Robotech

by Jack McKinney

  It amazed Zor that after all this she could still retain an appetite for the gooey sweets she favored; but then again, there was so much that was uncommon about her. At times he felt as though he knew her in some forgotten past that predated life itself, and was not so much a part of his amnesiac state, but had more to do with mystical links and occult correspondences.

  For Dana it was much the same, only more so (as all things were with her). She recognized her infatuation and did nothing to repress or disguise it. Zor was supposed to be treated openly and honestly, and Dana didn’t see why love couldn’t jog his memory just as well as war might. On strict orders from General Emerson, she had yet to tell him of her mixed ancestry; but given his condition, the confession would have little impact in any case. So she simply tried to keep things fun.

  At one point he suggested that they return to the base, but she vetoed it, pointing out to him that she was the one who was in charge.

  “But I’m the one you’re experimenting on!” he told her, making that sad face that made her want to hold and love him. In return, he caught the look on her face and asked if something was wrong with her.

  “I think I’m in love,” she sighed, only to hear him respond: “That word has no meaning for me.”

  It was a line she had heard often enough in the past; so she lightened up at once and convinced him to at least ride the Space Tunnel with her. He wasn’t wild about the idea, but ultimately relented.

  The Space Tunnel was Arcadia’s main attraction; prospective dare-devils were not only required to measure up to a height line but practically submit a note from their physicians as well. It was a high-speed, grueling rollercoaster ride through tunnels that had been designed to play dangerous tricks with the optic and auditory senses. Riders found themselves harnessed side-by-side into two-person antigrav cars that were hurled into a phantasmagoric session with motion sickness and pure fright.

  After Zor was made to understand that Dana’s screams were the result of exhilaration and not terror, he, too, began to surrender to the experience. It was only when they entered the infamous swirling-disc tunnel that things started to come apart.

  There was something about the placement of those light discs along the tunnel walls, something about their vaguely oval shape and curious concavity that elicited a fearful memory … one he could not connect to anything but horror and capture. It seemed to tug at the very fabric of his mind, rending open places better left sealed and forgotten….

  Dana saw his distress and desperately tried to reach for him; but she was held fast by both gee-forces and the harness mechanism itself. She could do nothing about the former but wait for a calmer point along the course; so in the meantime she went to work on the harness, pulling the couplers free of their sockets. Almost immediately she realized she had miscalculated: the car was accelerating into a full rollover and in an instant the shoulder harness was undone and she was thrown from the seat.

  Zor saw her propelled to the rear of the speeding car, the shocking sight strong enough to overcome memory’s hold. Except that it wasn’t only Dana that he reached out for after he’d undone his own harness, but the radiant image of a woman from his past, a gauzy pink image of love and loss, not easily forgotten in this or any other lifetime.

  Zor wrestled with the image of the woman for several days. He didn’t mention it to Dana or Nova Satori, but it accompanied him wherever he went, his first clear-cut memory, seemingly a key to that Pandora’s Box stored in his mind.

  He was with the GMP lieutenant now, viewing a series of video images that were apparently supposed to have some meaning for him, but had thus far proven less than evocative. Tall fruit-bearing trees of some kind, tendrils wrapped around an eerily luminescent globe; protoplasmic vacuoles free-floating amidst a neurallike plexus of cables and crossovers; a round-topped armored cone rising from the equally armored surface of a galactic fortress …

  “We’ve been over and over these tapes, Zor,” Nova said, illuminating the room with the tap of a switch. “What are you trying to do—drive us both crazy?”

  Zor made a disgruntled sound. “I’m getting closer each time I look at these things. I can feel it, I can just feel it. I’m going to remember. Something, at least. I’ll break through.” Zor stroked his forehead absently, while Nova loaded a video cassette into a second machine. “Let’s take a look at that first program again.”

  “What happens if you do regain your memory?” Nova asked him coolly. “Do you crack up or what?”

  “Who would care, anyway?” Zor threw back.

