Metal Fire

by Jack McKinney

  "Lieutenant," the major said after a moment. "I'm afraid that will have to wait until I speak with Commander Leonard."

  "But-"

  "That means now, Lieutenant Sterling," Carpenter said more firmly.

  Supreme Commander Leonard hadn't logged many hours in deep space, but he was familiar enough with the ups and downs to recognize a case of vacuum psychosis when he saw it; and that's exactly what he felt he and General Emerson were up against while listening to the mad ravings of Major Carpenter and his equally spacehappy navigator. In Leonard's office at the Ministry, the two men rambled on about the Pioneer Expeditionary Mission, repeatedly referring to a schism among the Earth Forces-T. R. Edwards on the one side, Admiral Hunter and some group calling itself the Sentinels on the other. But in spite of it all, High Command's principal

  question had been answered: these aliens were indeed the Robotech Masters. They had abandoned their homeworld of Tirol and traveled across the galaxy to Earthspace; and it was beginning to seem obvious to Leonard that they had not come to reclaim anything, but to destroy the Human race and lay claim to and colonize the planet itself.

  The two injured officers had concerns of their own, as anyone would after fifteen long years offworld, and the commander did his best to answer these without breaching security. He described the initial appearance of the Robotech ships; the fighting centered around the lunar base and space station Liberty; the voluntary disappearance of the Robotech Factory Satellite by the Zentraedi who operated it.

  Leonard looked hard at the techno-voyagers after his brief summary of the past several months, hoping to return the topic to present mode.

  "Naturally, we're grateful for what you attempted to do out there," the commander told them now. "But good god, man, what could you have been thinking of? One ship against so many! Why not have waited until the rest of the Pioneer Mission arrived?"

  Leonard noticed Carpenter and the navigator exchange glances and braced himself for the worst. Carpenter was looking at him gravely.

  "I'm afraid you've misunderstood us, Commander," the major began. "The Pioneer Mission will not be returning. Admiral Hunter and General Reinhardt can only offer you their prayers, and their firm conviction that the fate of Earth lies in good hands, with you and the valiant defense forces under your command, sir. But expect no assistance from the SDF-3, Commander, none whatsoever."

  "And may God help them," the navigator muttered under his breath. Leonard made a sound of disapproval.

  "I wonder if there'll be anyone left on Earth to appreciate their prayers by the time they return from space," Rolf said, his back to the room while he watched a dark rain begin to fall on Monument City.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Of course, Cochran told me about the alien pilot. Emerson was a fool to believe he could keep this from me. He has no inkling of the existence of the Secret Fraternity, that one which binds great minds together, all petty loyalties be damned...But I am thankful for his foolishness; it allows me a freer hand in these matters. Unfortunately, though, the pilot was moved before I could intervene. And now that I have learned his name, it is imperative that I get to him as soon as possible. If he is who I believe him to be...my mind reels from the possibility. In certain ways, I, Zand, am his child!

  Dr. Lazio Zand, Event Horizon: Perspectives on Dana Sterling and the Second Robotech War

  In the now heavily guarded laboratory of Miles Cochran, the Bioroid pilot who would come to be known as Zor Prime, writhed in apparent agony, his lean but well-muscled arms straining at the ties that kept him confined to the bed. Masked and gowned, Rolf Emerson, Nova Satori, and Alan Fredericks watched with concern, while the professor monitored the captive's vital signs from the sterile room's staging area. The fine-featured young alien had come out of his coma three hours before (prompting Emerson's second predawn visit to the lab), but claimed to know nothing of his past or present circumstances.

  "A most convenient case of amnesia," Fredericks suggested, breaking the uneasy silence that prevailed when Zor's cries had subsided some. "I think it's all too obvious that the creature is a mole. These so-called Robotech Masters hope to infiltrate an agent in our midst by the most transparent of ploys. A Bioroid pilot who suddenly has no memory of his past," the GMP man scoffed. "Absurd. Not only that, but after-mission reports by the Fifteenth Tactical Armor suggest that this particular Bioroid was deliberately shot down by the enemy forces."

