As if reading his thoughts, Musica said, "Octavia's dying words to me were that we would still be as one. But I don't feel her, Bowie. And if I can't feel her, how am I to give voice to her spirit and songs?" She wept into her hands. "I know that Allegra is going through the same ordeal, and yet she refuses to talk to me. My sister hates me for freeing you from capture, and for leading you to the flagship's control core."
"She doesn't hate you," Bowie said, rocking the infant, who had begun to stir. "You're all struggling with being separated from your brothers and sisters, with standing on your own two feet, as we say. That separation—that distance—must seem like hatred, but—"
"Everyone was so noble and compassionate in the final moments of the War," she said, cutting him off. "But now that the fighting is done, people are reverting to their old ways. The general you so loved—Rolf Emerson—he said that we should be careful not to make the mistakes the Southern Cross
and the Masters made; that it was imperative to the future of the planet that our two races learn to live together. But look what has happened already." She glanced at the infant. "The woman, Nova Satori, saved the life of this child, and now she is ready to turn us over to the authorities for 'debriefing.' She is back to being the hardened military officer she was when she tried to take me into the custody of the GMP. And she is but a symptom of an illness that will spread unchecked through your people."
Bowie knew that she was right. He and Musica had had to flee to the Macross mounds to escape Nova. Now the brief time they had spent among the blossoming Flowers of Life was almost a fond memory. He leaned forward and kissed away her tears, the infant pressed between their two bodies. "I promised you that we would be an island of peace in this ocean of misery, and, no matter what comes down, I will do everything I can to make that happen."
Musica sighed disconsolately. "Then return us to Tirol, Bowie," she said, collapsing against his knees. "Take us home."
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Masters not only were aware of the presence of the factory satellite, but they continued to monitor its whereabouts throughout the War. Of course, it would have been easy enough to target and destroy the facility—as they had a Botoru Battalion warship that was later discovered marooned on a moon of [Saturn]—but the Masters were at that point convinced that the Protoculture Matrix would soon be theirs once more, and they planned to repair, reenergize, and redeploy the factory—along with its contingent of Zentraedi— against the Invid. It's conceivable that the Masters also intended to utilize the factory as a kind of clone creche for thousands of new Zentraedi warriors, which—Imperatived—would then engage the swarm.
A footnote in Zeus Bellow's The Road to Reflex Point (apparently based on a remark attributed to Nova Satori, in her intel report on the debriefing of Zor Prime)
Approached from Space Station Liberty, the factory satellite, despite its enormity, looked shriveled and desiccated. The factory's secondary pods drooped at the ends of their stalks and, except for a few places, the rose hue of the central radish-shaped body had faded completely. The pallid face of a corpse, Dana thought, rouged by the stroke of a mortician's brush.
She had proceeded directly to Liberty aboard a shuttle launched from Japan's Tanegashima Aerospace Facility, which had seen little use since the start of the war. Then, after several days of briefings, Dana and Marie Crystal had piloted coupled Alpha and Beta Veritechs to the factory, recently returned from its cometary orbit, and in whose veritable shadow Liberty now turned. Newly developed sensors, deflectors, and "sanitiziers" allowed the Legios to avoid and/or destroy hits of debris that could have proved catastrophic to the mecha.
En route, Marie and Dana caught up on developments upside and downside, but spent the better part of the short trip talking about Dennis,
who was still on Liberty, awaiting transfer orders; and about Sean, who, along with Bowie and Dante, was safeguarding the Emerson camp's tragically diminishing population of Tiroleans.
As a newborn, Dana had been part of the RDF mission that had captured and returned the factory to Earthspace; but she hadn't been aboard since the death of her three Zentraedi godfathers—Rico, Konda, and Bron—years earlier. Rolf had paid it a visit three years ago in response to the Zentraedis' request for permission to quit Earth orbit. They had planned to act as an early-warning system for the arrival of the Masters, and the plan had called for them to inform the Masters that the grail of their twenty-year journey—the Protoculture Matrix—had left Earth aboard the SDF-3, to be returned to them. But, for reasons unknown, the Masters had remained incommunicado with the factory-satellite Zentraedi, the Solar system survivors of Dolza's Grand Fleet.
At the time of Rolf's visit, there had been some four hundred Zentraedi living in gender segregation in coffin-size chambers on level seven of the central body. The vast holds above and below level seven had apparently been sealed off, and the sole functioning gate was the iris access that had been retrofitted into the underbelly of the so-called three-o'clock pod. Rolf had told of meeting with the Zentraedi in compartments blotched with pools of lubricant and strewn with refuse, and of how the once-great race of cloned warriors had come to consider themselves "the doomed."
