Several historians of the Robotech Wars—Rawlins, Daily, Gordon, and Turno, to name but a few—have advanced the claim that it was Breetai’s decision [to call up Khyron’s troops as reinforcements] that placed the Zentraedi squarely on the road to defeat. Rawlins, in his two-volume study, Zentraedi Triumvirate: Dolza, Breetai, Khyron, states: “It was more than a tactical blunder… Khyron’s use of the dried leaves of the Invid Flower of Life had drastically affected his Zentraedi conditioning. Subsequent research clearly demonstrated that alkaloids present in the leaves had a direct effect on the limbic system of the brain. The Flower had the power to stimulate a resurgence of archaic patterns of behavior. In the case of the Zentraedi, ironically enough, those behavior patterns were the ones which most clearly defined the human condition… So in this sense it may be said that Khyron was the most human of them all.”
History of the First Robotech War, Vol. XXXIV
BREETAI WAS NOW BEGINNING TO ENJOY THIS MICRONIAN battle game.
“‘Cat and mouse’ did you call it?”
“Yes, my lord. Apparently it refers to a game the stronger animal plays with the weaker before the final kill.”
“Excellent. You must teach me their language, Exedore.”
“Of course, sir. It is most primitive, easy to absorb. Our three operatives from surveillance are making rapid progress.”
“Yes… I may want to talk to these Micronians soon.”
The flagship and several of the fleet’s scout and recon ships had made a hyperspace jump along the projected course of the SDF-1. Breetai had left behind several cruisers and destroyers, along with plenty of Battlepods, to keep the Micronians busy while he plotted his next move in the game.
The Zentraedi commander smiled wryly as he viewed the transvids of Zeril’s destruction. Enhanced-motion playback had captured the giant ship’s final few moments splendidly. He had to credit the Micronians for the unorthodox nature of their counter-attack. Instead of further depleting their power by firing the main gun, they had used one of their oceangoing vessels to ram Zeril’s destroyer headlong. Once inside, a sufficient amount of firepower must have been unleashed to destroy it. The ship blistered, glowed, became a veritable tunnel of trapped photon energy, and exploded.
Yes, Breetai was amused by the challenge of illogical behavior; it forced him to step outside his own conditioning and search for novel approaches to destruction.
His thoughts were now interrupted by a communiqué from astrogation. Exedore relayed the message.
“Sir, emerging from hyperspace-fold.”
The composite projecbeam disassembled itself. Exedore called for an exterior view of local space. Cameras panned across the unbroken blackness and locked on a small red planet, arid and angry-looking. For Breetai it brought to mind memories of Fantoma, and the mining worlds he had worked and patrolled long ago. A schematic appeared on one of the side screens of the command bowl showing the planetary system of this yellow star the Micronians referred to as their “sun.”
“Mars,” said Exedore, “the fourth planet.”
Breetai turned to his adviser.
“Has the recon vessel been deployed?”
“As you ordered, sir. The Cyclops transmissions are coming in now.”
The projecbeam revealed an abandoned Micronian base that showed signs of an earlier battle: craters from explosions covered with the fine red swirling dust of the planet’s deserts, a shuttlecraft disabled and still in its launch bay, the shells of buildings and fractured domes.
“Our scanners reveal no life readings, no energy levels of any form save minimal low-level background radiation, Commander.” Breetai put his massive hand to his head and unconsciously stroked the metal plate there. The plate concealed scar tissue that had overgrown the wounds received while protecting Zor from the Invid; now, it seemed, each time he came close to fulfilling his imperative—to capture the fortress—the original pain returned.
“It would appear that the Earth people abandoned this installation.”
Exedore studied the data screen. “Long-range surface scanners indicate that a military conflict took place here at a neighboring installation. Nevertheless, the Micronians’ reflex power furnaces are still operative, and we’ve managed to tap into their computer banks and access some of the information. It seems that most of the inhabitants, sir, were destroyed in a battle with their allied forces, and the few that survived were unable to escape the harshness of the planet itself.”