  Rolf Emerson nodded his head in agreement. "I'm tempted to agree

  with your assessment, Colonel. Still, there are ways we can use him"

  "How do we know he isn't one of our own hostages returned to us?" Fredericks interrupted. "Perhaps the aliens have sent us a brainwashed captive simply to convince us that we're waging a war against members of our own species?"

  "General," Cochran spoke up, walking into their midst with an armful of diagnostic readouts. "Excuse me, Emerson, but please allow me to present my findings before you succeed in convincing yourself this pilot is an enemy plant."

  "Go ahead, Doctor," Rolf said apologetically.

  Cochran ran his forefinger down the data columns of the continuous printout sheet. "Yes, here..." He cleared his throat. "Scans of the limbic system, extending along the hippocampal formation of the medial temporal lobes, fornix, and mammillary bodies, to the anterior nuclei of the thalamus, cingulum, septal area, and the orbital surface of the frontal lobes, most definitely point to diffuse cerebral impairment of the memory centers.

  "It's quite unlike anything I've seen," he added, removing his glasses. "Inappropriate to classify as retrograde or anterograde, and, as it appears, only marginally posttraumatic. Closer to a fugue state than anything else, but I'd like to consult with Professor Zand before committing myself to any reductive explanation."

  "Absolutely not," Emerson barked, stepping forward. "I don't want anyone else involved in this case, least of all Zand. Is that understood?"

  Cochran gave a reluctant nod.

  "Now what are our options, Doctor?" Rolf wanted to know.

  Cochran replaced his eyeglasses. "Well, treatment varies with the subject, General. We might try hypnosis, of course."

  "What about environmental manipulation?" Nova suggested. The GMP lieutenant looked over at the pilot. "His brain patterns are obviously abnormal, but they do appear to be stabilizing. Suppose we transferred him to another environment."

  "Somewhere more Human, you mean," said Rolf.

  "Yes."

  "But who would supervise the treatment?" asked Fredericks.

  "I would," Nova said confidently. "He doesn't seem to have a violent nature, and if the amnesia is genuine, he'll need someone to trust and confide in..."

  "It has been known to work..." Cochran agreed.

  "I think you're onto something, Lieutenant," Rolf said encouragingly. "But where do you suggest we bring him?"

  "The base hospital," Nova answered. "We can secure a floor and gradually bring him into contact with the outside world." She gestured to the room's equipment banks and ob windows. "This place is simply too intimidating, too sterile."

  "There's a reason for that," Cochran said defensively, but Emerson cut him off.

  "I'm putting you in charge, Lieutenant Satori. But remember: the strictest security must be maintained."

  Marie Crystal took a healthy bite out of a Red Delicious apple (from the fruit basket her squad had sent over, along with the flowers presently vased on the bedside table), and flipped through the pages of the glamour magazine she had purchased. It seemed a little bizarre-reading about projected fashion trends for the coming year when there was a war on-but she assured herself that it had probably always been thus: no matter how cruel the circumstance, the fundamental things applied...

  She was sitting crosslegged on the bed, the mag spread in front of her, an appealing portrait in dark-blue satin, when she heard a knock at the door.

  "All right, c'mon out," a mock-stern voice threatened. "This is hospital security, and we know ther
e's a perfectly healthy person in there."

  There was no mistaking Sean's voice. She told him to wait a minute, stashed the magazine under the bed, and got back under the covers, clutching them tight to her neck and doing a reasonable impersonation of a

  patient.

  Sean entered a moment later, flowers in hand. "Hi, Marie," he said, full of good cheer. "I thought I'd drop by and apologize for not coming sooner, but they've been keeping us pretty busy...Who the heck brought you these?" he said of the squad's gift, pulling the yellow flowers from the vase and trashing them. He replaced them with his own bouquet.

  Marie made a face behind his back and faked a small but agonized moan, subsiding to quiet whimpers as he turned to her.

  "Hey, what's the matter?" he said, leaning over her now.

  She came up hard and fast with a backhand as he was reaching out for her, slapping his arm away.

