As an insect seen through an enlarging imager may appear as a monster, so these Micronians, magnified by a few minor successes and by an unforgivable timidity among certain Zentraedi leaders, are permitted to resist us. This has led to a stalemate; what Zentraedi worthy of the name would permit this?
Khyron the Backstabber
THE JEEP ROARED DOWN THE EMPTY SDF-1 PASSAGEWAY, rounding corners on two wheels, tires shrieking. Ben Dixon enjoyed this kind of outing; he usually took a slightly longer route to the fighter bays than he had to because he so missed the open road.
Ben’s dragster had been parked in an alley on Macross Island on the day of the fatal spacefold maneuver. So now it was either a floating relic in space back near Pluto’s orbit or had been completely dismantled by the salvage and reclamation people. Either way, he didn’t like to think about it.
But barreling around the roomier parts of the dimensional fortress helped ease his loss. The civilians had crowded-but-very-livable Macross City, but once in a while some people needed to hit the road, floor the accelerator, and let off a little steam. It was an open secret that some of the less traveled regions of the SDF-1 had become virtual racetracks.
Ben took a corner even more sharply than usual and waited for Rick, who was sitting in the seat next to him, to make a perfunctory objection. But, lost in thought, the Vermilion Team leader didn’t say anything. Sprawled in the back, Max Sterling looked supremely unworried. Ben was a little bit offended by that; Max was a good friend, but Ben expected passengers to be a little intimidated when he drove. Yet nothing seemed to ruffle Max or dim the boyish cheerfulness for which he’d become famous.
In fact, a few guys had decided that Max’s good-naturedness meant that he was a wimp despite his ferocious flying skills. There’d been a few fights, and Max had insisted that Rick keep Ben from interfering on his friend’s behalf.
Help wasn’t necessary, anyway; Max’s astonishing reflexes and hand-eye coordination more than sufficed. Max always helped his opponents to their feet afterward, still with that boyish smile; he even performed first aid in one extreme case. After a while, interest in bothering Max Sterling waned.
Max gave his blue hair a toss and resettled his glasses, turning at the sound of another jeep engine. He leaned forward to tap Rick and point; at the wheel, Roy Fokker was catching up to them accompanied by three of his Skull Team fliers.
“Hey, Rick!”
“Hi, Roy.”
“Uh oh.” Roy came up very close alongside, and Ben had to cut the wheel to avoid an accident.
“Where d’ you three think you’re going?” Roy demanded.
They were on one of the longest straightaways in the ship, but they were moving fast. Ben knew he was being tested; he sweated a bit but kept on a steady course. But they were approaching the far bulkhead at an alarmingly rapid speed, and there was room for only one jeep in its hatchway.
The Skulls in Roy’s jeep didn’t seemed very thrilled about the encounter either, but they knew better than to say anything to their hotheaded leader.
“What’d you say?” Rick asked mildly.
Roy hollered, “I said, where d’ you think you’re going?”
Max leaned forward. “The PA system said for all military personnel to report for duty!” he said. Ben Dixon began sweating bullets as the far bulkhead got closer and close.
“You had orders to stay behind, you nitwit! That announcement doesn’t apply to you guys!” Roy was shaking his fists in the air; the guy riding shotgun grabbed the wheel while one of the others in the back seat began crossing himself and the other spun a tiny prayer wheel. Roy ignored them, keeping the accelerator floored.
“But that wasn’t an order… specifically,” Rick pointed out.
Roy had his hands back on the wheel. “Well, I’m making it an order! Specifically! Return to quarters, and make it fast!”
Ben eased back, breathing a sigh of relief. Roy’s jeep took the lead as Rick yelled, “Gonna take on the enemy alone, huh?”
Roy turned and rose, his front seat passenger diving for the wheel again. Roy shook his fists at the heroic escapees. “Maybe you’d rather report to the brig for insubordination?”
Ben began braking. He and his friends chanted in perfect unison, “Not really, sir! No thank you, sir!” a bootcamp response used here to mock Roy by implying that he was as dumb as a drill sergeant.
Roy cracked an unwilling smile, then turned to take the wheel back from his ashen-faced front seat passenger. “I’m glad you understand,” he called back, voice growing fainter. “Nobody likes a smart aleck!”
Ben stopped just short of the bulkhead, and Roy’s jeep shot through the hatch, speeding toward the fighter bays.
“There goes a wonderful guy,” Ben said, letting out his breath.
* * *
The Zentraedi had a saying that in Earthly terms would translate to: “Even wolves may be prey to the tiger.”
