The symbolism of the SDF-1 as New Age Ark wasn’t lost on the residents and crew of that fortress—Macross, thrice-born city of the stars. But unlike the Old Testament Ark, which was really Noah’s Ark, the dimensional fortress was thought of by some as the savior itself; the reappearance of the culture hero, the second coming, clothed in the guise of technology—Robotechnology—befitting the times, much as the Nazarene was his own world. This, however, remained the stuff of esoteric cults; underneath it all, the old religions continued to thrive. A return to the basics was universally stressed; the original untampered-with versions of creation and regeneration. And even the Zentraedi found their way over to these.
History of the First Robotech War, Vol. CCXIII
ALTHOUGH DOLZA HAD RAINED DEATH ON THE EAST AND WEST coasts of the South American continent, the Amazon basin, with its complex river systems and millions upon millions of acres of virgin forest, was left relatively untouched by his deadly storm. Ironically, many of the indigenous people who had once abandoned their dwellings on the jungled shores of those many slow-moving tributaries for the coastal cities had found their way back into that verdant wilderness after the devastating Zentraedi attack. Green hell or green mansion, its untamed prehistoric disorder was currently home to more survivors than ever before.
And among the most recent arrivals was Khyron.
So different from those bleak icebound reaches he had come to hate, this landscape of perpetual murder—where one waged a daily battle for survival, and where pain, misery, and death ruled supreme—it was hardly his world, but it was most certainly his element.
Chased by unrelenting squadrons of Earth Forces mecha, Khyron had been forced to put down here, his own troops reduced to a mere handful, and his cruiser all but depleted of its Protoculture fuel supplies. The small amounts of precious fuel that had spilled from ruptured Protoculture lines had found sympathetic roots in the forest, working vegetal miracles in the thin surface soil—Khyron’s ship, wrapped in creepers, tendrils, orchids, and vines, looked as if it had landed there eons ago. But there were things to be thankful for: Some of his troops had served for many months in the Micronian population center factories, learning about that strange custom called “work” and that more important process known as “repair”; moreover, his agents were still at work in the so-called cities of the north, reporting to him on matters of mecha deployment, Protoculture storage, and the growing separatist movement in the Zentraedi cities such as New Detroit and Monument. Soon the time for his reappearance would be at hand…
In addition, Khyron learned that scores of Zentraedi ships had crashed in the jungle, and already the survivors of those wrecked ships were finding their way to his new stronghold.
For several weeks the tech crews had worked feverishly to effect repairs on the cruiser’s weapons and navigational systems, while squads of giants had scoured the thick forests for food and supplies, often raiding the simple Micronian settlements they stumbled upon. The hot, steamy jungle succeeded in dragging them down to its own primitive levels, humanizing them in ways even Khyron didn’t notice. Discipline had loosened somewhat, especially with regard to fraternization between males and females and the wearing of uniforms. The men, sometimes stripped to the waist or in tank-top undershirts, grew accustomed to sweating—something new to their bodies, despite their having labored on infernal worlds like Fantoma. And Khyron got used to his troops calling him by name.
“Commander,” called one of the techs now. “I can give you auxiliary power.”
“Then do it,” Khyron told him.
There were four of them in the control center of the cruiser, all in sleeveless T’s, enervated by the afternoon heat. The man who had addressed Khyron was seated at one of the many duty station consoles; he engaged a series of switches, and illumination was returned to the bridge.
“Good,” Khyron complimented him. He reached for his communicator and inquired after the reflex furnaces.
A tech wearing an earphone, a flex-mike communicator, and a monocular enhancer responded from elsewhere in the ship. He was one of those who had spent more than a year in the New Detroit mecha factories.
“Not yet, Khyron. And probably not at all unless we acquire some Protoculture soon.”
“What is the status of the main reactors?” Khyron asked.
“Barely functional. Takeoff is still impossible.”
“Not good enough! Is there some way to shunt primary power to one of the smaller ships?”
“Yes…” the engine room tech said hesitantly. “But its range would be very limited.”
“Enough to get us to New Macross and back?”
“Yes, but—”
“That’s all,” Khyron said, breaking transmission. He adopted a thoughtful pose for a moment; then, wiping sweat from his brow, he turned to Grel, who was tinkering with a monitor at the opposite end of the control room.
“Grel, are your spies in the Micronian cities to be trusted?”
“I believe so, m’lord,” Grel said over his shoulder.
Khyron walked over to him, bending down to repeat his question. Again Grel stated that the agents could be trusted.
