Rochelle turned to his superior. “General, Human or not, what would they be looking for out in that wasteland?”
“Could they be scavengers or something, looking for salvage?” Green interjected.
Emerson shook his head irritably. Green was a steady sort as a combat leader, but the suggestion was ludicrous. These invaders had come from an advanced culture with a highly developed technology, and everything about them suggested that they had an extensive technological and social support system behind them—at least until recently.
“No, that can’t be the answer.” He had read Zentraedi debriefing files as thoroughly as anyone. “They’re in the service of the Robotech Masters.”
Rochelle drew himself up. “Then, sir, I suggest we attack as soon as possible, before they become impossible to dislodge from their foothold.”
Emerson shook his head again. “Not yet. First I want to know more about this situation, and about these Bioroids. And above all, I want to know what they’re looking for.”
Dana said plaintively, “But one of my men has been taken prisoner! Please, you have to let me go in there after him!”
“Permission denied.” Emerson rose to his feet, no happier with the necessities of the situation than Dana was, but in a better position to see the overall picture.
“It was your decision to return to headquarters with this intelligence. It was the correct thing to do; we’re fighting for Earth’s survival. A lot of lives have been lost already, and more are certain to be before this thing is over. But our mission is to repel an alien invasion, do I make myself clear?”
He did, to all those listening. They were all soldiers in a desperate war, even Bowie, who meant so much to him.
But all Dana kept hearing were those words, it was your decision.
At the barracks she wandered back toward the ready-room, sunk in despairing musings, until she realized someone was blocking her way.
Angelo Dante leaned against one side of the doorframe, arms folded, his foot braced against the other. “Well, well! Aren’t we forgetting a little something? Where’s Bowie, Lieutenant? I hear he didn’t make it.”
Her face went white, then flushed angrily. She tried to move past, still feeling shame and failure at Bowie’s capture. “Move it, Dante.”
“I call that pretty tough talk for somebody who cut and ran and abandoned that kid out there like that.”
Dana made a sudden decision and met Angelo’s glare. “If I hadn’t abandoned him, there wouldn’t be anybody to go out and get him back, would there?”
With her foot she swept the leg supporting all his weight from beneath him; Angelo ended up on the floor with a yelp. “Got it?” she finished with a slow smile, shucking off the sling. Her arm hurt like blazes, but this was no time to be hampered.
Angelo was looking up at her with his mouth open, not sure if he was going to jump her and give her the drubbing she had coming, or congratulate her for what she seemed to be saying.
“Sergeant, it is my considered opinion that this squad needs some night training maneuvers.”
He gave her a slow smile. “Like in that off-limits area?”
She stood there and gave him a wink even while she was saying, “I don’t know what you’re referring to, Angie. Ten-hut!”
The big three-striper was on his feet with machinelike speed. “Now, then,” she went on. “This squad’s gotten complacent, sloppy, and out of practice. Get me?”
“Yes, ma’am!”
“Consequently, you will pass on the order to scramble immediately. Tell ’em to stow the yocks and grab their socks, Sergeant.”
The Bioroids’ activities at the mounds had come to a standstill as the Robotech Masters weighed the problems posed by the wraiths.
Progress was hampered, too, because the red Bioroid was not on the scene. He had taken the prisoner into the forward command ship to examine the Human and see what could be learned. That had proved to be vexingly little; the creature was unconscious, and its thought patterns so unevolved that normal methods of interrogation didn’t work.
Bowie slowly came back to life as he felt himself being jarred and shaken. He was still in the metallic grip of the Bioroid leader, being borne along a passageway to the sound of the massive metallic footsteps. Two blues walked behind. The place was stupendous, built to Bioroid scale.
All three mecha appeared red in the passageway’s lighting. Bowie glanced around in punchy amazement; the place looked as organic as it did technological, some advanced mixture of the two. One area seemed to be composed of asymmetric spiderwebbing thicker than the thickest hawsers; the curved passageway ceiling had a vascular look, as though it were fed by blood vessels. Tremendous polished blue convexities in the wall might be darkened viewscreens or immense gemstones—Bowie couldn’t even guess.