So the huge armada kept its distance from SDF-1, pacing it on its homing journey. Ironclad orders stated clearly that Zor’s fortress was to be captured with all its Protoculture secrets intact. From the perspective of the fleet’s commanders, the more important point at the moment was that the SDF-1’s main gun had proved itself operational, even though the Micronians had used it very sparingly.
The Zentraedi couldn’t figure out why—one of the mysteries that prompted the placement of Bron, Rico, and Konda aboard SDF-1. What the Zentraedi didn’t know was how little the human race understood about the giant ship and how vulnerable the SDF-1 really was.
All the Zentraedi knew for certain was that the ship contained enough power to destroy whole star systems and rip the very fabric of space and time. So the armada paced the battle fortress, watching and waiting.
A report was being delivered by a technician in a fleet command vessel. “Commander Azonia, the super dimensional fortress has started to increase its velocity.”
Azonia looked up sharply at her intelligence analyst. Azonia sat in the control seat amid a vast array of machinery and consoles and holographic data displays that stretched away in every direction.
“What are your orders?” the analyst asked. Azonia glanced at the various maps, readouts, and tactical projections.
“Dolza has given me no authority to destroy it,” the armada’s commander replied, running a hand through her close-cropped blue-black hair. “So we’ll just follow it and see what happens.” Azonia had replaced the legendary Breetai as commander when he’d made one mistake too many, and she had no intention of suffering similar humiliation.
The analyst bowed obediently, and withdrew from the command center. Azonia pulled her campaign cloak tighter around her and adjusted the high collar; she was having doubts she would never betray to a subordinate.
The Micronians’ homeworld was close; what would happen there? The original Zentraedi invasion force had smashed all terran opposition until it encountered those thrice-damned Robotech mecha—the Veritechs. And after all these months, who knew what new defenses the perversely ingenious humans might have developed?
Allowing the super dimensional fortress to reach its destination was a risky game at best; a disastrous one, perhaps. Yet Azonia couldn’t see any new orders coming from her superiors, nor could she come up with an alternative course of action to offer them that didn’t risk the loss of the all-important secrets of Protoculture.
Azonia forced down those thoughts. There was still time to win, and victory in this campaign would bring the most precious prize in all the universe.
The SDF-1 was in its cruiser mode, which meant that the great main gun couldn’t be fired. This was unavoidable, however, since the giant weapon would function only in Attack mode—a formation that rendered Macross City virtually uninhabitable.
In its present configuration it looked like a conventional spacecraft or even a naval vessel. The Thor-class supercarriers Daedalus and Prometheus were swung back flush against it, and the two great booms of the main gun were mated together to form a prow. The bridge and its attendant structures rose above the main deck but still sat rather low.
As its gargantuan thrusters flared blue fire, the ultimate warcraft approached the orbit of pockmarked Luna.
Claudia studied Earth’s moon in her displays. “We are proceeding at maximum speed, Captain,” she reported. “Beginning Earth-approach maneuver… now!”
Gloval appeared to be asleep: The polished visor of his cap was pulled low down on the bridge of his nose, and his arms were folded across his chest. But he said quite clearly, “Vanessa, how has the enemy fleet reacted?”
Vanessa pushed her glasses up, made a final sweep of her instruments to be sure, and then turned to Gloval. “They’re still all around us, Captain, but they’re maintaining distance. It’s strange—they’re still matching our speed exactly.”
Gloval rubbed his cheek and realized he needed a shave. He didn’t even want to think about how tired he was. “It would appear they still don’t want to risk firing on the SDF-1. This would seem to bear out your theory, Lisa.”
Lisa broke her intense concentration on her instruments to say, “I certainly hope so, sir.” If she was wrong, the battle fortress wouldn’t last another hour.
“We are approaching the orbit of Luna, Captain,” Vanessa said tensely.
“Keep monitoring the enemy closely.”
“Yes, sir.”
Lisa chimed in, “Fighter ops reports Vermilion and Ghost teams ready to takeoff, Captain.” She did her best to sound businesslike and not think about one of those Vermilion Team Veritechs. Especially its pilot…
Gloval nodded and hoped he wouldn’t be forced to use them. They were some of his very best pilots, but they’d been chewed up badly in the latest installment of the running battle the SDF-1 had been fighting for months in the remote, dark places of the solar system.
Earth was so close. Gloval would have given his own life without an instant’s hesitation if it would have meant repatriating all the refugees who’d survived the brutal voyage. But that wasn’t how things worked.