“I have a plan…” Khyron began. “This ‘hollow day’ that approaches—”
“‘Holiday,’ m’lord. A feast day of sorts.”
“Holiday,” Khyron repeated, trying the word out. “Yes ‘Christmas,’ you called it. The Micronians will have their minds on celebration.”
Grel smiled. “I understand, Commander. It would be an ideal occasion to strike.”
“And you’re certain about the whereabouts of the Protoculture matrix, Grel? Because I warn you—if you’re not…”
Grel swallowed hard. “Certain, m’lord.”
Khyron ordered him to open all communications channels within the cruiser. When Grel nodded, Khyron picked up the comlink mike.
“Now hear this,” he announced. “We are mounting a raid on a Micronian population center. Our objective: the Protoculture-matrix drive housed in the storage facility at New Macross. I want all of you to go on standby alert.”
Khyron signed off.
“What is this ‘Christmas,’ Grel?”
Grel raised his eyebrows. “A feast celebrating the creation of one of the Micronian culture heroes, I believe.”
“Culture hero?!” Khyron spat. “It is the name ‘Khyron’ they will speak of after our raid! Khyron the destroyer of worlds!” He threw his head back, laughing maniacally and crushing the communicator in his hand. “Khyron, the Protoculture hero!”
* * *
“Sometimes I think life was easier when we were Zentraedi,” Konda said sadly.
Bron and Rico responded at the same time: “You don’t meant it!”
“We’re still Zentraedi, Konda!”
Konda pushed his long lavender hair out of his face and looked at his comrades. “I know that. But I mean when we were soldiers.” He turned and motioned to the shelves of Christmas toys that lined the back of their small Park Street stall. “We wouldn’t have to worry about selling all this stuff!”
Snow had begun falling on New Macross two hours earlier, lending further enchantment to an already cheery and magical Christmas Eve. It was the first snowfall in several weeks, the first Christmas snow many of Macross City’s residents had seen in a decade. Shoppers and pedestrians moved along the sidewalks in a kind of wonder, as if questioning their surroundings: Was it possible after four long years of war and suffering that joy was finally returning to their hearts? One could almost feel the radiant warmth of their collective glow.
All except Rico, Konda, and Bron, that is.
Their jobs at the laundry had come to a sudden end months ago, when they had returned from a routine-pickup with a stack of expensive linen sheets, each bearing Lynn-Minmei’s indelible ink autograph. There had followed a succession of menial jobs since, culminating with this Park Street stall full of toys—transformable robots, lifelike dolls, and huggable stuffed puppies, all of which had peaked three seasons before and were little more than memorabilia now. They had managed to sell two items during the past week—and that was only by reducing the prices to less than they had paid.
“We just have to learn to be more aggressive,” Rico said knowingly.
“What d’ ya mean?” said Konda.
Rico thought for a moment. “Uh, you know: forceful.”
Bron looked confused. “Are you allowed to do that?”
“That’s what someone told me.” Rico shrugged.
“Well, okay,” Bron echoed, beginning to roll up his sleeves to expose his brawny arms. “But I don’t see how we can do that from inside this stall.”
“He’s right,” Konda suddenly agreed. “We should put all these toys in sacks—”
“Like Santa Claus,” Bron interjected proudly.
“Right. And take them over to the mall. We’ll have more knee room there.”
Rico stared at the two of them. “Elbow room, you idiot.”
Konda grinned sheepishly. “Whatever.”
“I say we do it!” Bron said decisively, slapping his friends on the back. “We’ll be the most aggressive salesmen in town!”
* * *
In the deserted children’s playground across from the mall where Park Street emptied into Macross Boulevard, Minmei rocked herself side to side on one of the swings. The newspaper gossip columns were filled with rumors linked to her sudden disappearance from Monument City almost three weeks ago, and this was the first time she had ventured out of the White Dragon since returning to Macross. Even so, she wasn’t disguised, dressed in a plain burgundy-colored dress and black sweater barely heavy enough to keep her warm. She reasoned—rightly so—that people wouldn’t recognize this new Lynn-Minmei, who was as far removed from that eternally optimistic star of stage and screen as one could get.
Singing was a part of her past. So was Kyle and everyone else connected with her career. She had spent a few days with her agent, Vance Hasslewood, after the scene with Kyle, but he wanted to be more to her than a sounding board. So she returned to Uncle Max and Aunt Lena; they took her in with open arms and helped her secure a few moments of peace. But she realized she wouldn’t be able to remain with them: One day Kyle would wander in, and she didn’t want to be around when he did.
