Metal Fire

by Jack McKinney

  But Dana positioned her Battloid in front of him, preventing a clear shot at his target.

  "Angelo, stop! You'll kill the hostage-"

  Two Bioroids blew the words from her, with shots that would have thrown her face-forward to the ground had Dante not been there to catch her.

  "That's two I owe you," she said with some effort.

  They both dropped their Battloids into a crouch and returned fire. Many of the Bioroids were left without Hovercraft and were obviously bent on going down fighting. There would be no captives here, just a scrap pile of mecha and android parts.

  Dana did manage to blow the legs out from under one of their number, but a second later the thing seemed to self-destruct. And when they did that,

  there weren't even parts left, just memories.

  Further down the street the troop carriers were lifting off. The 15th was pinned down, unable to stop them. Still other carriers were landing close in to the fighting, picking up troops who would have been abandoned. Could they be getting short of firepower, Dana wondered?

  The 15th pushed their line forward and took two more city blocks from the dwindling number of enemy troops. Then ultimately they found themselves firing on the carriers themselves as they were lifting off, presumably returning to the fortress.

  "There they go," Dante said, laying his weapon aside. "I wonder what they're planning to do with all those hostages?"

  "That's a good question, Sergeant," said Bowie. "Yeah, a real good question," said Sean.

  General Emerson and Commander Leonard watched the withdrawal from the central tower of the command center. Below, much of the city was in ruin; the sky above was smoke and orange flame.

  "Negotiating couldn't have been worse than this!" Emerson said in disgust, turning away from the window.

  "Don't make assumptions," Leonard told him from his seat. "Who's to say that if we had tried to sit down and reason with them the results would have been any different? We may have prevented a worse disaster."

  Emerson was too frustrated to counter the remark.

  A staff officer entered the room just then and Leonard got to his feet anxiously.

  "Well, what's the figure?" he demanded.

  "Over two hundred citizens have been kidnapped, sir. But the figure may go higher once all sectors have reported in."

  "I see..." Leonard said, visibly distressed. "In the official report, list them as casualties of the battle."

  Emerson threw Leonard a look, which the commander took in stride. Did the fool really expect him to tell the civilian population that the aliens

  were now taking people from their homes for some unknown purpose? "Yessir," the staff sergeant snapped.

  "I don't know what they're up to," Leonard said under his breath. "But whatever it is, it won't work-not as long as I have a single man left to fight them."

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Come on, people, we've done this before and we can do it again. There isn't one of us-except for the tots-who didn't see our homes and lives wiped out by the rounds and missiles of one faction or another. So, think back to those days, remember how we had to build and rebuild. And remember that we never lost sight of tomorrow. We can lean on each other and pull through this, or we can all retreat into our individual misery and lose everything. I'm going to leave it up to each and every one of you. But I know what I'm going to do: I'm going to roll up my shirtsleeves, grab hold of this shovel, and dig myself out of this mess!

  From Mayor Tommy Luan's speech to the residents of SDF-1 Macross, as quoted in Luan's High Office

  The human booty that resulted from the Bioroid raid on Monument City was being housed in a massive stasis sphere inside the Masters' grounded flagship-a luminescent globe over fifty yards in diameter that had once been used to store the specimen clones derived from the cell tissues of the Tirolian scientist, Zor. Of the three-hundred-odd victims of the kidnapping foray, only seventy-five had survived the ordeal. These men, women, and children were drifting weightlessly in the gaseous chamber now, as the three Masters looked on dispassionately. The time had come to subject one of the captives to a xylonic cerebral probe to determine not only the psychological make-up of the Humans, but to ascertain their involvement with the Protoculture as well.