  Nova smiled wryly. “Maybe Dana, but she’s about the only one.”

  The GMP lieutenant’s attitude toward the alien had changed, although Zor was at a loss to understand it. He sensed that it had something to do with Dana, but didn’t see how that might explain her sudden turnabout.

  “Just play the tape,” he told her harshly.

  A red bipedal war machine Satori had called a Bioroid; other war machines in combat with Hovercrafts; three identical mesas, round and steep-sided, crowned with vegetation and rising abruptly from a forested plain …

  Zor stared at the scene, a sharp pain piercing his skull, words in an ancient voice filling his inner ears.

  “Earth is the final source of Protoculture,” the voice began. “The basis of our power, the life’s-blood of our existence. Our foremost goal is to control this life-source by recapturing that which was stolen from us, that which was hidden from us, that which we alone are deserving of and entitled to….”

  Zor was on his feet, unaware of Nova’s voiced concern. He saw three shadowy shapes arise from the mounds and disappear—creatures deliberately revealing themselves for his benefit.

  Nova heard him groan, then scream in agony as he collapsed unconscious across the tabletop.

  * * *

  Professor Cochran was unavailable and Professor Zand was tabu; so Nova had to call in a relatively low-level GS physician on loan to the GMP from the defense department.

  Zor was unconscious, though not comatose, writhing on the bed Nova and the doctor had carried him to in the military police barracks.

  Dr. Katz and Lieutenant Satori were standing over him now; the doctor professionally aloof and Nova encouraged by the breakthrough but at the same time alarmed. Katz had undressed Zor and given him a sedative, powerful enough to calm the alien some but not strong enough to control the unseen horrors he was experiencing.

  “Earth,” Zor was groaning. “Earth, Earth is the source…. Earth! … Protoculture! We must have it!…”

  “He’s finally remembering,” Nova said quietly.

  Katz adjusted his eyeglasses and took a final glance at the bedside charts. “There is no apparent sign of brain damage. The sedative should take effect soon and last through the night.”

  Nova thanked him. “One more thing,” she told him before he left the room. “You are now under top-security restriction. You haven’t been here at all, you’ve never seen this patient. Is that understood?”

  “Completely,” said Katz.

  Nova brushed wet bangs from Zor’s feverish brow and followed the doctor out.

  A minute after the door closed behind her, an electrical charge seemed to take charge of the sedated alien, starting in his head and radiating out along afferent pathways, forcing his body into a kind of involuntary stiff-armed salute. Zor screamed and clutched at the bed covers, his back arched, chest heaved up, but Nova and Katz were too far away to hear him.

  CHAPTER

  FIFTEEN

  Zor had sacrificed his life while attempting to redress some of the injustices his discoveries had brought about. It must have occurred to the Masters that his clone—properly nurtured, properly controlled to mimic the behavior of his parent/twin—would share the same selfless qualities. Just what the Masters had planned for Zor Prime after he’d led them to the Protoculture matrix is, and forever shall be, open to speculation.

  Mingta, Protoculture: Journey Beyond Mecha

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nbsp; IN THE ROBOTECH FLAGSHIP, STILL HOLDING IN GEOSYNCHRONOUS orbit above Earth’s equator, the three Masters were seated for a change. A spherical holo-field dominated the center of the triangle formed by their high-backed chairs, and in the field itself flashed enhanced video images of the world through the eyes of their agent, Zor Prime, electronic transcriptions of the data returned to them via the neural sensor implanted in the clone’s brain.

  “The poor blind fools actually believe they’ve captured a brainwashed Human,” Bowkaz said acidly. “I expect the destruction of such a species will be no great loss to the galaxy.”

  Shaizan agreed, as an Arcadia image of thrill-seeking Dana appeared in the field. “They’re like insects, but with emotions. Primitive, industrious, and productive, but frivolous. This immature female, for example….”

  “Hard to believe she’s an officer,” he continued, light from the holo-field sphere white-washing his aged face. “A commander of men and machines, leading them into war….”