If only it weren’t Christmas, she kept telling herself. If only it were summer, if only everyone else didn’t seem so happy and complacent, if only…
She stretched her hand out to collect some snow, and as the flakes melted against her warm skin, she thought about Rick. Where was he now? Would he even be willing to talk to her after what had happened in the restaurant? He was probably off having a wonderful Christmas Eve dinner with someone that girl Lisa, perhaps. Everyone had somebody they could turn to.
Suddenly someone was calling her name. She looked up and saw three men running toward her from the boulevard entrance to the park. One of them, the shortest of the three, was pushing some sort of cart in front of him; the other two were carrying enormous backpacks and bedrolls. All three had on baseball caps and orange jackets, and there was something familiar about them…
“Minmei!” one of them shouted again.
And then she knew. Disguise or no disguise, new Minmei or old, these three would always recognize her!
She jumped up from the swing seat and began to run for the street.
Rico, Konda, and Bron gave chase, but encumbered by the toy sacks, backpacks, and such, they couldn’t keep up with her.
“Minmei!” Rico called again, out of breath.
Aggressive sales tactics had gotten them thrown out of the mall—they’d actually been grabbing kids and forcing toys upon them—and so they had wandered over to the park in search of fresh quarry.
“Maybe she didn’t hear us,” Konda suggested mildly.
“Maybe it wasn’t her,” said Bron.
Rico nodded. “Couldn’t’ve been. We’re her best fans.”
* * *
Rick was in the kitchen of his quarters, waiting for water to boil, when he heard the television announcement.
“Last night we reported that famed singer and movie star Lynn-Minmei had been taken ill. But we have since learned that she is listed as officially missing, following her hasty departure from Monument City three weeks ago. Official sources believe that this has something to do with the disappearance of Miss Minmei’s longtime friend and manager, Lynn-Kyle. There has, however, been no mention of foul play…”
Rick listened for a moment more. He was certain that the two of them had wandered off somewhere together. After what he had witnessed in Chez Mann, it was obvious that Minmei was completely under Kyle’s spell. Rick didn’t dwell on it, though; people made their own choices in life. Besides, he had problems of his own to dwell on: Lisa would talk to him only over the com net, and even then her tone left no doubt about how she felt toward him. She refused to talk about it, wouldn’t so much as have a cup of coffee with him.
The newscaster was saying something about a discovery in the Amazon region when Rick heard the doorbell ring. He threw off his work apron and went to answer it.
It was Minmei, although he almost didn’t recognize her. She had a forlorn and downcast look about her, snowflakes like a network of disappearing stars in her dark hair. She asked to come in, not wanting to impose, apologizing for not having called first.
“My friends don’t have to call,” Rick said, offsetting his initial stammering.
She began to cry, and he held her.
Inside, he put his wool officer’s jacket over her shoulders and made some coffee. She sat on the edge of his bed and sipped at her cup, happier by the moment.
“I feel so tired of everything,” she told him after explaining her fight with Kyle and her flight from Monument. “I’m sick of being fussed over all the time… Now, when I think about my life, I remember the things that I’ve lost instead of being grateful for what I have. I just don’t have anyone to turn to for support anymore.”
She was standing by the window now, her back to him, staring out at the snowfall. Rick, on the other hand, was staring at her long bare legs; even while he tried to listen to her complaints, he wondered if she was going to spend the night.
“You’ve still got your music,” he said after a moment, not sure what he meant.
“If that’s all I’ve got, then I don’t want to sing anymore.”
“Your songs are your life, Minmei.”
“My life is a song,” she demanded, lower lip trembling.
Rick made a face. “You can’t be serious.”
“I can’t perform anymore, Rick.”
“It’s Kyle, isn’t it?”
She frowned at him. “That’s not it! I don’t care if I ever see him again! We spent all our time together, whether we were working or not. He smothered me with his stupid attempts at affection, then yelled at me when he couldn’t control me.” Minmei looked hard at Rick. “I have nobody who understands, nobody who’ll take the time to listen to me.”
Rick resisted a sudden impulse to run. He was aware of what she was leading him into, and even though he’d played this scene through a hundred times before, he didn’t want to win her from weakness. As much as he desired her, he didn’t want to get her on the rebound from Kyle.
* * *
At about the same time Minmei showed up at Rick’s door, Lisa was enjoying a holiday eggnog with Claudia, Max, and Miriya at the Setup, a health spa-pub on the boulevard. Later, she cabbed over to Rick’s place, told the driver not to wait, and headed for his quarters, leaving footprints in the thin layer of snow.