Fifteen at the time, Dana had experienced a troubling ambivalence over the satellite's departure. On the one hand—and notwithstanding the doomed Zentraedi themselves—she was glad to see the gloomy thing go. But should their suicidal plan succeed, Dana would be left the only Zentraedi— well, half Zentraedi—between Earth and Tirol. Either way, she had hoped never to see the factory again, and now here she was, traveling in Rolf's booster trailings, emissary of a military she abhorred and a government that represented scarcely one-fiftieth of Earth's tormented population.
But if some things never changed, others did. The Earth-tech-capable iris gate in the three-o'clock pod would not open, even after repeated
promptings from the coupled Veritechs.
"We could try blasting our way through," Dana said. "Or 'open sesame,'" Marie suggested.
But in the end, with the Legios anchored to the pod's blanched hull, Dana was forced to go extravehicular and squeeze herself through the gate's manually operated emergency membrane, which itself was barely serviceable.
The transfer tube that connected the pod to the factory's central body opened directly on level seven. But Dana didn't have to go that far. In the docking bay, she was met by a group of about seventy-five haggard Zentraedi, all of them female.
"Par dessu," Dana said in greeting, when she had removed her helmet. "I'm ex-lieutenant Dana Sterling, presently attached to the diplomatic service of the provisional government. I assume that you were informed of the purpose of my visit."
That they had been informed hardly prevented them from staring. But their scrutiny was of an entirely different order than what Dana had been subjected to in Tokyo. The gaunt gaze of the female aliens wasn't emboldened by either curiosity or respect, but by unadulterated incredulity. "Look closely at the eyes," one of the females said at last—a purple-
haired crone with a hooked nose. "You can see the Parino in her."
"It's true," commented another, tall and raven haired. "The Parino Template. No Human seed could smother it."
As a group they stepped closer, surrounding her. "I am called Tay Wav'vir," the first announced. "I knew your . . . your mother." It was as if she had to force the word from her throat. "Into many a battle I flew with her. Time and again, into the maw of kara-brek flew the Quadrono Battalion. Time and again, into the maw of honorable death." She gestured broadly to her comrades. "Now I am domillan here. Speaker, among us. Keeper of the Remaining Days."
"And the males?" Dana asked. "Where are they."
"Dead," the black-haired one supplied. "They refused to eat what little
sustenance the factory provides, and so they perished. Of starvation, of grief, of self-pity, of dissolute pride. We are the stronger willed of the self- banished. Waiting without surrender. Honoring our imperative, t'sen
-mot through our stance. The original Imperative has died with the Masters."
"Triumphant T'sentrati!" someone shouted, and throughout the bay the call was echoed in defiant volume.
"Are they truly dead?" Tay Wav'vir asked when the cheer had attenuated. "The Masters?"
They had put the same question to the communications and astrogation techs who had overseen the facility's insertion into stationary orbit. So Dana had brought proof, in the form of news footage of the destruction of the flagship, which she played for them on a laptop-size display screen. When the footage had run, the earlier expressions of wonderment returned to their faces.
Dag, Shaizan, Bowkaz . . . dead. It was almost inconceivable.
"You, Daughter of Parino, you destroyed them," Tay said. "For all of
us."
They saluted, and Dana accepted their salutes, as her mother would
have wanted her to. Triumphant T'sentrati! The lingering images of her Protoculture-vision had aroused feelings of kinship with the Zentraedi, emotions that were even stronger than what she felt toward the clones. But then, as she began to detail the purpose of her mission, the mood in the docking bay grew somber.
"Yes, we monitored the arrival of the Sensor Nebula," Tay Wav'vir said when Dana was finished. "But this facility isn't capable of carrying your ships there, Daughter of Parino. It has made its last burn. Here it rests to be picked apart by time. A negrota souvenir of the war. Worthless."
"The Sensor Nebula is impervious to such an attack, in any case," the raven-haired one added. "The T'sentrati tried on many occasions to silence the things with the energy of our weapons, but to no avail. The Nebula has dispatched its message and the Invid will come. Reserve your firepower, Daughter of Parino—for the swarm."
Dana checked to be sure that her recording devices were functioning. She had thought as much about the Nebula, but her words alone wouldn't have carried much weight with Southern Cross command. Now command would get to hear the sad truth from the lips of the Invid's archenemies.
"My superiors will be informed," she said.
"Is Emerson among them still?" a yellow-haired one asked. "The Emerson who met with Ilan Tinari before we left Earthspace?"
Dana swung to face her in transparent confusion. Ilan Tinari had been Rolf's companion for a short time when Dana and Bowie were ten or so. "How do you people know Ilan Tinari?"
