment Kyle was standing over Minmei.
“I’ve been looking all over for you,” he said, controlled but obviously angered. “You knew I scheduled a press conference. Come on, we’re leaving.”
He made a move toward her, but she refused to budge. “Don’t be obstinate, Minmei! Do you realize the strings I had to pull to get those reporters out here today?!”
Rick held himself in check, the scarf still around his neck; Kyle hadn’t bothered to acknowledge him. Rick guessed he was still sore about having had to be rescued. The dirt bag. Still, this was business, and maybe Kyle had a right to be angry. He decided to help Minmei out by offering to leave. But instead, she put him right in the middle of things.
“We don’t have to leave—I’m not going!”
Now Kyle grabbed her by the wrist. “Oh yes you are!”
“Get your hands off!” she retaliated. “You’re hurting me, you bully! Who do you think you are, anyway?!”
Surprisingly enough, Kyle backed off, and Rick offered silent thanks to the heavens, because if it had gone on another second, he would have been all over Kyle, promise or no promise, martial arts or no. The piano player had stopped his noodling, the restaurant patrons having found more accessible entertainment.
Kyle grinned knowingly and turned to Rick. “This is how a professional acts… Attractive, isn’t it?” He swung back to Minmei, raising his voice parentally. “That’s enough of your whining! Why don’t you try acting your age for once? People are waiting for you!”
Minmei was standing at her place, her fists clenched. She grabbed her cocktail and downed the thing defiantly, shivering and trying to brave it out. Rick looked out the window.
“I’m tipsy…” he heard her say. “I couldn’t possibly talk to any reporters now.”
Kyle issued a low guttural growl, a dangerous signal that Minmei might have overplayed her part. With lightning speed he scooped up the water glass and threw it in her face.
“That oughta sober you up.”
Rick was halfway out of his chair, his teeth bared, waiting for the next move. Minmei had begun to sob, and once again Kyle had her by the wrist.
“Now, stop acting foolish and let’s go.”
Kyle tugged, she followed; then she suddenly turned and shouted for Rick.
“Kyle!” he screamed, expecting him to let go of her and come after him. Kyle, however, chose a subtler way to disarm him.
“Don’t you understand, Hunter?” he said, reasonably and in full possession of himself. “She’s got too many things that have to be taken care of. It comes with the territory.” When he saw Rick relax, he added: “Oh, and don’t worry about lunch: We’ll cover it—that’s what expense accounts are for. Maybe you should just report back to your base, huh? Get back into your uniform or something.”
Rick saw Minmei nod to him, sobbing but gesturing that he should do as Kyle said. Kyle tugged at her again, lecturing her about how he had given up everything, how she didn’t care about her career anymore. Most of the patrons were bored by now; many had simply gotten up and left the restaurant.
Rick avoided their stares and reached for his drink, fingering the new scarf. Some swashbuckler, he said to himself.
* * *
It was almost noon, and the Seciele coffee shop was beginning to gear up for lunch, although the majority of its outdoor tables remained empty. The weather had taken a sudden turn, and most people were electing to take indoor seats. Lisa, however, was still at the table she had occupied since nine o’clock. She had already downed four cups of coffee and was sweating despite the sudden chill in the air. There had been no word from Rick, but she had decided to remain in case he tried to get a message through. Obviously he had been called in, but no one at the base knew anything about it or knew where he might be. If there had been an alert, she would also have been notified, but no such orders had been given. Still, Rick’s being called in was the only possible explanation.
The good mood she had enjoyed only hours before had long since abandoned her along with the morning’s unnatural warmth. Were these quick turnabouts a sign of the times? she questioned—the mood swings, the reversals, the confusion? Only moments ago she had witnessed a small misunderstanding between a pedestrian and a motorist escalate into a violent argument. It made her wonder if Rick had been involved in an accident, perhaps run over!
Anxiously, she checked the time and hurried to the vidphone. There was no answer at Rick’s quarters, so she toned in the base again, contemplating a fall leaf that had blown her away—the closest she might come to nature all day.
“Communications. This is Lieutenant Mitchell.”
Lisa identified herself, but before she had an opportunity to inquire about a possible alert, Nikki Mitchell said: “Captain Hayes, I thought you were with Commander Hunter.”
Lisa instantly regretted phoning them. Her life had practically become an open book to the SDF-2 control room crew, Vanessa, Sammie, and the rest. It was one of those damned-if-you-do, damned-if-you-don’t situations: When she was cool, calm, and collected, Lisa Hayes “the old sourpuss,” no one bothered to interfere with her private life; but now that she had taken some of Claudia’s advice and was speaking her mind, everyone was tracking her moves as if she was a regular entry in some sort of gossip column contest.
