From the start it was inevitable that a cult should develop around the Veritech fighters. Like the World War I aces, jet fighter jocks, astronauts, and computer linguists before them, the men who were chosen to interact with the first by-product of Robotechnology considered themselves to be at the cutting edge of human progress. And in a sense they were. For who before them had interfaced with machines on such an intimate level? It was only fitting that they should form their own club and speak their own language—call themselves “mechamorphs.” They were continually borrowing and applying mystic phrases from their Zen masters—those actually responsible for teaching the pilots the essentials of meditative technique… You’d be walking around Macross in those days and hear phrases like “dropping trou” and “standing upright” being tossed about—referring to reconfiguration to Guardian mode and Battloid mode, respectively. Pilots would talk to you about your “thinking caps,” the sensor-studded helmets worn, or about the thrill of “haloing” (fixing an enemy on target in the mind’s eye) or “alpha bets” (gambling with yourself that you were deep enough in trance for the mecha to understand you) or “facing mecha” (going into battle) or “azending”…
Zachary Foxx, Jr., VT: The Men and the Mecha
GLOVAL MET FREQUENTLY WITH DR. LANG DURING THE Development phase of what was being called the pinpoint barrier system. The lambent energy that once filled the spacefold generators’ chamber had been harnessed and redirected. Such was the nature of this antielectron energy, however, that a photon shield for the entire fortress would have further destabilized an already weakened gravity control system. The best that Lang and his Robotechnicians had been able to come up with was a cluster of movable barriers capable of deflecting incoming bolts. An area aft of the ship’s bridge had been retrofitted with three manually operated universal gyros, each tied to one of the cluster’s photon discs.
With the barrier system now operational, Captain Gloval was confident that his “Blitzkrieg” attack plan would prove viable. The strategy was simple enough: When the SDF-1 was in close proximity to Saturn’s rings, electronic countermeasures would be activated to jam the enemy’s radar scanners. The fortress would hide within the rings to take full advantage of their intrinsic radio “noise,” while at the same time, squadrons of Veritech fighters would be deployed in a simulated attack mission to act as decoys. When the enemy moved in to engage the VTs, the SDF-1’s main gun would take them out. Orbital dynamics would make the timing critical: If the fortress reentered orbit too early, it would be catapulted back toward the outer planets; too late, and the launch window to Mars and the inner planets would be closed.
The VT fighter pilots would receive most of this information at the scheduled briefing, and it was to this briefing that Rick and Roy were headed after they left the restaurant.
Roy had been doing his best to cheer up the newly graduated cadet. Rick was one of five cadets chosen; it was really an honor, an endorsement of his flying skills. He would be able to move out of the dormitory barracks into his own room. There would be more free time, special privileges.
They were walking along the tall chain-link fence that surrounded the barracks compound now. Fifty-foot-tall Battloid sentries patrolled the perimeter, their gatlings shouldered like proper soldiers. Defense Force personnel were moving quickly in response to new orders which had been delivered to each unit.
But Rick’s morale was low; his hands were in his pockets, and his shoulders drooped. Roy, however, succeeded in bringing him around with a sharp, “Ten-shun!”
Rick responded expertly to his conditioning: His head came up, he squared his shoulders, brought his back straight, hand at his forehead. His eyes searched for a superior’s uniform, but the only people in his field of vision were four young women in civilian dress. The oldest among them, not more than twenty-three or twenty-four herself, was the one who returned his salute. She had thick brown hair coiled at her shoulders, small, attractive features, and an athletic body even her conservative outfit couldn’t conceal. There was an air of cool command about her.
The other three were suddenly laughing and pointing at him; the tall, dark-haired one—Kim, Rick understood—was whispering something to the one with glasses—Vanessa. Rick was resisting an urge to check his fly buttons, when the short blonde among them yelled, “Mr. Lingerie!”
He decided to risk a full look and recognized three of the women from this morning’s incident in the dress shop. One of them was saying, “Hold your skirts down, ladies,” and Roy was elbowing him in the ribs.
“What gives, Little Brother?”
“Don’t ask,” Rick said out of the corner of his mouth.
The oldest had stepped forward; she gave Rick a look and turned to Roy.
“Commander Fokker, don’t tell me this is the brilliant new pilot you were raving about?”
“One and the same. Corporal Rick Hunter, this is the Flight Officer Lisa Hayes. You’ll be hearing a lot from her from now on.”
Rick saluted again. The women were still needling him with comments.
“Rick Hunter…” Lisa Hayes was repeating. “Why does that name sound familiar? Have we met—uh, before this morning, I mean?”
“No, sir, I don’t think so, sir.”
Lisa tapped her lower lip with her forefinger. She knew that name from somewhere… and all at once she had it: Hunter was the civilian pilot who had shown up at Macross on Launching Day. The same one who had made unauthorized use of a Veritech, the same one who had rescued that Chinese girl, the same one who had called her—
“You’re that loudmouthed pilot, aren’t you?”
