“There’s no excuse for sloppy discipline—not even victory,” Colonel Maistroff was fond of lecturing us. Maybe so, but I never saw a haircut win a battle.
The Collected Journals of Admiral Rick Hunter
GLOVAL AND HIS BRIDGE CREW GAZED OUT AT THE SERENE ocean. The Terrible Trio was intoxicated with joy.
“Home again—after so long!”
“It’s just beautiful!”
“Home—”
Sammie, Vanessa, and Kim, arms around one another, turned to the others. “Welcome back!”
Claudia was brushing tears away, and Lisa just stared at the sea, not knowing exactly what she felt.
Gloval lit his pipe; regulations be hanged. “Now, how about a little fresh air?”
* * *
Major access hatches began cranking open all around the Macross City area; light and wonderful sea breezes flooded in. Blinking and gaping, the inhabitants of the city began to congregate in the air locks and on the outer decks.
When they finally believed what their senses were telling them, the cheering began—the backslapping and hugging and kissing and laughter. People stood in the sunlight and cried or prayed, shook hands solemnly or jumped up and down, sank to their knees or just stood, staring.
Kim’s voice came over the PA. “We’ve touched down in the Pacific Ocean. The captain and crew extend their gratitude to the citizens of Macross for your splendid cooperation during a difficult and dangerous voyage. It’s good to be home.”
A big hatch dropped open just below the bridge. Ben Dixon was the first one out onto the open deck, laughing and turning somersaults, leaping into the air ecstatically.
More Veritech pilots and crew people rushed after him. Rick and Max stood watching Ben carrying on. “He’d make a pretty good acrobat, wouldn’t he?” Max commented.
Rick smiled. “Probably, but—look at that blue sky. That’s no EVE projection! I can’t say I blame Ben a bit.”
Ben was pointing into the sky. “Look! They’re giving us a fighter fly-by to welcome us!”
So it seemed; twenty or more ships that resembled VTs, bearing the familiar delta markings of Earth’s Robotech Defense Forces, came zooming in in tight formation to pass over the SDF-1.
But the three pilots felt their joy ebb as they were struck by the same thought: The Zentraedi were still out there, millions of ships strong.
* * *
An endless series of details kept Gloval busy for the next few hours, including the recovery of the Vermilion and Ghost fighters who’d flown escort during the SDF-1’s final bolt to safety.
But at last he put aside other duties, satisfied that subordinates could take care of the remaining details, and repaired to his cabin to complete his compilation of log excerpts.
The Earth authorities would soon have all the facts as he knew them. Gloval wondered if the leaders of the United Earth Government would believe all that had happened to the SDF-1 in the months since it had disappeared. Sometimes Gloval himself had trouble.
He reviewed the long tape he’d compiled to amplify the other materials. Starting with the initial Zentraedi attack, when so much of Earth’s military force had been obliterated and the dimensional fortress had activated itself, the log covered all the important incidents of the running battle with the aliens.
There’d been the ghastly aftermath of the spacefold jump and the almost insurmountable problems of getting tens of thousands of Macross refugees settled in the ship. The Daedalus Maneuver, Lisa Hayes’s inspiration, had allowed the humans to win their first resounding victory amid the icy rings of Saturn.
Lisa saved the day again, this time on Mars, by destroying the alien gravity mines that had been holding SDF-1 on the Red Planet’s surface. The ship’s most recent crisis began when radar was disabled by enemy fire, leading to a foray by a Cat’s-Eye recon ship—piloted by Lisa Hayes, of course.
Gloval didn’t like to think too hard about the fate his command would have suffered if he hadn’t been lucky enough to have had Lisa with him. Certainly there were skilled and courageous men and women throughout the SDF-1; examples of extreme bravery and ingenuity were too many to mention. But it seemed that Lisa’s devotion, valor, and special loyalty to the SDF-1 and to Gloval made her the pivotal figure in almost every action the ship fought. It made it that much more difficult for Gloval to see how few real friends Lisa had, how empty her life was of anything but service and duty. Of course, he had no right to interfere with her personal life, but he couldn’t help being worried about her.
The most important thing Gloval had to present to the United Earth Government was an enigma: the molecular and genetic structure of the Zentraedi was so formidable that some of them could even survive unprotected in the vacuum of space for short periods of time; their sheer physical strength was a match for that of Battloids and other human Robotech mecha—yet they had nearly collapsed at the sight of two relatively tiny humans sharing a kiss.
Moreover, the Zentraedi didn’t seem to know anything about repairing their equipment. It was as though they were a servant race using the machinery given them by some higher power, yet they boasted of being the mightiest warriors in the known universe.
Gloval shook his head, hoping the Earth authorities would have additional information or analyses that would shed some light on the mysteries surrounding the war.
He worked for hours, inserting updates and clarifying things that warranted it, condensing wherever he could. Twice he dozed briefly, then got back to work, making an occasional status-check call to the bridge. The relief officer on duty, Lieutenant Claudia Grant, assured him all was well.