Breetai continued to stroke his faceplate. “Hmmm… see to it that one of the computers is activated and the contents of its memory transmitted on a hailing frequency.”
One of Exedore’s eyebrow’s arched. “Certainly, my lord, but why?”
“Because this abandoned post will make a perfect trap. I have ordered the Seventh Mechanized Division of the Botoru Battalion to assemble here immediately.”
The Seventh had a reputation for ground-based savagery and more.
“Impossible,” said Exedore with alarm. “Surely, sir, this cannot be; you haven’t ordered up Khyron’s division?”
Breetai smiled bemusedly at his companion. “Indeed I have, and why not?”
“You’re familiar with his battle record, his reputation.”
“What of it?”
“During the Mona Operation, he was intoxicated and ended up killing some of his own men.” Exedore pressed his point. “And in the Isyris battle zone he almost wiped out two divisions of friendly forces—”
“While successfully destroying the enemy.”
“True, sir, but because of that his own troops have named him the ‘Backstabber.’”
Breetai was about to respond, when without warning the bridge went on alert. Lights began to flash, and warning klaxons were sounding general quarters. Exedore had already positioned himself at the control pads of one of the monitors, trying to ascertain the cause. Breetai stood over him now as data began to flash across the screens.
“What is it?” the commander demanded.
“Armed ships emerging from hyperspace in the midst of our battle group. A collision appears imminent!”
Breetai turned to the forward projecbeam. “Some of the Micronians’ unorthodoxy!”
A card player at a show of hands, Breetai readied himself, fully expecting the materialization of a squadron of Micronian mecha. But what appeared instead were the ragtag ships of the Botoru Battalion.
Visual distortions in local space preceded their crazed arrival, shimmerings and oscillations in the fabric of real time. Several vessels of Khyron’s battle group collided with ships of the main fleet, spreading shock waves throughout the field. Even the flagship itself was rocked by debris, the force of the impact strong enough to knock Exedore off his feet. Damage reports were pouring in to the bridge; debris appeared in the projecbeam field.
Exedore picked himself up; his voice was full of anger when he spoke.
“This is happening just as I expected! Khyron, sir, is totally without discipline!”
Was this an oversight, Breetai asked himself, or just a demonstration of Khyron’s recklessness?
The Backstabber’s face suddenly appeared on the forward screen. Khyron, long steel-blue hair falling over the collar of a uniform of his own design, saluted. His face was a curious mixture of boyish innocence and brooding anger, Prince Valiant’s devilish shadow with a fire in his eyes that was not quite Zentraedi.
“Commander of the Seventh Mechanized Space Division reporting as ordered.” His lowered salute turned into a mock wave. “Good to see you again, Commander Breetai.” He finished off with a laugh.
“The sheer audacity—” Exedore started to say.
A square-jawed battle-scarred warrior had appeared by Khyron’s side in the projecbeam field, sharing some sort of joke with him. “Ha! Just as I thought, Khyron. We crashed into four ships total.”
Khyron tried to silence him, but it was too late.
“You thought it would be three at best. I win the bet.”
“Be quiet, you fool,” ordered Khyron finally. “Our conversation is being broadcast.”
Breetai fixed him with his one eye. “Khyron, don’t trifle with me if you value your command. I’m willing to give you a chance to make up for your past mistakes, but I have no time for your games. Is that understood?”
Khyron straightened his smile, but the laughter remained in his eyes. “Yes, Commander, what is it you want me to do?”
“There’s an abandoned base on the fourth planet of this star system. We intend to lure Zor’s ship there, and I want you to see to it that it doesn’t leave. Trap it with gravity mines if you have to, but understand this: Your Seventh will blockade the ship without damaging it unduly. You will then await my further instructions. Is that clear? You are to await my instructions before engaging the enemy.”