  At the Masters' behest an antigrav beam retrieved one of the deanimated Earthling males and conveyed him to the mind probe table, a circular platform something like a light table, lit up by the internal circuitry of its numerous scanning devices. The subject was a young tech, still in uniform, his handsome face a mask of death. He was carefully positioned supine on the transparent surface of the platform by the antigrav beam,

  while the Masters took to the table's control console, a bowllike apparatus slightly larger than the xylonic scanner, its rim a series of pressure-sensitive activation pads.

  "But can we extract the information we want from what is no doubt an inferior example of the species?" Bowkaz put to his companions. Their choice had been based on the fact that this one was clothed in an Earth Forces uniform; there had been captives of higher rank, but they had expired in transit.

  "We will at least be able to determine the depth of their reliance on the Protoculture," Dag returned.

  Six wrinkled hands were laid on the sensor pads; the combined will of three minds directed the scanning process. X-ray images and internal schematics of the Human were displayed on the control console's central screen.

  "Their evolutionary development is more limited than we thought," Shaizan commented.

  As the probes were focused on cerebral memory centers, video images replaced the roller-coaster graphics; these so-called mnemonic schematics actually translated the electroengrammic cerebral pulses into visual wavelengths, permitting the Masters to view the subject's past. What played on the circular monitor screen were scenes that were to some extent archetypically human: preverbal memories of infancy, recollections of school life, cadet training, moments of love and loss, beauty and pain.

  The Masters had little trouble understanding the images of training and hierarchical induction, but were less certain when the scenes contained some measure of emotional content.

  "Inefficient command structure and grotesquely primitive weapons system," Bowkaz offered, as military memories surfaced.

  Now a fleeting image of a run through Earth's tall green grass, a companion alongside...

  "Is this the specimen's female counterpart?"

  "Most likely. Our previous studies have shown that the two sexes

  intermix quite freely and that the Earthlings apparently select specific mates. I believe that we are seeing an example of what might be referred to as the courting ritual."

  "A barbaric behavioral pattern."

  "Yes...The species reproduces itself through a process of self-contained childbirth. There is no evidence of biogenetic engineering whatsoever."

  "Random...foolish," muttered Dag.

  "But something about them is worrisome," said Shaizan. "It is no wonder the Zentraedi were defeated." He lifted his aged hands from the sensor pads, effectively deactivating the probe.

  The young cadet on the table sat up, seemingly unaffected and reawakened; but there was no life left in his eyes: whatever was once his individual self had been taken from him by the Masters' probe, and what remained was empty consciousness, like a hand wiped clean of prints and lines, awaiting that first fold and flex...

  "There is little chance of using these beings to pilot our Bioroids," Bowkaz pronounced. "The scanning process alone has destroyed much of this one's neural circuitry. We would need to recondition each of them to suit our purpose..."

  But if this part of their plan was foiled, it was at least encouraging to have learned that not all Humans had knowledge of the Protoculture, except in terms of its application to the enhancement of technology. They had not yet discovered its true value...

  "...And this is to our advantage," said Dag. "Ignorant, they will not oppose our removing the Protoculture matrix from th
e ruins of Zor's dimensional fortress."

  "But we must prevent them from carrying out these attacks against us.

  Can they be reasoned with?"

  Bowkaz scowled. "They can be threatened."

  "And easily manipulated...I feel that the time has come to call down a rescue ship."

  "But we are so close to our goal," Dag objected.

  Shaizan looked to his companion. There was an unmistakable element of impatience in Dag's attitude, surely a contagion spread by the Earthlings who had been allowed to scout the fortress. Or perhaps by the very specimens the Bioroids had brought in. All the more reason to abandon the surface of the planet as quickly as possible.

  "The time has come for us to activate Zor Prime and insinuate him among the Humans. The clone so resembles them that they will accept him as one of their own."

  Bowkaz concurred. "We will achieve a two-fold purpose: by implanting a neuro-sensor in the clone's brain, we will be able to monitor and control his activities."

  "And second?" Dag asked anxiously.

  "The realization of our original plan for the clone: as the contamination takes hold of him, the neural imagery of Zor will be awakened. And once that occurs, we will not only know precisely where the Protoculture device has been hidden, but exactly how it operates."