  Another view of Dana now, as she appeared when seated opposite Zor at one of the park’s picnic tables.

  “And it seems that she is part Zentraedi,” said Bowkaz, his chin resting on his hand.

  Shaizan grunted meaningfully. “It doesn’t seem possible, and yet the sensors have detected certain bio-genetic traits. But the mating of a Zentraedi and a Human … how very odd.”

  “The clone has sensed something in this halfbreed, and that recognition has aroused him. Emotion is obviously the key to bringing back the memories of the donor Zor.”

  Again the sphere image de-rezzed, only to be replaced with those scenes Nova had recently shown Zor: the red Bioroid, battling mecha, and the three mounds.

  “It is no wonder the clone experienced such agony,” Dag commented, referring to this last holo-projection.

  Under the man-made mounds were buried the remains of the SDF-1 and -2, along with Khyron’s warship. The Masters felt certain that the Protoculture matrix was intact under one of these, and had gone so far as to investigate their hunch, but were stopped cold by the wraiths who guarded the device. The clone, of course, had led that particular operation.

  “The clone is regaining his donor’s memory of Protoculture,” Bowkaz added knowingly. “Is it possible that he will tell them what he knows? Remember how he deceived us so many years ago; we must proceed with caution.”

  The sphere was a sky-blue vacuum now, a portrait of empty consciousness itself, interrupted at intervals by jagged eruptions of neural activity.

  “Are you suggesting that we assume control of the clone?” Shaizan asked.

  Bowkaz gave a slow nod, as one final image filled the sphere: the hostile faces of the 15th when Zor had first been introduced to them. “To avoid the risk of his being subjected to even more base emotions, I propose we begin immediately, if only to focus his mind on the Protoculture.”

  “Agreed,” the other Masters said after a moment.

  Nova’s updated reports to General Emerson concerning Zor’s identification with the Macross mounds and his ravings about Protoculture convinced Rolf that it was time to open up the case to the general staff. Commander Leonard agreed and an ad hoc interagency session was convened in the Ministry’s committee room.

  Emerson briefed the officers, and Leonard took it from there.

  “The alien’s flashes of memory tell us one thing: Earth is the remaining source of all Protoculture. If we can believe it, then this is the sole reason the Robotech Masters have not destroyed the planet.”

  No one at the table needed to be reminded that Protoculture had spared the SDF-1 from the Zentraedi in a similar fashion.

  “But they will continue their attacks until they have accumulated every supply of Protoculture we have,” Leonard continued. “This means that once they learn that the so-called factory was nothing but a legend, they will go after our power plants, our mecha, every Robotech device that relies on Protoculture.

  “Therefore, our only hope for survival is very simple: we must attack first and make it count.”

  Rolf couldn’t believe his ears. The idiot was right back where they were before Zor had even entered the picture.

  “But Supreme Commander,” he objected. “Why provoke an attack when we have something they would barter to get? Let’s tell them we know why they’re here and make a deal.” Rolf raised his voice a notch to cut through the protests his proposal had elicited. “Zor can speak for us! We could get the word to them that we are open to negotiation!”

  “Are you serious, General?” said Major Kinski, speaking for several of the others. “What do you propose to do—sit down and have a luncheon with the Robotech Masters?” He waved his fist at Emerson. “They won’t deal; they haven’t even made an attempt to communicate!”

  Leonard sat quietly, recalling the personal warning the Masters had sent his way not long ago his way not long ago….

  “I’m quite serious,” Rolf was responding, his hands flat on the table. “And don’t raise a fist at me, young man! Now, sit down and keep quiet!”

  “You heard him,” Rochelle said to Kinski, backing Emerson up.

  Now it was Leonard’s turn to cut through the protests.

  “We’re not in the deal-making business, gentlemen,” he said stonily. “We’re here to protect the sovereignty of our planet.”

  “How can you even think of negotiating with these murderous aliens?” asked the officer on Kinski’s left.