“Perfectly clear, Breetai. I would naturally prefer you to have the honor and glory of the capture. Commander-in-Chief Dolza expects nothing less of you, I’m sure.”
“That will be enough, Khyron,” said Exedore.
Breetai gestured to his adviser. “Send out a recall order to our Battlepods. Let’s give the Micronians enough breathing room to take the bait we’re going to lay out for them.”
Khyron signed off. Exedore continued to plead the case against using him, but Breetai was already looking forward to the plan. The prospect of a trap excited him. Furthermore, real sport required the unexpected, and in this contest for Zor’s ship and the precious cargo it held, Khyron would play the Zentraedi’s wild card.
* * *
Two Battlepods were right on his tail, pouring fire into the mecha. Rick didn’t need gauges to feel the lock of those lasers; they might as well have been burning into his skull. He opened up the gap somewhat by hitting his afterburners, then tacked toward relative-twelve and waited for the pods to split up. He knew they’d attempt to pinch him, but he had plans of his own.
Rick took his mind off the pod below him. He had number one haloed in his rear sights. Firing the forward retros to cut his velocity, he loosed a cluster of heat-seekers. The missiles tore from beneath the right wing of the mecha and accelerated into a vertical climb, homing in on the enemy ship. Rick used the port thrusters to angle himself free of the debris and risked a brief look up and over his shoulder. The rockets caught the Battlepod in the belly, blowing off both legs and cracking the spherical hull.
Scratch one.
Number two was still below him, trying to roast the underside of Rick’s mecha with continuous heat. A little more of this and he’d be cooked. Lateral swings were getting him nowhere, so he thought the fighter into a rapid dive, rolling over as he fell. The enemy lasers were now tickling the back of the Veritech, and Rick had to act fast: He returned fire with its own top-mounted guns, training them on the hinge straps of the pod’s chestplate.
The enemy pilot understood Rick’s move and arced his guns toward the more vulnerable cockpit of the mecha. But he was too late; the hinges of the chestplate slagged out, and the pod opened up like a newly hatched egg. Rick caught a glimpse of the giant flailing around in his cockpit before he completed his roll and engaged the boosters.
Scratch two.
He was headed away from the fortress now. The scene before him had to have been lifted from some nightmare: Space was alive with swarms of Battlepods… photon beams laced through the blackness, and silent explosions brought the colors of death and destruction to an indifferent universe.
For three days now the pods had pressed their attack. There had been little sleep for the Robotech forces, even less for the SDF-1 flight crews. After the Daedalus Maneuver and their success in the rings of Saturn, there was some hope that the enemy had for once suffered a setback. And for almost a month, while the fortress crossed the Jovian orbit and the asteroid belt, there were no attacks. But that period of calm was behind them.
Captain Gloval and Dr. Lang had reversed the modular transformation and disassembled the pin-point barrier system in an attempt to arm the main gun once again, but their efforts had proved futile. For the rest, the still slightly shell-shocked masses of displaced persons of Macross city, catapulted like himself from the southern Pacific to the icy regions of deep space, there was nothing to do but adjust to the reality of the situation, continue to rebuild lives and the city itself. Every now and again, they could marvel at the wonders of space travel, the stark and silent beauty of it, and forget for a moment that they were not tourists out here but unwilling players in a nonstop game of death, pursued by the seemingly limitless forces of a race of giant warrior beings who had dropped out of the skies and turned the world upside down.
Only a month before, Rick had been face to face with one of those titans in an air lock on one of the alien ships. He recalled staring out of the cockpit of the transformed Veritech at the giant, who at first had openly feared him, then cursed and ridiculed him for not having the will to blast him away. The laughter of that alien still rang in his ears followed by his guilt and confusion. But most of all the memory of the giant’s fiery death.
How could one ever forget?
Two Battlepods were suddenly behind him, looking for laser lock. Rick executed a double rollover and dive to lose them. Peripherally, he saw the Blue Team leader swoop in and take them out.