A quarantine area had been established around the battle fortress—not surprising, Gloval supposed—and a communication blackout had been imposed for the time being. The crewpeople took that fairly well—they were used to military discipline—and even the civilians had been too delirious with joy to be very upset by it so far. Gloval could see why his superiors might want to maintain radio silence until he’d appeared to give his full report, but he hoped the need for it wouldn’t last much longer.
The civilians were still celebrating, but they wouldn’t be satisfied with that indefinitely.
He brought the tape to a close, puffing on his briar as he dictated. “I am convinced the Zentraedi have more firepower than we can even imagine. The situation is extremely critical, and I believe that a central issue in this war they’ve forced on us is this mysterious ‘Protoculture’ they keep mentioning. I therefore suggest that—what? Come in!”
The rapping had been gentle. Lisa entered with a pot of fresh coffee. “I thought you could use some about now, sir.”
“Thank you; it smells wonderful.” She came in, and the coffee’s aroma filled the cabin, cutting the aroma of the pipe tobacco.
She poured while he glanced up at an ancient brass ship’s clock on his wall. “I did not realize what time it was.”
He put the pipe aside. The ashtray lay next to a detailed analysis and history of living arrangements and social organization in Macross City and the SDF-1 during the voyage. The SDF-1 held far and away the largest human population ever to travel in space, and that on a voyage of very long duration. The data on how people had coped with their living conditions and somehow managed to make things work would be very important, Gloval suspected. There would have to be a lot more humans in space for long periods of time, sooner than anyone expected.
Gloval threw back the curtains, looking out the high, wide curve of viewport at a Pacific dawn. He’d forgotten how many seemingly impossible colors there could be in such a sunrise—the purples and reds and pinks. He’d forgotten how the water broke the light into a million pieces and the sky ignited.
“Here you are, sir,” Lisa said, handing him his cup, prepared just the way he liked it. They gazed out at the peace and powerful beauty of the dawn.
“I never thought I’d see anything as beautiful as this ever again,” Lisa said. It was a moment of such tranquility, such oneness with the planet that had been their goal for so long, such satisfaction with a protracted, seemingly hopeless mission accomplished at last, that she did her best to lock it in her heart and senses and memory—a treasure that she could relive occasionally. Sparingly.
“You’re right,” Gloval said at length. “I feel the same way. You know, I have a confession to make.”
Lisa sipped her coffee, watching the sea, saying nothing. Gloval went on. “I had a premonition when I took command of this ship, the feeling that something terrible would happen. It’s difficult to explain, but it was a conviction that something would happen to us that would change us forever.”
She studied his face. “And it seems that you were right.”
He was staring at the sea and the rising sun, though she doubted he was really seeing them. “This ship still has its secrets, Lisa, but what are they? We must find out; I can’t escape the feeling that everything depends on it.”
* * *
It was strange to see the flight deck crews working in conventional coveralls and safety helmets again after months in vacuum suits, strange to think that most planes would need a catapult launch from the SDF-1 and the flatdecks now in order to get up airspeed.
Theoretically, the transport that was waiting for Gloval and Lisa didn’t need a launch; it was a VTOL job, capable of lifting off like a helo. Still, it had the reinforced nose and landing gear of a naval aircraft, and SOP recommended that fixed-wing aircraft receive cat launch.
Gloval walked toward it with Lisa at his side, his attaché case weighted with documents, tapes, photographs, reports, and evaluation reports on those reports. His feet scuffed against areas of missing nonskid surface on the flight deck, flaps of it having been peeled loose by the violence of SDF-1’s homecoming.
Scores of crewmen were just completing an FOD walkdown of the flight deck, pacing its length in a line abreast running from port to starboard. Foreign Object Damage was a thing much to be feared on a carrier; no scrap of debris could be left to be sucked into a jetcraft’s air intake.
The weather remained fair, but now a thick odor rose from the sea. The superheated steam and hard radiation produced by the dimensional fortress’s touchdown had resulted in a considerable fish kill, even so far out at sea; the sun was warming the foul-smelling soup that lapped around the hulls of the carriers and the approximate hip level of the SDF-1’s “torso.” Still, the stench came from far below and was easy to endure, mixed as it was with the trade winds that carried Earth’s inimitable air to people who had been breathing reprocessed gases for months now.
Gloval was tight-lipped and silent, feeling strange premonitions like the one he’d mentioned to Lisa. The United Earth Government’s replies to his messages had been terse, noncommittal. It seemed he had another desperate job of convincing to do.
Lisa emulated her captain, saying nothing and betraying nothing by her expression as she followed him up the boarding ladder into the transport. A crew member closed the hatch, and the transport’s turbines increased their howl.
The plane had already been boxed—aligned on the catapult and fitted with an appropriate breakaway holdback link that was color-coded for this particular job. The transport’s downswept wings bobbed minutely as the catapult crew got ready to launch.
When the cat crew had gone through their ritual, the transport shot away, taking lift from the sudden flare at the bow, off the angled flight deck, in a cloud of catapult steam.
Kim stretched, arms behind her head, gazing down at the carrier deck from the SDF-1’s bridge. She sighed. “Well, there they go; at least they got a clean launch.”
She was standing at the vast sweep of the bridge’s forward viewport with Sammie, Vanessa, and Claudia, following the transport’s climb.