He strained at the grip, but it did no good. “C’mon, ya big ape! Lemme go! Yer crushin’ me!”
The trio of Bioroids stopped before a triangular door even taller than themselves. The three door segments were joined along jagged seams, like a triskelion. As the door slid open, so did the red’s broad chest and helm, exposing the glowing ball-turret and the pilot who sat there calmly, legs drawn up, looking remote and at peace.
Bowie snarled, shaking his fists. “Oh, so ya worked up the guts to show yourself, huh? Well, what happens now, Prince Charming? Afraid to let me go because you’d be gambling with your teeth?”
The red Bioroid pilot studied him as if he were something in a lab smear. Bowie fumed, “What’s the matter, pretty boy? Can’t you talk?”
The enemy spoke again in that eerie mental language. Prisoner, you display much bravado. But like all primitives, you’ve yet to learn the value of silence.
And the red pilot gave Bowie a quick lesson, tossing him into the compartment that had just opened up. The Bioroid had leaned down some way, so that Bowie wasn’t maimed or killed. The fall stunned him, though, knocking the wind from him.
Door and Bioroid were already resealing by the time the captive got a little breath back. “That’s right! You better hide in that tin can, you stinking coward!”
And then the door was shut. Bowie collapsed back on the deck, hissing with the pain he hadn’t let his captors see. “Just you wait, pally!”
After a while he hauled himself to his feet. The compartment he was in was as big as his whole barracks complex back at the base; surely there must be some way out.
But a hurried search yielded little. The place was evidently a storeroom, but the crates and boxes bigger than houses were impervious to his efforts to open them. He could find no escape route, not even a Bowie-size mouse hole. The enemy had neglected to take his lockback survival knife from him, but there wasn’t much it could do against the armored bulkhead all around him.
Then he gave more thought to the light far overhead. It was a triangular, grilled affair, and the light source seemed to be high above the mesh. It put him in mind of conduits and crawlspaces. In another moment he was shinnying up the side of a crate, ignoring the pain of his wounds and injuries.
It took him nearly twenty minutes of scrambling, leaping, and balance-walking among the containers and pipes and structural members, and he had to double back twice to try new approaches, but at last he came up under the mesh. He hoped against hope that he wouldn’t hear the rumble of the ship’s engines for just a while longer—that he could get out before the invaders got whatever they had come for and departed Earth.
He hesitated, the knife in his hand. But then he went ahead, to prize up the mesh and try his best to break free. As far as he knew, he was the only one left alive to sound the alarm to all Earth that the invasion had come. Then, too, there was Dana to avenge.
The instant the knifepoint dug into the seam of the mesh where it rested against its housing, there was an intense flash of light. Bowie didn’t even have time to scream; the knife flew from his hand and he dropped.
“Sir, the sun’s almost up out there and a recon drone got a look
at the enemy position from high altitude,” Rochelle reported. “They’re just beginning to excavate at the site of the old SDF-1, but we have no idea as yet what they’re after or why.”
Emerson stretched, yawned, and rubbed his eyes. “We can’t delay any longer. Whatever they’re doing, we’ve got to see that they don’t accomplish it. They started these hostilities; now it’s our turn at bat. All right, you know what I want you to do. Proceed.”
Rochelle, Green, Tessel, and one or two others snapped to attention. “Yes, sir!” Then they hurried off to begin implementing the op plan Emerson had approved during the hours of consultations and meetings.
Emerson was left alone to muse. The only thing in that old wreck is useless, rotting Robotechnology. Well, one person’s junk is another’s Protoculture, I suppose.
Something about that stirred a half-developed thought in the back of his brain. There would be an avalanche of operational decisions and problems coming down on him very soon; that was a hard and fast rule with any operation. But he shunted them aside for the moment, and punched up access to the UEG archives.