She had a present for him—a shirt she had shopped long and hard for, yet another peace offering in the seemingly constant war they waged with each other. She had considered drenching it in her own favorite scent (“SDF No. 5,” Claudia called it) but thought Rick wouldn’t appreciate the joke. He had been calling her every other day with one suggestion or another—coffee, a movie, a picnic!—and she had turned him down each time. But with some distance from the battleground (her hours at the outdoor table forgotten), and this being holiday time, she decided that the time was right for forgiveness. Rick had been inconsiderate and all, but it probably wouldn’t be the last time; and if she was going to make this thing work, she would have to learn not to hold on to her anger.
As she approached the house, she noticed that the front door was ajar. She neared it just as Minmei was saying: “I have nobody who understands, nobody who’ll take the time to listen to me.” The voice was as recognizable as the perfume.
“None of my friends in the business really know who I am,” Minmei continued. “You see, Rick, you’re the only one who cares. That’s why I came: I was wondering if I could stay here for a while.”
Lisa sucked in her breath and almost shoved her fist into her mouth. She knew she had no right to eavesdrop, but her legs refused to put her in motion.
Minmei was pleading with Rick: “I don’t have anyone else to turn to!”
Lisa’s life seemed to be hanging in the balance. Then she heard Rick give his okay and felt herself going over the edge. Silently she pulled the door closed and began to run, crying harder with each step. A short distance down the block a man stopped to inquire if she was all right. She turned on him like a harridan, telling him to mind his own business.
* * *
Claudia, meanwhile, had been hopping from bar to bar, party to party. Her brother, Vince, and his wife, Dr. Jean Grant, had invited her over for Christmas drinks, but she had declined. Likewise, she had no desire to return to her quarters and confront the intense loneliness that plagued her on each holiday. For all his bravado Roy had had a traditional side that revealed itself on holidays, and they had passed many wonderful moments together: quiet dinners, walks through the snow on moonlit evenings, midnight exchanges of gifts and affection. She saw this same shared magic in the eyes of each couple that passed her on the street, and it wasn’t long before she found herself back at the Setup, hoping she would run into a friendly face or two.
The last person she expected to find there was Lisa, but there she was, draped over the bar, an almost empty wine bottle in front of her. She was singing—trying at any rate—one of Minmei’s songs, “Stagefright,” by the sound of it. Claudia’s face dropped, then she gave a small shrug and took the adjacent stool.
“Misery loves company,” Lisa slurred, and smiled.
Several hours and countless drinks later, after toasting everyone they knew or had known and solving all the world’s problems, they kissed each other good-bye just as the sun was coming up over Lake Gloval. Claudia had the day off, but Lisa had put in for the morning shift. A young staff officer who had been a frequent visitor to their private party ran Lisa over to the SDF-2 in his open-air jeep.
Surprised at how sober she was—figuring she had somehow pierced the hangover envelope—she tried to let herself enjoy the ride, the cold air rushing at her face. But all that seemed to do was sober her to the point where last night’s problems had little trouble creeping into her consciousness once again. It was time to give up, she told herself, give up and let Minmei have Rick once and for all.
As Lisa was approaching the command center, she heard Kim and Sammie discussing her—a common enough occurrence these days—so she waited outside the door until they were finished, wondering how much more of this she could stand.
Apparently, word of her all-nighter in the Setup had spread fast. Sammie was saying: “Well, you shouldn’t believe everything you hear.”
“You’d do the same thing if you wanted to forget him,” said Kim, making Lisa think back on the evening to ascertain if she had really done something to be ashamed of. If only she had come into this a little sooner…
“Lisa’s too nice a person to do something like that!”
“Of course—she’s not as perfect as you,” Kim teased.
That seemed to take the conversation in a different direction entirely, and a minute or so later Lisa felt safe to enter. Kim, Sammie, and Vanessa were, of course, all smiles by now, but Lisa didn’t hold anything against them. Vanessa mentioned a Christmas party, the first Lisa had heard about it.
“You mean no one told you? It’s for the bridge. Why don’t you invite Rick—I’m sure he’d love to come.”
Was Vanessa goading her? Lisa asked herself. “Ah, I don’t think he’d be able to make it.”
“But he’s off today.”
“Yeah, but he’s at home with a miserable little…”
“Oh,” said Vanessa. “Sick, huh? Too bad.”
Just then the bridge PA came alive. A female voice said:
“This is ground base security! Zentraedi forces are attacking the industrial section! Emergency communique to all sectors!”