* * *
In a Zentraedi command center, a finger the size of a log stabbed at a tactical display screen representation of the SDF-1 and the armada around it.
Khyron could barely keep his voice from breaking in rage. “The Micronian ship is here, and the ships under my command are here, behind it. Now, at maximum speed, their vessel stands a good chance of penetrating the net around it and escaping!”
He stared angrily at his second in command, Grel, and his trusted subordinate, Gerao. “Are we to sit here with our arms folded while these creatures get away and not raise a finger to stop it?”
“But Azonia has forbidden us to act,” Grel pointed out. “What can we do?”
Khyron slammed his palms down on the display console. “We will crush them!”
Khyron, handsome and fiendish commander of the Zentraedi Seventh Fleet and its mecha strike arm, the Botoru Battalion, had a reputation that gave even the giant warriors pause. He had earned the nickname “Backstabber”: He had a reputation for savage ferocity, a total lack of feeling for his own men, and an unquenchable thirst for bloodshed and triumph.
Grel knew better than to contradict his superior when the killing rage was upon him. There was a persistent rumor that Khyron’s secret vice was the essence of the Flower of Life, a forbidden addiction; if that were so, he used it in some form that made it a flower of death. In this mood, he was capable of anything.
“Order the lead ships in the squadron to increase speed and attack!” he roared, holding his hand high in a salute and gesture of command. “For the glory of the Zentraedi… and of Khyron!”
* * *
Vanessa stared intently at her screens, calling out, “A squadron of enemy battle cruisers has broken away from the rest of the fleet and is moving in on us, Captain. Approximately ten of them.”
Gloval stared out the forward viewport morosely. “Scramble fighters.”
“Yes, sir.” Lisa drew a deep breath, opening the PA mike. “Vermilion and Ghost Teams, scramble, scramble!”
* * *
Down in the hangar decks of the supercarrier Daedalus, there was the controlled chaos of a “hot” scramble, one that everybody knew was no drill. The huge elevators began raising the Veritechs to the flight deck port and starboard, two to a lift.
Roy Fokker pulled on his flight helmet and checked his controls as his ship was moved out for lift by a tow driver. Roy was Skull Leader, but experienced pilots were in such terribly short supply and Rick and the others were on enforced R&R, so he had to help fill the ranks of the depleted Vermilions, especially at a critical time like this.
The Veritechs’ stabilizers and wings began sliding into flight position. Cat crews rushed to hook up and launch the fighters; The Veritechs went into a vigilant holding pattern, ready to fend off any attack against the VTs that were still vulnerable, awaiting launch.
The cats slung the fighters out into space; the blue Robotech drives flared, and the Vermilions and Ghosts formed up to do battle yet again.
* * *
Gloval had hoped to avoid it, but he gave the order nevertheless. “Engage SDF-1 transformation and activate pin-point defensive barrier. We are breaking through the alien fleet!”
“Macross City evacuation is nearly complete, Captain,” Sammie told him.
The voices of the others kept up a constant, quiet flow of orders and report. “All sectors begin transformation.” “All section chiefs please report to the bridge.” “Damage crews stand by.” “Emergency medical and rescue personnel ready, Captain.”
Banks of screens showed interior and exterior scenes, the frantic haste to brace for attack and reconfiguration.
Once again the awesome, incredible, and perilous Robotech transformation of SDF-1 was about to take place.
* * *
It had been hard to get used to the bustle and activity of Macross City, but this sudden abandonment of it was even stranger.
The three Zentraedi spies still had no idea what was happening. The PA announcements were bewildering, impossible to understand. The trio was hesitant to show ignorance at first, but by the time they’d worked up the nerve to start asking questions, everybody was scurrying in a different direction and answers were impossible to get.
Now they found themselves standing at the center of a deserted intersection as traffic lights and crosswalk signals blinked through their accustomed sequences. The EVE system was shut down, the artificial sky gone, leaving only cold, distant metal high overhead. “Everyone’s vanished,” Rico said slowly, pivoting through a 360-degree turn. It felt very spooky to be standing in the middle of an empty city.
“What d’ you think that announcement was?” Konda asked. “What could it be—this ‘transformation’ they’re talking about?” Bron was about to add something when the street began to quake beneath them, tossing them around like water droplets on a griddle. As deep grinding noises began, they were thrown to the surface, so they tried to cling to the pavement. They could feel the vibrations through the ground.
Then the street parted beneath them and an enormous sawtooth opening widened rapidly. Despite his hysterical scrambling, Rico disappeared into it.