“Aren’t you supposed to be on a picnic?” Mitchell asked. In the background, Lisa could hear Kim say: “I bet that creep stood her up.” Vanessa reinforced it: “See, I told you he wasn’t interested in her.”
“Shut up!” Nikki yelled, and Lisa held the phone away from her ear. “You two sound like a couple of old hens!”
“And what does that make you—the rooster?” Sammie countered.
Lisa was furious. Not only was her private life being discussed behind her back, but it was being wagered upon and argued about!
“Oh, never mind!” Lisa yelled, and hung up. “Busy bodies,” she muttered under her breath.
* * *
Cut off by the Chez Mann bartender after countless drinks, Rick had drifted back to the right-hand-drive rented vehicle and started out for the airport. The scene that had taken place between Minmei and Kyle now seemed just that: an orchestrated act put on for the public, with a cameo by Rick Hunter, occasional hero. In the end Minmei had chosen to run along with Kyle, and that was all that really mattered: She hadn’t changed, and Rick had been a fool to think she could. Presents, wistful walks down memory lane, post-rescue embraces: it was all part of her repertoire. And now he had lost her for the umpteenth time and stood up Lisa to boot.
Up ahead of him on the two-lane airport highway was a roadblock manned by a CD corporal wearing a white beret. The road was closed, Rick was informed.
“Is there an alternate route to the airport?” he asked, leaning out the driver’s window.
“Airport’s closed,” said the corporal. “We’ve got Zentraedi trouble.”
“My plane’s out there!” Rick shouted, not clear-headed enough to show his ID.
The corporal’s hand edged toward his sidearm. “I told you, buddy, the road’s closed.”
Rick cursed him and stomped on the accelerator. The minivan shot forward, swerving around the barricade, while the sentry drew his weapon. In thinking about it later, Rick would ask himself why he had done this, wondering whether to blame Minmei or the alcohol. In the final analysis, however, he realized that he had done it for Lisa: He was going to have to tell her something!
“Damn fool!” the sentry yelled, thinking twice about firing a warning shot and hurrying to his radio phone.
* * *
A Battlepod ambled along the runway, destroying grounded Veritechs with blasts from its plastron cannon, while nearby a giant Zentraedi armed with an autocannon picked off fire and rescue vehicles that were tearing across the tarmac en route to crisis points.
“These Micronians are no challenge at all!” he yelled in his own tongue, the lust for battle erasing all memories of his two peaceful years on Earth.
A second giant in Botoru powered armor lifted a fighter from the field, pressed it over his head, and heaved it at a speeding transport truck several hundred feet away. The Veritech fell squarely on the vehicle and exploded, obliterating both.
Veritechs appeared in the skies now, just as Rick was arriving in the minivan. Dodging gatling slugs, he made his way to the CD hangar, showed his ID, suited up, and commandeered an Excalibur. He had counted five giants—all armed with autocannons—a sixth in powered armor, and at least two Battlepods. Whether these were malcontents or members of Khyron’s beaten band was immaterial: The CD unit was outpowered. And yet the base commander was giving him a lot of flack about clearance and warning him not to damage the mecha! Rick realized that Monument’s recently gained autonomy accounted for this, but without a little help, there wasn’t going to be much of a Monument left; so he humored the commander, shaking off the last of his alcoholic stupor.
Meanwhile, a Battlepod was holing the passenger terminal with volleys of fire. His ally with the cannon had tired of firing on the private craft and now turned his attention to the terminal. Peering through a horizontal row of permaglass windows, he spied several Micronians huddled together behind the desks of a spacious office—the most laughable sight he had seen all day. It was too easy to blow them away as a group, so he first drove the muzzle of the autocannon through the plate glass to scatter everyone. Only then did he train the weapon on them, bolts of white energy flinging bodies to gruesome deaths.
One of his less exacting comrades emptied his cannon against the building in an effort to collapse the entire wall.
Rick stepped his mecha from the hangar in time to see a pod with its left foot posed above his small fanjet, preparing to stomp it out of existence. He got off a shot without thinking and managed to take the pod’s leg off at the knee, sending the mecha backward and down on its back to the field. This captured the attention of the remaining Zentraedis, who swung around to find themselves face to face with two Excaliburs and a Battloid.
“Zentraedi rebels!” Rick yelled through the external net. “Throw down your weapons at once or we will be forced to take immediate action!” He repeated it even as the soldiers and mecha were leveling their weapons against him.
“Prove it!” said one of the giants, a purple faced, blue-haired clone with gorilla features. He gestured to his fellow warrior and opened fire, autocannon slugs raining ineffectively against the armored legs of Rick’s Excalibur.