Rick stared at her. Yes, unbelievable as it was, she was the one he had seen on the Veritech commo screen months ago.
“Then you must be—”
“Go ahead, Corporal Hunter, say it: I must be…”
“Y-you must be… my superior officer, sir!”
Lisa smirked and nodded her head knowingly. She motioned to her group, and they started off down the sidewalk. But Lisa turned to Rick as she passed him and added, “By the way, I don’t know what your particular problem is, but it’s hardly appropriate behavior for a VT pilot to be hanging around lingerie shops looking for a cheap thrill.”
Rick groaned. Roy scratched his head. The blonde said: “Creep.”
Later, at the briefing, Rick was still replaying the incident; but in light of what was being said, embarrassment placed last on his list of concerns. A decoy mission—the VTs were actually going to pretend to launch a counter-offensive against the aliens! Judging by the murmurs in the crowd, Rick was not the only pilot to be floored by this directive. But like it or not, they had their orders.
“I want you to be thinking of one thing and one thing only,” the general was saying. “Robotech! And I want you to know that we’re all counting on you.”
If the general had let it go at that, Rick would have been all right—afraid but not desperate. The general, however, had then added: “If there’s anyone you want to see, you’d better do it tonight.”
Rick was in a panic. What did he mean by that-that they were being sent out on some kind of suicide mission? And do what tonight—say good-bye, say wish me well, say please remember me always?
He stood on line to use the phone and managed to reach Minmei’s aunt Lena. Minmei was at ballet school, but yes, Lena would relay Rick’s message: Macross Central Park, their bench at nine P.M.
Rick rode back into the city with a few of the other pilots. He kicked around the market area for a while and was in the park by eight o’clock keeping their bench warm. Starlight poured in from the huge bay in the hull; lovers held one another; life went on as though filled with limitless tomorrows. But Rick couldn’t see past the mission, and he was frightened.
By ten o’clock she still hadn’t showed; the park was quiet, and he was about to move on. But just then she came running in, face flushed and out of breath.
“Rick, I’m sorry I’m so late.”
He smiled at her. “At least you made it.”
She pushed her bangs back. Her forehead was beaded with sweat. “What’s the big emergency, anyway?”
“They’re sending us out on a mission tomorrow.”
He didn’t need to add any dramatic accents to it; the words just fell out that way. But her reaction was unexpected. She was practically clapping for him.
“Oh, Rick, that’s great! Really, I’m so happy for you!”
And for a moment her enthusiasm almost won him over. Hey, Rick told himself, maybe this is how I’m supposed to feel, like I’m lucky or something. The park fountain was even gushing in his honor! It didn’t last, though, despite her continued exclamations.
“Your first mission! I can’t believe it! I’m so proud of you!”
Obviously this was what supporting the war effort was all about, he decided. And she was very good at it.
Then Minmei was suddenly on her toes, twirling around in front of him. “Do you like it? Don’t you just love it?” she kept asking. He was puzzled but caught on fast. The dress! The salmon-colored dress she’d picked up that afternoon.
“You look beautiful, Minmei.”
She moved in close and made him repeat it.
“Do you mean it, Rick? Am I really beautiful?”
An idea came to him and he signaled to a robo-camera that was making rounds through the park. The stupid thing kept moving in circles, trying to home in on Rick’s call, and he finally had to throw a stone at it to get its attention. The cam approached them, asking for money.
“We’ll have a picture taken. You’ll see how beautiful you are.”
Minmei protested some, and the cam uttered some stock phrases to get them in the proper mood, but eventually they had the print and Minmei was pleased. A smile and a look of concern; Minmei clinging to his arm; the fountain behind them.
Afterward, she talked dance for half an hour; she read him the lyrics of a song she’d composed. Then she had to be going.
“Uncle Max gets mad when I stay out too late. But I’ll see you when you get back, Rick. Have a good mission, and remember, I’m very proud of you.”
And with that she was gone, leaving him wondering about tomorrow all over again.
He power-walked and jogged for an hour hoping he would exhaust himself and fall into a deep sleep back in the barracks. But sleep didn’t seem to be on tonight’s agenda; in fact, he couldn’t even keep his eyes closed. It was too hot in his bunk, then too cold, there were too many noises in the room, the pillow just wasn’t right… Finally he sat up and switched on the reading light. He took the park photo and brought it close to his face. Perhaps he could reach her by concentrating on her image; spoken words weren’t doing much good.