* * *
Khyron’s Officer’s Pod ran through the streets of New Macross, five tactical pods alongside it. They had entered the city before dawn, submerging themselves in the cold waters of the lake before the early-morning surprise attack. Grel’s Battlepod had taken the point, but something was wrong: He had led them past the same storage tanks three times now.
“What are you doing?!” Khyron screamed into his communicator. “You’re leading us around in circles!”
“The Protoculture has got to be here somewhere,” Grel returned. “My agents—”
“Your agents are idiots! Now listen to me: Your incompetence may end up costing you your life! Now, find it!”
* * *
Jeeps and CD vehicles sped through the city announcing the attack and instructing the early-morning crowds to seek shelter immediately. Thus far the Zentraedi were restricting themselves to the storage facilities and factories across the lake, but there was no telling where their blood lust and thirst for destruction would lead.
Max and Miriya were opening presents for Dana when the alert sounded. They left the baby with their neighbors, the Emersons, and headed for the base, awaiting further instructions from Admiral Gloval’s headquarters. It was like old times, after all.
Gloval had been roused from sleep and was now putting in a rare appearance on the SDF-2 bridge. Exedore, recently returned from the Robotech satellite to continue his study of Micronian customs, was by the admiral’s side. Surveillance cameras located throughout the industrial sector had captured the Zentraedis’ curious movements. Both Gloval and Exedore were in agreement that the Officer’s Pod was manned by Khyron.
“They seem to be looking for something,” Gloval commented. “There has been very little destruction. Several sentries were killed when the pods made their first appearance, but nothing since.”
The micronized Zentraedi adviser nodded his head solemnly. “Correct, Admiral. If this were an attack, he would be concentrating on military targets. Or whatever suits his fancy, as you say. It would be my guess that he is here to obtain the Protoculture he needs for his battlecruiser.”
“We’ll concentrate our defense in the industrial sector, then.”
Exedore concurred. He then glanced about and added in a conspiratorial tone: “May I be permitted to make a suggestion, Admiral?”
Gloval’s brow furrowed. “Of course, Exedore.”
The Zentraedi said: “Let him find what he’s looking for.”
* * *
Frustrated by Grel’s failure to zero in on the storage facility, Khyron left his mecha behind and went into the streets on foot to reconnoiter. He was armed with a single autocannon and his own brand of reckless abandon. He held his ground calmly as Veritechs dove in for strafing runs, picking them from the skies with hardly a lost step.
Across the lake Azonia headed up a diversionary force consisting of powered armor units and Quadrono Battalion Invid scout ships. Someday Earth would see many more of these in the skies…
She directed her squadrons against the city proper, successfully drawing off the Veritech teams that were going in after Khyron. The opposing forces met above the lake, filling the chilled air with furious exchanges of heat, harnessed lightning, and swift death. Max was at the center of the sudden hell storm, his blue Veritech reconfigured to Battloid mode, juking and dodging volleys of enemy missiles while his gatling cannon retaliated, spewing transuranic slugs against the invaders. Miriya went wing to wing with him, dropping one, two, then three scout ships and wondering which of the remaining mecha might hold her former commander, Azonia, now Khyron’s consort!
* * *
Rick, ever the gentleman, had taken the couch. He was aware that Minmei had stood over him in the middle of the night while he pretended to sleep; she had fixed his blankets and smiled at him in the dark. But he hadn’t slept well at all; his neck was cramped, his left arm was tingling, and some sort of fireworks had roused him much earlier than he wanted to rise—always the case on a day off.
He went to the window and saw thick columns of smoke in the clear skies above the lake. Quickly he switched on the television, conscious of Minmei’s rustling around in the kitchen. Rick was already pulling on his clothes when he heard the announcement from the MBS newscaster, Van Fortespiel, “the Boogieman”:
“This special bulletin just in: The Zentraedi attack force is believed to be concentrated in the industrial section of the city. Casualty reports are expected in at any minute now…”
Rick was stunned. “Why wasn’t I notified?!” he shouted to the screen, pulling off his V-neck sweater and reaching for his uniform. “Lisa’s on command watch—she knew where to find me!”
Minmei waited nervously by the front door. Rick saw her troubled look and tried to reassure her.
“Don’t worry—this is routine.”
Her eyes were wide with a sudden fear. “If something happened to you, I don’t know what I’d do!” She held him. “Please don’t let me lose you now that I’ve finally found you!”
Rick took her face between his hands and kissed her lightly.