“They’re bluffing!” he shouted when his weapon had expended its charge.
Rick smiled madly inside the cockpit. “Give them a demonstration,” he ordered.
Suddenly a drum-armed Spartan was looming into view on the other side of the airport terminal. Rick gave the word, and scores of missiles streaked heavenward from the mecha’s launch tubes. The three Zentraedi giants tracked their course with frightened eyes and screamed as the missiles plunged homeward, exploding like strings of fireworks at the giants’ feet. The three were blown from the strike zone, one flung to his death against a massive conduit, the others gasping for air as paralyzing nerve gas released from the missiles began to sweep over them.
“Move in!” Rick said over the tac net.
Reconfiguring to Guardian mode, the Battloid went after the remaining Battlepod; but the Zentraedi mecha juked and sidestepped, facing off with Rick’s Excalibur instead. Rick dropped his mecha to a crouch and tackled the pod, shearing off one of its legs as it passed overhead. Out of commission, the mecha hit the field with a ground-shaking crash, its severed leg bouncing along with it.
The one giant who had survived the gas was easily dispatched by the second Excalibur, while the Veritech just as easily dropped the alien in powered armor.
Rick ordered the civil defense units to collect the bodies, separate the living from the dead, and lock the former away for interrogation.
“And radio the SDF-2 for me,” Rick added as an afterthought. “Make sure you mention that I was here.”
With a little luck, Lisa would receive word of the uprising even before he made it back to New Macross.
Lisa had switched over to cocktails, and by the time the robo-waiter cruised over to inform her that outdoor service was being discontinued, she had had so many Bloody Marys that she was seeing red. The waiting game had become some sort of crazed exercise in self-control. She had visions of Rick finding her skeletal remains here, her withered hand permanently affixed to the thermos or the picnic basket. The temperature had fallen a further fifteen degrees since noon, and the wind had picked up, gusting in autumn leaves that swirled around her feet. Once, a puppy had wandered by and she had fed him snacks from the wicker basket. She had been eyed by more than one Veritech jock and coffee shop poet. But now she was ready to throw in the towel. That Rick Hunter had died was the only excuse she was ready to accept.
But no sooner did she hear Rick’s voice than she went back on her word. He was running up the street toward her, dressed, oddly enough, in his one and only suit and wearing a long scarf around his neck. Hardly the picnic and hiking outfit she had expected, but she decided to at least give him a chance to explain.
“Let’s hear it, Rick,” she said coolly from her chair.
Rick was panting. “I didn’t think you’d still be here… I checked your quarters first… You see, there was a Zentraedi uprising in Monument and—”
“An uprising?!” Lisa said, surprised. “Is everything all right?”
“Yeah, now it is. But there were a number of deaths and—”
“Wait a minute,” she interrupted him. “We have no jurisdiction in Monument. What were you doing there?”
“Well, I… had some official business—”
“Which is why you’re wearing your suit, of course.”
Rick looked himself over as if noticing the suit for the first time.
“This was for our date.”
Lisa laughed. “It was supposed to be a picnic, remember—not a cocktail party.”
“Look…”
She made a dismissive gesture and stood up, taking hold of the basket and thermos. “It’s too late for a picnic now. And it’s a shame, really, because I spent all morning cooking. It’s the first time I’ve had a chance to do that in years.”
Rick stammered an apology.
“You should have called me,” she told him. “I’ve been waiting here all day, worried that something had happened to you and figuring you would try to get a message to me somehow. Now you give me this story about an uprising and some mysterious business—”
“There was an uprising! Check with the base if you don’t believe me. Besides, I did try to call you…”
She threw him a suspicious look. “You’re here now. We can at least take a walk.”
Lisa didn’t hear Rick’s sigh of relief. She was too busy concentrating on the fact that he was cozying up to her, draping one end of that scarf around her shoulders. The temperature was continuing to plunge, and there was a winter dampness in the air. She reached up to feel the weave; it was so soft, she touched the cloth to her cheek. And suddenly stopped dead in her tracks.
She might have had a poor memory for faces and two left feet when it came to dancing and a habit of picking derelicts for boyfriends, but one thing she prided herself on was her talent for remembering aromas and tastes. And she sure as heck recognized the perfume on that scarf: Innocent—Lynn-Minmei’s favorite!
“Take that thing off me, Hunter!” she exclaimed. “You seem to have wrapped it around the wrong person!”
“Lisa, I can explain everything! It’s not what you think!” Rick said, as she threw one end of the scarf over his shoulder.
“I recognize the scent, you idiot! So that was your official business, huh?” she began to walk away. “And don’t bother calling me!”