  Kinski’s own fist struck the table. “A military solution is the only response. Our people expect nothing less of us.”

  Rolf laughed maniacally, in disbelief. “Yes, they expect us to bring the planet to the brink once more—”

  “That’s enough!” Leonard bellowed, putting an end to the arguments. “We begin coordinating attack plans immediately. This session is adjourned.”

  Emerson and Rochelle kept their seats as the others filed out.

  * * *

  Zor spent four days in the hands of the GMP and was then released to rejoin the 15th. Louie Nichols greeted him warmly when he was returned to the barracks compound, desperate to show him the scale replica of the red Bioroid he had finally completed.

  “I made it myself,” Louie said proudly. “It’s just like the one you wore in battle.”

  Zor stared at the thing absently and pushed his way past Louie. “I … don’t quite remember,” he said gruffly.

  “Hey, what’s up?” Louie insisted, catching up with him. “I’m only trying to help you remember what happened out there, buddy.”

  “Sure,” Zor mumbled back, moving on.

  Louie would have said more, but Eddie Jordon had leapt off the couch and was suddenly beside him, pulling the metal head off the replica.

  “Not so fast, hotshot,” Eddie yelled. “I want to talk to you. Turn around!”

  Zor stopped and faced him; Eddie was hefting the heavy object, tossing it up with one hand, threateningly. Louie tried to intervene, but the cadet shoved him aside.

  “You’re the cause of my brother’s death!” Eddie declared angrily. “You’re a liar if you tell me you don’t remember! Now admit it, clone!”

  Angelo Dante was up on his feet now, warily approaching Eddie from behind.

  “Come on, Zor!” Eddie hissed into Zor’s face, the robot head still in his hand. “Tell me—just how much did my brother suffer?!”

  Zor said nothing, meeting Eddie’s gaze with eyes empty of feeling, ready to accept whatever it was the cadet saw fit to deliver.

  “You tell me about it!” Eddie was saying, angry but shaken; taken over by the memory of loss and now powerless against it. “I know you remember,” he sobbed. “I just want to …”

  Eddie’s head was bowed, his body convulsed as the pain defeated him. Zor averted his eyes.

  But suddenly the cadet’s fury returned, cutting through the sorrow with a right that started almost at the floor and came up with a loud crack! against Zor’s chin. Zor fell back against the rec room’s bookshelves; he slu
mped to the floor and looked up at his assailant.

  “Feel better now?” Zor asked, wiping blood from his lip.

  Eddie’s face contorted in rage. He raised his right fist high and stepped in to deliver a follow-up blow, but Angelo Dante had positioned himself in front of Zor.

  Eddie’s fist glanced off the sergeant’s jaw without budging the larger man an inch. Angelo frowned and said, “Don’t you think that’s enough?”

  The cadet was both angry and frightened now. He looked past Angelo, glowering at Zor, and threw the robot head to the floor with all his remaining strength. Then he turned and fled the scene.

  Angelo knuckled his bruised cheek. Behind him, Zor said, “Thanks.”

  “I won’t stop him again, Zor,” the sergeant said without turning around.

  “I don’t blame you,” Zor returned, full of self-reproach. “I suppose I deserve a lot more than a few punches for what happened to his brother.”

  Dante didn’t bother to argue the fact.

  “You got that right, mister,” he sneered, walking off.

  Zor rode the elevator down to the compound’s workout room; it was deserted, as he’d hoped it would be. He took a seat against the room’s mirrored wall, regarding the many exercise machines and weight benches in bewilderment, then turned to glance at his reflection.

  He had no memory of Eddie Jordon’s brother, or of any of the evil deeds the team seemed to hold him responsible for. And without those memories he felt victimized, as much by his own mind as by the teams’ often unvoiced accusations. Worse still, the more he did remember, the more correct those accusations appeared. Without exception his dreams and incomplete memory flashbacks were filled with violence and an undefinable but pervasive evil. It must be true, he decided. I have killed other Human beings…. I’m a killer, he told himself—a killer!