CHAPTER
FIFTEEN
Dear Mom and Pop,
Things are still real quiet here, and my outfit is real rear echelon, so we’re far away from the fighting, so I wish you two would stop worrying.
We’ve got a new commanding officer who’s a woman, but she seems to be improving.
I know there’s a lot of talk about the fighting right now, but don’t sweat it; it’s no big thing, and it’ll be over soon, and then maybe I can get a furlough and come home for a while.
Say hi to everybody. I hope Pop’s feeling better. The fruitcake was great.
Love,
Your son,
Angelo Dante
JUST ABOUT ALL THE OTHER SOUTHERN CROSS UNITS IN AND around Monument City had been mobilized during the night, and needed only the word to move out. The word was given.
This time, it had been decided, the TASC Veritechs, Tactical Air Force, and other flying units would stay out of it, at least for the time being. It had become obvious in the battle at Fokker Base that ground units like the ATACs were more effective against Bioroids in a surface-action situation.
Armored men and women, galvanized by the PA announcements, sprinted to their Hovertanks, troop carriers, and other vehicles. The elite MP shock troops in their powered armor suits, nonreconfigurable mecha as big as Battloids but lacking their Robotech firepower and adaptability, came marching out of their parking bays. Everywhere, the military was in motion, knowing that the enemy was now entrenched on Earth.
The Southern Cross began its deployment to draw a ring of Robotech steel around Sector Sixteen. But there were already Human defenders on the scene.
Dana peered out from under the canopy of branches that camouflaged her Hovertank. The 15th was spread through a little woodlet at the base of a rise some distance from the SDF-1’s final resting place.
She again wondered about the wisdom of riding in high-gloss armor in a high-gloss mecha; certainly, the polished surfaces reflected energy shots and offered protection in that way, but as every cadet learned through backbreaking work under the watchful eyes of exacting instructors, it made them awfully hard to hide.
Now, though, she was concentrating on two blue Bioroids who were standing sentry duty on the top of the rise. One thing about the Masters’ fighting mecha: they didn’t seem to give a damn about concealment.
And they didn’t seem to think anybody else did, either; the blues held their hand weapons and searched the sky, giving only cursory attention to the ground. Dana figured that meant that battle to them was simply straightforward charge and countercharge, in spite of the crude infantry tactics they had appeared to use in the airfield battle.
The ATACs could get only a partial glimpse of what was going on at the excavation sight. It looked as if the labor mecha had been making test bores, and were now preparing to go at it full-choke. Dana hoped that would provide a little diversion, and cover the noise of the 15th’s approach.
She counted eight blue Bioroids, spread fairly thin, guarding the part of the perimeter she planned to hit. Dana knew that a Bioroid had a lot more firepower than an ATAC, and more maneuverability if it got to its Hovercraft, but she was counting on surprise and accurate first-round fire for quick kills and a temporary advantage.
Her plan was less than subtle: a few members of the unit would make a dismounted scout and if possible get Bowie out without betraying their presence to the invaders. If that was unworkable, Dana and the 15th would burst through the perimeter, shooting up the place and inflicting all the damage they could, exploiting the edge that surprise would give them to fight their way to the forward command ship. Then the others would fight diversionary or holding actions as needed while she, Angelo, Sean, and Louie went after Bowie.
She had to admit that it wasn’t the sort of thing Rommel or Robert E. Lee might have come up with, but Sean was more or less content with it. She thought Patton might have approved.
Angelo sat cracking his knuckles inside their iron gauntlets. “When d’we attack, my proud beauty?” he said softly into his helmet mike.
Like the rest, Sean sat with faceplate open so that he could breathe fresh air as long as possible, gazing up at the Bioroids through his camouflage screen. He was chewing on a piece of wild mint. “Undaunted, we advanced, to serve the principles of freedom!” he quoted in his most dramatic stage whisper. Then he spat out the mint and closed his faceplate, figuring it was just about showtime.