“Way to go Blue Leader!” Rick shouted into the tac net.
“Just do the same for me sometime, buddy,” came the reply.
“You got it.”
Rick and the Blue Leader, wing to wing, led a frontal assault on yet another enemy wave. They launched themselves into the thick of it, dispatching several of the enemy. Lateral thrusters took them out of the arena momentarily, and the SDF-1 came into view, her main batteries, Phalanx guns, and Gladiator mecha issuing steady fire. The fortress, enveloped by a swarm of pods, looked as though it had somehow wandered into a fireworks display.
Commander Hayes was calling for an assist in Fifth Quadrant, and Skull and Blue Teams were ordered to respond. Rick and Blue Leader were initiating course corrections when five pods appeared on Rick’s radar screen. Three of them were quickly dispatched by Roy Fokker in Skull One, but the remaining two were hounding Blue Leader’s VT with a vengeance. The enemy unleashed a massive volley of rockets that caught the mecha broadside. For a moment Blue Leader seemed to hang in space; then the fighter exploded and disintegrated, its parts scattered, its pilot a memory.
Rick turned his face away from the wreckage. I could be next, he thought.
How could one ever forget?
The pods continued to press their attack.
Death had a free hand.
Then, as suddenly as they had appeared they were gone. The fighting was over and recall orders came in from the bridge.
Rick followed Roy Fokker’s lead into the docking bays of the Prometheus.
Roy caught up with him in the hangar and slapped him on the shoulder.
“You looked good up there, Rick. Keep it up.”
Rick grunted, removed his helmet, and kept walking, increasing his pace.
Roy caught up with him again. “You can’t let it get you down, kid. We sent them home, didn’t we?”
Rick turned and confronted his friend. “If you believe that, you’re a bigger idiot than I am, Roy.”
Roy draped his arm around Rick’s shoulders and leaned in. “Listen to me. You’re beat. We all are. Get yourself into town after the debriefing. I’m sure Minmei would like to see you.”
“That would be a surprise,” Rick said, and stormed off.
* * *
Monorail lines now ran from the Prometheus and Daedalus arms into Macross. A central monorail line ran through the body of the fortress, through enormous interior holds originally meant for creatures ten times human scale—a vast forbidden zone only a portion of which was understood by Dr. Lang’s teams of scientists—and through that area where Rick and Minmei had passed two weeks together deep beneath the present streets of the city.
Each passing day brought changes here. There was even talk of using EVE, enhanced video emulation, to bring sunrise and sunset, blue skies and clouds, to the place. Already there was a grid of streets, carefully arranged according to the dictates of the modular transformation schematic, multiple-storied dwellings, shops and restaurants, a central marketplace, even a few banks and a post office.
The city went on living through the war, almost oblivious to it except when energy drains through diversion led to power shortages or when the enemy fighters and Battlepods scored direct hits. Even the ubiquitous uniforms didn’t signal war—uniforms were worn by everyone to denote job and detail, a carryover from the island where most of these same people had been connected in one way or another to the reconstruction of the SDF-1. A public address system kept the residents of the city informed about the ship’s course through the solar system but was seldom used to report accurate battle results. In fact, it was speaking to the population now, as Rick meandered in vague fashion toward the Chinese restaurant, hoping for an accidental encounter with Minmei. Passersby paid the message little mind, but it caught him off guard. “News from the bridge: We have been attacked by one hundred twenty enemy pods, but our first, fourth, and seventh fighter squadrons have succeeded in completely destroying them. Our casualties have been light, and our astrogational system has not been affected. That is all.”
Incredible! Rick thought. He was looking around for someone to talk to, someone he could grab by the lapels and awaken with the truth, when an arm caught hold of his. He turned and found himself looking into Minmei’s blue eyes.
“Hello, stranger,” she said. “I’ve been worried about you.”
She embraced him like a brother.