  "Get away from me!" she growled into his surprised look. "What's the matter, you big jerk-you couldn't find any nurses to play with?"

  Sean was open-armed, in a gesture of bewilderment. "Marie, you must have taken one on the head. I came to see you"

  "Just keep your hands to yourself!" she snarled, then groaned for real as a stabbing abdominal pain snuck up on her.

  "My, my...you poor little darlin'," Sean teased. "You really are a credit to your uniform, the way you handle the excruciating agony. Or maybe I should say lack of uniform," he added, leering at her fondly.

  Marie ignored the comment, not bothering to conceal her cleavage as she leaned up onto her elbows. "I'm faking it, is that it?" she said angrily.

  Sean risked sitting on the edge of the bed, his hand stroking his jaw contemplatively. "No...Well, actually, the thought had crossed my mind." He folded his arms and sighed. "You know, looking back on it, I wonder what I was thinking when I saved your life."

  Marie's eyes narrowed. "Looking for gratitude, Sean?"

  "Aw, come on," he smiled. "Maybe just a little friendliness, that's all."

  Marie's head dropped back to the pillow, eyes on the ceiling. "This whole mess should never have happened. It's all Sterling's fault I'm lying here like a lump."

  "Calm down," he told her sincerely. "You can't blame Dana."

  She turned on him. "Don't tell me what I can do ground-pounder! I hate the Fifteenth-the whole bunch of you."

  Sean held up his hands. "Wait a minute-"

  "Get out of here!" she yelled at him, the pillow raised like a weapon now. "Out!"

  He backed off and exited the room without another word, leaving her to stare at the pink roses he brought and wonder if she had overplayed her hand a bit.

  In the corridor outside Marie's room, Sean bumped into Dana, a bouquet in her hand and obviously on her way to pay a visit to the Fifteenth's newest enemy. Sean stepped in front of her, blocking her advance on Marie's room with small talk.

  "And if you're here to see Marie, you can forget it," he finally got around to saying. "The staff didn't give the okay for her to have visitors."

  Dana looked suspicious. "She was admitted days ago. Besides, they let you see her, didn't they?"

  "Uh, they made an exception for me," Sean stammered as Dana pushed her way past him. "After all, I'm the guy who-"

  "Does she still hate me?" Dana asked, suddenly realizing the purpose of Sean's double-talk.

  Sean's forced smile collapsed. "Even worse. She's mad enough to say that she hates me! It'll probably blow over," he hastened to add. "But right now she kinda considers you responsible."

  "Me?! Why?" Dana pointed to herself. "Jeez, I didn't shoot her down!" "We know that," Sean said reassuringly. "She's just looking for

  someone to blame. And if she hadn't been trying to save that Sullivan dude..."

  "Brother..." Dana sighed, shaking her head.

  They were both silent for a moment; then turned together to the sound of controlled commotion at the far end of the hospital corridor. A dozen GMP soldiers, armed and armored, were supervizing the rapid transit of a

  stretcher to the elevator banks.

  "What's all this about?" Dana wondered aloud.

  "The place is crawling with Gimps," Sean told her. "I heard they cordoned off the whole ninth floor."

  Dana snorted. "Leonard's probably here for his annual physical."

  But even as she said it, something didn't sit well. Nonetheless, she gave a final look at the draped form on the stretcher and shrugged indifferently.

  To avoid a scene like the one recently played in war room, Rolf Emerson decided it was best to inform Leonard of the new arrangements he had made for the alien pilot, who, shortly before being transferred to the base hospital, had given his name as Zor.

  Zor! the name Dana had mentioned in debriefing sessions following the rescue of Bowie at the Macross mounds. It had seemed coincidental then, but now...

  Zor!

  A name notorious these past fifteen years; a name whispered on the lips of everyone connected with Robotechnology; a name at once despised and held in the greatest reverence. Zor, whom the Zentraedi had credited with the discovery of Protoculture; Zor, the Tirolian scientist who had sent the SDF-1 to Earth, unwittingly ushering in the near destruction of the planet, the eclipse of the Human race.