Little Sammie shook her long, straight locks of blond hair back from her face. “I wish I were going, too,” she said forlornly, resting her chin on the viewport ledge.
Claudia unwillingly told herself that it was time to scold a little, not sympathize; these last few hours or days before the SDF-1 crew was relieved might be the most demanding of all where discipline was concerned.
So she chided, “What’re you talking about, Sammie? D’ you know how cold Alaska is this time of year? Or any time of year? You should be glad you’re staying where it’s warm.”
“Well, I’m not,” Sammie said bravely.
“At least we’d be off the ship,” Vanessa pointed out, adjusting her glasses self-consciously. She and Kim nodded supportively and made low “uh huh!” sounds.
Claudia was suddenly stern. “All right, that’s enough of that! First off, the captain and Lisa are on a classified mission, which means we don’t talk about it any more than we have to for duty purposes. And we don’t mention it at all outside this bridge, do you roger that transmission?”
The Terrible Trio nodded quickly, gulping, in unison.
The hatch slid aside as a voice startled them. “Good morning, ladies! I’d like—”
The greeting was cut off by a sharp whap! of impact. The bridge crew turned in surprise, Sammie letting out a small cry. Claudia maintained her composure, but it wasn’t easy.
“Oh! Ouch! Uhhhh!” Colonel Maistroff was in the hatchway, rubbing his forehead, his cap knocked back cockeyed on his head by the impact, holding himself up with one hand against the frame.
Everyone there knew Maistroff, and not for any cordial reason; one didn’t make allies of the bridge crew by crossing Captain Gloval.
Claudia fluttered her eyelashes and said disingenuously, “Colonel, are you all right? The hatchway’s terribly low! I recommend you duck down when coming onto the bridge, sir. Captain Gloval always does.”
There was something in the expressions of the bridge crew that said that they resented Maistroff’s taking this liberty; it was his right to act as if he were Gloval, but they were not required to play along with the pretense.
Maistroff rubbed a growing knot over one eye, making a low grating sound so that subordinates wouldn’t hear him groan in pain. “Thank you for that warning, Lieutenant Grant; you’re only about ten seconds too late.”
He stopped rubbing his forehead and squared his cap’s visor away. The Terrible Trio trooped past him, in step, on their way to their duty stations. “I just came up to officially take over command of this vessel in Captain Gloval’s absence.”
Claudia held all her personal feelings in check; she’d had a taste of what command was now and was willing to give even Maistroff the benefit of the doubt. “Yes, sir; I’d heard that you would. I’m sure you’ll enjoy the experience.”
He glowered at her. “Mmm. I don’t think that ‘enjoy’ is quite the appropriate word, miss. But I do expect to run a tight ship.” He moved past her, going to the forward viewport.
Claudia tried to get a grip on herself. Tight ship! She’d had the feeling he’d say that. As though Captain Gloval runs a loose ship! As if Captain Gloval isn’t the best skipper in—
“No more slipping around the rules,” Maistroff was saying. “What this bridge needs is a good dose of discipline.” Gazing grandly out the forward viewport, he drew a long cigar from the breast pocket of his uniform jacket.
It was plain that he was savoring the moment. Perhaps he had saved the stogie all this time since the SDF-1’s accidental departure so that he could smoke it on the bridge as master. Maistroff made a production of biting off the end, rolling the cigar between his fingers, and moistening it front and back between his lips.
His indescribable pleasure in the moment was broken by a high-pitched voice. “There’s no smoking on the bridge, sir!”
“What?” Maistroff whirled on Sammie, who was out of her chair and didn’t look in the least daunted by his scowl.
“It’s on page two of the ship’s SOP rule book—standard operating procedure, isn’t it, sir?”
Claudia couldn’t for the life of her figure out whether Sammie was serious or was having her little snipe at the colonel. Apparently, neither could Maistroff.
He turned back to the viewport, holding the cigar as if somebody else had put it in his fingers, not willing to throw it away but unable to do much of anything else with it. His back was ramrod straight, and his cheeks flushed a bright red.
“Ah, of course. I was only holding it. I had no intention of lighting it.” He gritted his teeth but refused to take official recognition when he heard female giggling and tittering behind him.
“Excuse me, Colonel,” Claudia said. “Will there be anything else, sir?”
He turned to her, trying to put down his anger, cold cigar clenched in his teeth, hands clasped behind him. “What? What?” She said gently, “I was officer on the last watch, sir. Am I relieved?” She saluted.
He was doubly red-faced to have forgotten so simple a thing as relieving her of the command. “Oh!” He answered her salute. “Sure, you go right along, Lieutenant Grant. I’m sure we’ll be able to operate just fine until you get back.” He smiled indulgently.
As Claudia gathered her things, Maistroff went to inspect the rest of the bridge and incidentally try Gloval’s chair to see how it felt. Making sure that he wouldn’t hear, Vanessa whispered to Claudia, “Y’ better check in later to make sure the bridge is still here!”
The Terrible Trio stifled their laughter. Claudia smiled. “You hang in there, girls.”
Reflecting that Maistroff didn’t know what real opposition was like but would find out if he crossed the Terribles, Claudia left the bridge.