She shouted it without turning around because she didn’t want him to see the tears in her eyes.
Snowflakes had begun to fall.
* * *
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen of Monument City,” Lynn-Kyle announced from that city’s bandshell by the lake. “Congratulations on your autonomy from the central government. Tonight, in celebration of that event, we have a special treat in store. Minmei has graciously agreed to come and sing for you. Let’s all hang our hopes for a bright future on her songs… And so, let’s have a warm welcome… for a great talent—Lynn-Minmei!”
The audience of mostly Zentraedi giants applauded and cheered as the orchestra commenced the opening bars of “Stagefright.” The bandshell blacked out, and Kyle moved off to the wings. On the stage’s upper tiers, a wide spot found Minmei; she stood unmoving, arms at her sides, the mike dangling from one hand.
Even after the song’s intro.
Kyle looked up, full of concern. The band had broken into a low-volume vamp, awaiting her entrance. “Minmei, that was your cue!” Kyle whispered. When she didn’t respond, he tried another tack. “Quit fooling around! Are you all right?!”
“Yes,” she said with a sad smile. The band had broken off altogether now, and murmurs were running through the audience. Some thought it part of the act—a new form of dramatic effect or something—and a rhythmical clapping began, punctuated with shouts of “Minmei! Minmei! Minmei!”
“What’s the problem?!” hissed Kyle. “Sing!”
She had one arm across her chest self-protectively and her eyes averted from the audience. Kyle heard her sigh; then she suddenly turned to them. “I’m sorry—I can’t perform!”
The clapping died down.
“I won’t sing,” she continued, on the verge of tears. “I can’t perform when my heart is breaking!”
And with that she dropped the mike, turned, and fled. The audience surged forward, refusing to believe this, and Kyle was all at once stunned and worried about a riot. Quickly, he signaled the stage manager to lower the bandshell’s eyelid-like curtain.
The audience fell back to watch its descent. And the moment carried with it a discomforting note of finality; the Zentraedi ship in the lake loomed behind the closed bandshell like a spike driven into the all-seeing eye.
* * *
Kyle found her on the littered beach behind the bandshell. She was alone, hugging her knees, staring at the ruined Zentraedi ship. He wasn’t sure that anything he said would turn the trick. And for the first time he didn’t care. She had moved away from him, withdrawn from the high goals they had both set themselves. Unreachable, she had ceased to interest him any longer; she was beyond his control.
“This is all your fault,” Minmei said, sensing somehow that he was standing over her. “Since I’ve been with you, I’ve lost touch with the things that are really important to me.”
Kyle laughed shortly. “You haven’t changed a bit, have you? Still the selfish brat! You know, you only think about what you want, just like you’ve done since you were a kid. Well, it’s about time you grew up. Don’t you have any idea how those people felt when you refused to sing for them tonight? You should’ve seen their faces… They’re your fans, and they love you. And what do you do? You go and let them down. That’s just like you!”
Minmei struggled with his words, determined not to let Kyle get to her. She knew what he was up to: pulling out all the stops now to convince her to come around. And she knew it would get worse—uglier.
“I just can’t do it anymore,” she said firmly.
Kyle reconfigured his tone. “If you just opened your heart and let the love flow through you, you could be the greatest talent ever. Through your music, we could transcend all the evil in the universe and bring people together… That’s a precious gift, Minmei, but it has to be properly presented. That’s why I’ve worked so hard for three years… But now, this is the end. I’m going to take a long trip, and I probably won’t see you again—at least not for some time…”
A ferry was crossing the lake, its mournful horn sounding. Minmei clenched her teeth, hating Kyle for his hypocrisy, his years of abuse. He had almost succeeded in dragging her down to that plane of misery and cynicism he lived on—despite the noble sound of his words, the peaceful thrust of his speeches. And now he was simply going to walk out on her—his standard approach to interpersonal challenge when martial arts wouldn’t do it. So of course it was important for him to make her realize that she’d been rotten all along, that he could do nothing with such flimsy stuff, that she was no longer worth the effort. He had done the same thing to his parents.
He had draped his jacket over her shoulders in preparation for a theatrical exit.
“I hope that someday,” he was saying, “you can find happiness for yourself. I’ll always love you…”
Creep! She was shouting to herself. Rat! Fool! But at the same time she seemed to have a vision of him, off somewhere in the wastelands, probably living among the Zentraedi renegades organizing a new movement… perhaps seeing if he could get himself enlarged to their size—a dream at last fulfilled.
A sudden breeze came up, sending watery crests of moonlit brilliance across the waves. She felt a chill run through her, and when she turned, he had disappeared into the night.