  Of course it was possible that Zor was a common name among these people called the Masters. But then again...

  Emerson said as much to the commander when he reported to him.

  Leonard, however, was not impressed.

  "I don't care what he calls himself, or whether he's Human or android," the commander growled. "All I know is that your investigation has thus far been fruitless. The man's name is no great prize, General. Not when we're after military data."

  "Professor Cochran is confident that the change in environment will result in a breakthrough," Rolf countered.

  "I want facts!" Leonard emphasized. "This Bioroid pilot is a soldier-perhaps an important one. I want him pumped for information and I frankly don't give a damn how that's accomplished."

  Emerson held his ground. "All the more reason for caution at this point, Commander. His mind is fragile, which means he can either snap or become useful to us. We've got to find out what the Masters are after."

  Leonard's fist came down on the desk. "Are you blind, man? It's obvious what they want-the complete obliteration of the Human race! A fresh planet to use for colonization!"

  "But there's the Protoculture Matrix"

  "To hell with that mystical claptrap!" Leonard bellowed, up on his feet now, hands flat on the desk. "And to hell with caution! Bring me results, or I'll have that pilot's head, General-to do with as I see fit!"

  The day's rain seemed to have scoured the Earth clean; there were even traces of redolent aromas in the washed air, sweet smells wafting in on an evening breeze that found Dana on the barrack's balcony. Strange to stare at the sawtoothed ridgeline now, she said to herself, the fortress gone but the harsh memories of its brief stay etched in her thoughts. The recon mission, a city of clones; then Sullivan, Marie, countless others...And presiding over all of it, robbing her of sleep these past few nights, the image of the red Bioroid pilot: his handsome, elfin face, his long lavender-silver locks...

  Dana closed her eyes tightly, as though in an effort to compress the image to nothingless, atomize it somehow and free herself. It was worse now that she had gleaned some information about the Expeditionary Mission.

  She might never see her parents again.

  Silently, Bowie joined her at the balcony rail while her eyes were shut; but she was aware of his presence and smiled even before turning to him. They held each other's hands without exchanging a word, drinking in the sweet night air and the sounds of summer insects. There was nothing that needed to be said; since their youth they had talked about Max and Miriya,

  Vince and Jean, what they would do when the SDF-3 returned, what they would do if it never returned. They were close enough to read each others thoughts sometimes, so it didn't surprise Dana when Bowie
mentioned the alien girl, Musica.

  "I know that the fortress represents the enemy," he said softly. "And I'm aware that I don't have much to go on, Dana. But she's not one of them-I'm sure of it. Something went off deep in my heart...and suddenly I believed in her."

  Dana gave his hand a reaffirming prolonged squeeze.

  Was that what her heart was telling her about the red Bioroid pilot?-that she believed in him?!

  He had been moved; he knew that much. This room was warmer than the first, empty of that corral of machines and devices that had surrounded him. He also knew that there were fewer eyes on him, mechanical and otherwise. His body was no longer host to that array of sensor pads and transmitters; the vein in his wrist no longer receiving the slow nutrient flow; his breathing passages unrestricted. His arms...free.

  Gone, too, were the nightmares: those horrible images of the mindless attack launched against him by protoplasmic creatures; the giant warriors who somehow seemed to have been fighting on his behalf; the explosions of light and a seering pain; the death and...resurrection!

  Were they nightmares or was this something recalled to life?-something one part of him used to keep buried!

  There was a female seated in a chair at the foot of his bed. Her handsome features and jet-black hair gave her an alluring look, and yet there was something cool and distant about her that overrode the initial impression. She sat with one leg crossed over the other, a primitive writing board device in her lap. She wore a uniform and a communicatorlike headband that seemed to serve no other purpose than ornamentation. Her voice was rich and melodic, and as she spoke he recalled her from the short list of memories logged in his virgin mind, recalled her as the one who had

  asked questions of him earlier on, before this sleep had intervened, gently but probing. He remembered that he desired to trust her, to confide in her. But there had been precious little to tell. Other than his name...his name...