“I’ll be back soon,” was all that he said.
* * *
Khyron’s years—long familiarity with the Invid Flower of Life had imbued him with senses above and beyond the ordinary, especially when it came to homing in on the flower itself, or in this case its repressed matrix—Protoculture.
He ripped away the metal chamber’s tarpaulin cover and smiled to himself, his heart pounding and blood rushing through his system. “The storage matrix,” he murmured aloud.
The cylinder was easily half his height and perhaps twice his weight, but he lifted it easily onto his back nevertheless.
Returning to his mecha, he attached servoclamps to the chamber and winched it tight against the underside of the pod.
A savage battle was raging throughout the sector between Battloids and giants, but he put an end to it now by issuing a recall order to his troops. They regrouped and headed out in formation to the southwest.
Airborne in Skull One, Rick received an update from Max and signaled his team of Veritechs to follow his lead.
“Prepare to block their escape route in sector November! We can’t let them get away with that Protoculture!”
Max broke off to join Skull, leaving the rest of the scout ships to Miriya and her fighter team.
“It’s getting bad back there,” he was telling her. But just then his eyes fixed on the Veritech’s topographic display. Something massive was putting down in sector N… “A Zentraedi escort ship,” he yelled.
Rick saw it land, the escort’s four polelike legs spearing through the roofs of buildings and settling deep into tarmac roads. A bizarre-looking ship, shaped like the body of a bloated walrus, with legs that could have been an architect’s compass and an enormous rear thruster like some outsize megaphone. Kyron’s battlepods and attack mecha were ascending into its open steel-trap belly, while Battloids and Excaliburs poured ineffectual fire against its armored hull.
“Attention, Micronians!” Khyron’s voice suddenly blurted out as the ship began to lift off. “Khyron the Destroyer wants to wish you a merry Christmas, and I send you a special greeting from Santa Claus. May all our foolish hollow-days be as bright as this one!…”
* * *
New Macross didn’t know what had hit it, only that the entire city seemed to go up in flames. Later, piecing together what passed for facts—Khyron’s cryptic remarks and the observations of people in the street—evidence would point to a certain sidewalk Santa, an uncommon Santa with empty eyes and skin like polluted clay, a Zentraedi who might have been in radio contact with “the Destroyer” and set off the myriad bombs his agents had planted throughout the city…
The Veritechs abandoned their pursuit of the escort ship and returned to Macross to battle the blaze, diving into the citywide inferno again and again with fire-retardant bombs.
By the end of the day, the fires were brought under control and the city began to count its dead. The hospitals were filled to overcrowding, and whatever Christmas spirit remained was more funereal than festive. Still, by nightfall, most families had been reunited and a strange post-holocaust calm prevailed. So often destroyed, so often reborn, the people of Macross were hardened survivors, nothing if not adaptable, and well accustomed to death. Church bells sang to one another from distant sectors, carolers took to the streets, and the SDF-2 crew went ahead with its preplanned surprise, lighting the ship with garlands of light, a sacred tree grown from the navel of the world…
* * *
Rick met briefly with Lisa afterward. He was angry in spite of the exhaustion he felt.
“I talked to Vanessa,” he said sharply. “She told me you said I was sick in bed! And you know that’s a lie! I should have been notified at the very first scramble alert!”
“I didn’t say you were sick,” she answered, averting her gaze for a moment. “Anyway, I didn’t think you’d want to be disturbed…” She waited for his puzzled look, then added: “You should be more discreet when you have people coming over—or at least learn to close your front door… I came by last night to say merry Christmas. I know all about Minmei staying with you.”
He let it go at that and returned home, entering the house like he was returning from a day at the office, with a cheery “Hi there!” for Minmei, who was visibly overjoyed to see him.
“Thank goodness!” she gushed, wiping tears away.
“I told you I’d come back.” He smiled.
She ran off to fix her face. Rick noticed that she had prepared an entire dinner for the two of them—even a white-frosted cake with a candle and a small Santa.
“I made it for you,” she said softly, hugging him from behind. “My sweet Rick… I was so worried.”
Rick was speechless, feeling her pressed up against him like that, too good to be true.
“Do you think you could ever give up your commission with the Defense Force?” she asked him. “Please think about it because I never want to lose you, Rick—never again…”
She lit the candle after dinner and wished him a merry Christmas.
“May we have a million more like it,” said Rick, the dog fights and fireworks suddenly forgotten.
Minmei sighed and leaned forward, closing her eyes. Rick followed her lead until their lips met…