  Shaizan came close to smiling. "The Invid will be stopped and the galaxy will be ours once again."

  Bowkaz looked at the Human subject, then the stasis sphere itself. "And what of these?" he asked his companions.

  Shaizan turned his back. "Destroy them," he said.

  "Specimen is in position and proton disposal is on standby," reported the bio-lab tech.

  Commander Leonard stepped to the permaplas observation window and gave a last look at the alien android. It had been laid out on its back on a flyout platform central to the huge sanitization tank. Curiously, someone in forensic had thought to reclothe the dissected thing in its uniform. Consequently, this routine disposal was beginning to feel more like a wake than anything else, and Leonard didn't like that one bit.

  The sanitization chamber resembled the sealed barrel of an enormous gun, its curved inner surface an array of circular ports linked by conduits to

  tanks of cleansing chemicals or particle-beam accelerators. No one had expected the supreme commander to drop by, and it was only happenstance that accounted for his presence-he and his retinue had been in the area and Colonel Fredericks of the GMP had invited him over to witness the process. Rolf Emerson was also present.

  Leonard was just about ready to give the tech the gosign, when Lieutenant Sterling came running in, urging him to wait, urging him not to give the signal.

  "Commander," she said out of breath. "You can't just destroy him. He should be returned to his people. Perhaps we can bargain-"

  Leonard was still burning from Dana's interruptions at the briefing, so he turned on her harshly now, gesturing to the lifeless form in the tank. "It's an unthinking piece of protoplasm even when alive, Lieutenant! Do you seriously believe that the aliens would bargain for this?!"

  Rolf Emerson was ready to drag Dana away before she could respond, but she ignored his glare, even raised her voice some. "Why would 'unthinking pieces of protoplasm' bother to take Human hostages, Commander? Answer that!"

  Leonard winced and looked around, wondering if anyone without a clearance had caught Sterling's comment. Fredericks understood, and stepped behind Dana, gently taking hold of her arms.

  "Let me go!" Dana threw over her shoulder.

  Fredericks backed off, then said in low tones: "Calm down, Lieutenant. There were no hostages taken yesterday, there were only casualties. And in any event, this matter has nothing whatever to do with you."

  "Activate!" Dana heard the commander say. He had turned away from her, hands folded behind his back, silhouetted against the observation window now as a flash of bright light disintegrated the alien corpse. Follow-up chemicals poured from two ports removing any remaining traces of tissue.

  Dana stood motionless; unresponsive to Leonard as he shouldered by her, dismissing her. Fredericks and Emerson closed in on her.

  grip.

  "Now then, Lieutenant," the GMP colonel began sinisterly.

  "Will you take your hands off me?!" Dana yelled, twisting free of his

  Rolf stepped in front of her. "Dana," he said, controlled but obviously

  furious, "considering your past record, you risk a great deal by coming here like this. You know the punishment for insubordination is severe-and don't think for a moment that I'll intervene on your behalf."

  "Yes, of course. Sir!"

  Rolf softened some. "Believe me, I share your concern that Commander Leonard has been too resolute in this matter, but I'm in no position to debate his actions and neither are you. Do I make myself clear?"

  Dana's lips were a thin line. "Clear, sir," she said stiffly. "Clear as day."

  The 15th, like many of the other ATAC squads, had been assigned to mop-up duty. There were sections of Monument City untouched by the recent attack, but this was more than made up for by the devastation elsewhere. Still, it was business as usual for the civilians: thanks to Robotechnology, rebuilding wasn't the chore it would have been twenty years ago, even though there were relatively few mecha units given over to construction. Many wondered how Macross had been able to rebuild itself so often without the advantage of modern techniques and materials, not to mention modular design innovations. One would hear stories about Macross constantly, comparisons and such, but what always surfaced was a sense of nostalgia for the older, cruder ways, nostalgia for a certain spirit that had been lost.