He had rehearsed how he was going to play this, but standing here with her now, the half-truths from the bridge echoing inside him, he just wanted to hold and protect her. But he managed to keep some distance, and she caught his mood.
He explained about the announcement. “It wasn’t true, Minmei. They’re misleading everyone. We didn’t hit half of them, and our losses were—”
She put a finger to his lips and looked around. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to talk about this here, Rick.”
He broke from her hold. “Listen, Minmei—”
“Besides, everyone’s doing all they can for the war effort, and I don’t think you’ll accomplish anything by getting them—or me—depressed. Especially with my birthday right around the corner.”
He could only stare at her and wonder where her mind was, but she was way ahead of him already. She smiled and took hold of his arm.
“Come on, Rick. Let’s get something to eat. Please?”
He gave in. How could he make her understand how it was out there? In here she was doing what they all were: going on with life as if nothing had happened, as if this were home, as if there were a wonderfully blue ocean just over that rise. As if there were no war out there.
* * *
On the bridge of the SDF-1 there was little else but war to talk or think about.
Captain Gloval removed his cap and ran a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. What were the aliens planning now? Obviously their constant attacks were not meant to turn the tide but to wear him down, perhaps in the hope that the SDF-1 would be surrendered. The attacks were like sparring matches; it was as if the enemy was feeling him out, trying to gain some insight into his tactics. Psychological warfare conducted with an inexhaustible supply of ships and no regard for the pilots who flew them. Gloval wondered what his counterpart might look like, what kind of being he was. He recalled the video warning the fortress had broadcast to his small band of explorers some ten years ago… One thing was becoming clear: The aliens did not want to damage the SDF-1. They hoped to recapture it intact.
The attacks had thrown them drastically off course, and although closing in on Earth’s orbit, they had months of travel ahead of them.
Gloval asked for information about the aliens’ retreat. The only thing Claudia and Lisa could be certain of was that there were no longer any traces of enemy pods on the radar screens. Gloval was pondering this when Kim Young announced that incoming data was being received on one of the open frequencies.
Gloval stepped down from his chair and walked over to take a look at the transmissions.
“…‘If mice could swim,’” he read, “‘they would float with the tide and play with the fish. Down by the seaside, the cats on the shore would quickly agree…’ What is this nonsense? Where is it coming from?”
Vanessa Leeds tapped in a set of requests and swiveled in her seat to study a secondary monitor. In a moment she had the answer. “A transmitter located sixteen degrees off our current course.”
“That would put it at Sara Base on Mars!” said Claudia.
Lisa Hayes turned from her post in a start. “What?! That’s impossible! Are you certain of those readings?”
“Sara Base is deserted,” said Gloval. “All life there was wiped out during the war. It just can’t be.”
Lisa and Claudia exchanged a conspiratorial look. “No, Lisa,” said Claudia. “Don’t get your hopes up.”
“Why couldn’t there be survivors?” Lisa said excitedly. She turned to Gloval. “Isn’t it possible, sir?”
Gloval crossed his arms, “I don’t see how, but it was a pretty big base, and I suppose anything is possible. We’ve all seen enough lately to convince me of that.”
“We have secondary confirmation on the origin of the transmissions, sir. The origin is definitely Sara.”
Claudia said, “Perhaps we should check it out, Captain. It would only mean a minor deviation in our course.” Again she and Lisa exchanged looks.
Gloval returned to his chair. He thought it unlikely that there were survivors on the base. And the possibility of an enemy trap had to be considered. But there were no radar indications of activity in the area, and the risk presented by a landing would certainly be justified if they could manage to replenish their rapidly diminishing supplies. It would be the last chance until Earthspace, and who knew when that might be. If that would he…
Gloval turned to his crew. “How badly hurt are we?”
Vanessa responded, “Astrogation and engineering sections report limited damage only, sir.”
“All right,” said Gloval. “Change course and head for Mars.”