Minmei was proud of him; earlier that day she’d been upset with him for carrying her shopping bag because the package hid too much of the uniform. Besides, it was wrong for a Veritech fighter pilot to involve himself in such mundane activities. Well, that much was encouraging to Rick because she had really been his motivation for joining up. During the weeks that followed their shared ordeal in that remote part of the ship, he realized that Minmei could never accept an ordinary man as her lover; he would have to be someone who participated in life to the fullest. Someone romantic, adventurous, full of grand dreams and positive hopes for the future—an all-day-long hero who would never fear, never say die. A special man, a dearest man, someone to share his life with you alone, as Minmei had herself written it… She was like someone who had gone from childhood to maturity without any of the intervening periods of longing or confusion. And even though Rick had saved her life on two occasions and spent two long lost weeks with her, he had yet to prove himself in her eyes. Without joining up there would have been no way for him to display the heroics she craved, no way to individualize himself, no way to accept himself as her equal.
And yet, even having taken those steps, he felt no closer to her than before. Her love had no fixed center; it was spread across the board and parceled out in equal packets for one and all to enjoy. A hero wouldn’t even be enough for her because she belonged to everyone. She was more spirit than woman, more dream than reality.
Rick slipped into fitful sleep for a short while, only to have Roy wake him out of it. Fokker was just checking in, reminding him that they had to be up early tomorrow.
“Your first combat mission is always the worst, kid. I sympathize with you. Now, get some sleep—count fanjets or something.”
Everyone had such encouraging words: At the briefing they’d been told to wrap up their personal business, and now Roy tells him that tomorrow is going to be the worst. Minmei had behaved like a cheerleader, his commanding officer thought him a lecher… It had been quite a day.
So Rick actually took Roy’s suggestion—he began counting fanjets—although it wasn’t sleep he found in the high numbers but an uncomfortable half state where Commander Hayes and the three bridge bunnies mocked him, and the giant enemy soldier he had confronted on Macross Island was reborn to stalk him.
The reveille call came too quickly. Rick felt like one of the walking dead as he gathered up his gear and zombied his way through morning rituals with the other VT pilots. There was a second preflight briefing, more detailed than the first. Then the men were loaded into personnel carriers and conveyed to the Prometheus. Roy and Rick’s group drove through Macross City, past the park where he and Minmei had been together only hours before. The city was asleep, peacefully, blessedly unaware.
Even before the transport vehicle had come to a halt in the hangar of the supercarrier, pilots were hopping out and rushing toward their propped Veritechs. The Thor-class Prometheus—one of two ships that had been caught up in the spacefold and had since been grafted on to the main body of the SDF-1 was like an active hive, and every drone aboard save Rick seemed certain of his or her duty. He lost Roy in the crowds and stood by the transport scanning for a familiar face among those now rushing by him. He recognized Commander Hayes’s voice coming through the PA system.
“All Veritechs report for roll call at Prometheus… All Veritechs report immediately for roll call at Prometheus… Orange, Blue, and Red squadrons will commence flight preparations on second-level afterdeck… All remaining squadrons prepare for takeoff from preassigned locations… Reactor control, bridge requests status report on first and third plasma shields…”
Suddenly Fokker had him by the arm and was propelling him through the hangar, filling his ears with last-minute instructions and words of advice. He gave Rick a quick embrace when they were alongside Skull Team’s twenty-three and was soon swallowed up in the crowds again.
Rick was assisted into the pilot’s crane sling by two techs, who also issued him boots, gloves, and a “thinking cap”—a sensor-studded helmet that was in some ways an outgrowth of the Global Civil War “virtual cockpits” and essential for rapport with the mecha. Rick regarded the plane as he was being lowered into the cockpit module. In Fighter mode, the mecha was similar in appearance to the supersonic jets of the late twentieth century. But in actuality, the Veritechs were as different from those as cars were to horse-drawn wagons. The aliens who had engineered the super dimensional fortress had found a way to animate technological creations, and working from examples found onboard the SDF-1, Dr. Lang and his Robotechnicians had been able to fabricate the Veritechs in much the same way—“chips off the old block,” as the scientist called the VTs.
Once inside the cockpit, Rick strapped in and donned the helmet; from this point on he was mind-linked to the fighter. There were still plenty of manual tasks to perform, but the central defense capabilities that set the planes apart from their predecessors were directly tied in to the pilots’ mecha-will.
The Veritech was fired up now, reflex engines humming, and cat officers were motioning Rick forward. He adjusted the helmet and seat straps and goosed the throttle to position the fighter onto one of the carrier elevators. A second Skull Team VT joined him there.
As the two crafts were lifted to the flight deck, Rick could see the disc of the sun far off to his left. At the end of the hurricane bow was Saturn, impossibly huge. Commander Hayes was once again on the PA and tac net.
“This operation will be directed toward the Cassini Quadrant. All squadrons will wait in the ice fields of the rings for further instructions.”
The ice fields of Saturn’s rings, Rick repeated to himself.
And he had thought yesterday was bad.