  Dana's generation didn't quite see things that way, however. In fact, they felt that Monument had more spirit than any of its prototypes. Whereas Hunter's generation had been brought up during an era of war-the Civil War, then the Robotech-Dana and her peers had enjoyed almost twenty years of peace. But they had been raised to expect war, and now that it was here, they simply did their part, then returned to the hedonistic pursuits that had always ruled them and provided them with a necessary

  balance to the dark predictions of their parents and elders.

  In this way, mop-up operations were usually excuses for block parties. Civilians left the shelters and started partying as soon as they could, and the younger members of the Army of the Southern Cross were so easily distracted and seduced...

  "Get a move on, Bowie!" Dana yelled over her shoulder, as she leaned her Hovercycle into a turn.

  Bowie was half-a-dozen lengths behind her, with power enough to catch up with her, but short on nerve. She had conned him into sneaking away from patrol for a few quick drinks at the club he frequented on leave. It was a crazy stunt to be pulling, but Dana was immune to his warnings. What's the difference, she had told him. The High Command never listens to a word I have to say anyway, so why should I listen to them?

  Oh, he had argued with her, but as always she got the better of him. "Hey, slow down!" he begged her from his cycle. "Are you crazy or

  something?"

  It was a foolish question to be asking someone who had just walked out on patrol, so Bowie simply shook his head and gave the mecha more throttle.

  The club (called Little Luna, an affectionate term for the Robotech Factory Satellite that had been in geosynchronous orbit until the arrival of the alien ships) was SRO by the time Dana and Bowie arrived; it was body-to-body on the dance floor and tighter than that everywhere else. But Bowie enjoyed a certain cachet because he played there so often, and it wasn't long before they had two seats at the bar.

  "Let me have a bottle of your best Scotch," Dana told the bartender.

  She asked Bowie to join her, but he refused.

  "I don't know what's bugging you," he said, "but don't you think you might be going about this the wrong way? I mean, getting thrown in the brig isn't going to prove anything-"

  Dana silenced him by putting her hand over his mouth. Her attention was riveted on someone who
had just appeared on-stage.

  "Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, haves and have-nots," the deejay announced. "George Sullivan!"

  Bowie moved Dana's hand aside and leaned around her. Sullivan was taking a quick bow for the crowd. He was a handsome man in his early thirties, on the old side for the following he enjoyed, and fairly conservative to boot. Clean shaven and wholesome looking, he wore his wavy brown hair in a kind of archaic pompadour, and liked to affect tailcoats with velvet lapels. Bowie could never understand his appeal, although he sang well enough.

  "What a fox!" Dana commented.

  Bowie made a face. "We jam together sometimes."

  "You jam with that hunk? Bowie, I should have been coming to this club with you a long time ago."

  Dana was too preoccupied to notice Bowie's shrug of indifference. "He's a newcomer." Sullivan had spotted Bowie and was leaving the stage and heading toward the bar, pawed at by some of the overeager. "He's coming over here," he told Dana quietly. "Don't make a driveling fool of yourself."

  Dana's eyes lit up as Sullivan shook Bowie's hand. "I'm glad you stopped by, Bowie," Dana heard him say. "How would you feel about accompanying me on 'It's You'? I'm having some trouble with my romantic image."

  Dana thought him even better-looking up close. And he smelled terrific. "That's hard to believe," she piped in.

  Sullivan turned to her. "Have we met?" he said annoyed. "This is Lieutenant Dana Sterling, George," said Bowie.

  Sullivan stared at her: did his eyes narrow with interest just then, or did she imagine it, Dana asked herself? He was reaching for her hand. "A pleasure," she said, restraining herself from giving the masculine handshake she was accustomed to.

  "My pleasure," said Sullivan, a bit too forcefully. He held on to her hand longer than he had to, communicating something with his eyes she