“ ‘Forward through shot and shell, we went into the mouth of Hell,’ ” Louie added resignedly, lowering his visor, too. It fastened and sealed, and his armor was airtight. “ ‘And pers’nally, I felt unwell, but no one there could smell, or tell—’ ”
“Awright, secure that chatter!” Dana snapped in a harsh whisper. “What d’you think is happening here, an armored assault or a Shakespeare festival?”
Angelo was about to seal up, too. “Y’know, I’ve got one question: what d’we do if those ’roids spot us?”
“Pray you can shoot faster and straighter than they can.” Dana sealed her helmet. “Let’s move out, skirmishing order—”
“Watch it, Lieutenant! Up there!” Louie yelled, but Dana had seen the blue he spotted, centered the enemy in her gunsight reticle, and fired even before Louie had finished. Even though she fired with the less-powerful nose cannon of the Hovertank mode, she shot straight and first; the blast shook the Bioroid like a toy soldier, knocking it down for keeps.
Dana was already hovering her mecha on its foot thrusters, turning it end for end and going to Gladiator mode, as she called, “Thanks, Louie! I owe you one!”
Her seat had come around so that she was facing the enemy once again, but now the long barrel of the Gladiator’s main battery poked in the direction of the invaders’ perimeter. The 15th knew enough about the Bioroids’ silent communications by now to be sure others were on the way. “Okay, let’s go!” she called.
She launched herself into the air in Gladiator mode; the rest of the 15th followed, most in Hovertank, some mechamorphosing to Gladiator in midair. Two more blues showed up to take up firing stances; Dana nailed one while she was still in the air, and Angelo got the other.
“You go look for Bowie,” Angelo called. “We’ll keep the bluebirds of happiness busy.”
“Check.” She was preparing to hop again just when another pair of blues bounded into view. Dana and Angelo leapt their Gladiators away in different directions, avoiding their first salvo. Dana blew one away while Angelo maneuvered the Trojan Horse around toward the other’s rear flank, traversing his barrel with the speed Robotech controls allowed. The alien mecha sought to spin and take out the Gladiator behind it, but Angelo was ready, and cut it in half with one shot. The Dana leapt Valkyrie again, to join him.
“You okay?” It had been a close one, like some oldtime gun-fight.
“Yeah,” Angelo said lightly.
“We’ve got to get in closer!”
Hovertanks and Gladiators advanced in twenty-fifty-seventy-yard leaps now, not wanting to hurl themselves too high and so present a better target. More blues appeared to set up defensive positions; the mecha hammered and belched flame at one another. Concussions shook the ground.
“Units three, four, and five, cover the lieutenant’s advance!” Angelo ordered. The ATACs went through a long-practiced advance pattern.
There was a sudden cry over the net. A blue had peppered Louie’s area with raking fire, and there were smoking hotspots on the armor of the cockpit-turret of his tank, Livewire. Louie was screaming, arms thrown outward. Then he collapsed.
“Louie, what’s wrong? You hit?” Angelo shouted over the net. The blue appeared to be surveying its handiwork, rising a bit to look down on the silent Gladiator. “Answer me, Louie!”
Louie, still unmoving, said, “Nah, I’m okay.” As the blue rose up from cover a little, Louie straightened suddenly and jumped Livewire back, aiming the main battery as he did, greasing the enemy neatly.
“But that clown didn’t know it!” Louie finished proudly.
“No more stunts!” Angelo barked. “Just do what I tell you!”
More Bioroids had come up to reinforce the first, taking heavy losses because the ATACs had had time to reach secure cover from which they could fire. Things were settling into a vicious, close-range firelight.
“Move in now, Lieutenant,” Angelo said, “but you’d better hurry.”
* * *
In another part of the alien work area, back in Hovertank mode, Valkyrie wended closer to the giant ship’s hull using all available cover. Her visor up, Dana studied the enemy ship. It wasn’t a patch on the mother ships, but was still as big as the biggest Human battlecruiser. She tried to shake off the fascination of it, tried to fight off the fear that somehow her Zentraedi blood made her more vulnerable to these new enemies.
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