The Zentraedi female looked to her comrades. "Is it possible she doesn't know?"
Tay Wav'vir stepped in front of Dana. "Ilan Tinari was T'sentrati," she clarified. "It was because of you that she left him—Rolf Emerson. You, Daughter of Parino, were a constant reminder to Ilan of what might have been for the T'sentrati, had Humankind accepted us.
Dana was too stunned to respond. Rolf had never revealed Tinari's ancestry. But, why? Had he feared that Dana would never accept being raised by a Zentraedi other than her mother? Or had he been concerned about awakening too much of the Zentraedi in her?
"Emerson, too, is dead," she managed to say.
Tay Wav'vir nodded soberly. "A pity. He was your guardian, was he not?"
Dana swallowed and found her voice. "He was."
"We wanted to ask a favor of him," Tay's black-haired second said. "Having returned to Earthspace in good faith, we wanted to ask him to provide us with weapons and mecha, so that we might have the joy of soaring into battle against the Invid."
"Carry that message to your superiors, Daughter of Parino," Tay Wav'vir said. "Convince them to treat us as the free beings we are, after so long a time."
Before she and Sterling had set a course for the factory satellite, Marie had recommended that he should check out this communications tech named Rawley, who was stationed in Liberty's forward observation post. Best entertainment outside the game arcade was what Marie had said. So Dennis—having decided not to read too much into the miss-you message he had received from Nova Satori, and fed up with the snafus that were interfering with his transfer to ALUCE—had decided to give Rawley a try. But now he was sorry that he had.
"I'm not going to be able to get used to seeing that damn thing, hanging out there like some rotten vegetable," Rawley was saying, referring to the factory, whose ventral surface dominated the view from the post's observation blister. His hands were shaking and his armpits were underscored by large, crescent-shaped sweat stains. "First I thought it looked like some kind of sick Christmas-tree ornament, but now I think it's more like a moldy turnip you find at the back of your fridge.
"I mean, the Invid already have that Nebula to zero in on. And now we've gone and given them a Zentraedi facility, the likes of which they've probably targeted and destroyed in who knows how many other star systems in their search for the Flowers of Life."
Rawley shook his head and propelled two unidentifiable white pills into his mouth, washing them down with a gulp of cold coffee.
"Like my life wasn't miserable enough up here without them positioning that turnip right outside my front window. But do they care one iota about Paul Rawley? Not very likely, not very likely at all."
"Maybe it's time to put in for a transfer," Dennis gamely suggested.
Rawley laughed without merriment. "A transfer? You know where I want to be? In some remote corner of the Southlands where no one can find me. A patch of land with a couple of trees and potable water within walking distance. I'll live on rice and beans, or gather nuts and berries. Hell, I'll live on tree bark, if I have to. Bathe in streams, wear a loincloth, fashion tools out of wood and stone.
"I empathize with the deserters," he continued. "I'd follow suit if they'd let me off this baby's rattle. You'll feel exactly the same, Brown, once you've been here for two or three months and they want to put you on medication because they claim you've been raving, which would ordinarily excuse you from duty or get you a medical discharge but doesn't nowadays because there aren't enough people left aboard who know how to read these screens and interpret data. It's my curse that I can—that I can, even though I'm losing my damn mind! But you try sitting in this seat for a while and see what happens."
Rawley paused for air, and Dennis thought he saw an out, but didn't act quickly enough.
"The Church of Recurrent Tragedies, remember that movement? Reps from that cult used to come to my house in Brasília. What was their solution for keeping the Masters and the Invid from Earth's door? Burn incense, chant, meditate, send money to church headquarters. I think they lost most of their membership after the Malcontent Uprisings. But can you stand there and tell me they were wrong? Can you prove that their tactics wouldn't have worked if we'd all gotten behind them?"
Dennis had his mouth open to reply when Rawley continued. "I, for one, am sorry I didn't join them. I, for one—"
He stopped and stared at his vertical bank display screens, then slammed a hand down on a series of buttons. Howling sirens told Dennis that the station had just been put on full-alert status—for the fifth time in as many days.
"I've got a major bogey in sector six," Rawley shouted into his headset. "Not like anything I've ever seen. Earth vector confirmed!"
What the hell? Dennis thought. It couldn't be a Southern Cross ship out that far. So was it some straggler from the Masters' fleet?
"It's the Invid, Brown," Rawley was muttering. "I'm telling you, it's the Invid . . ."
A burst of static crackled from one of the post's speakers, and everyone in the hold turned to it, as if it were a display screen.
A tense silence held sway for a moment; then the speaker came to life once more.
"This is Colonel Jonathan Wolff of the REF," a calm, resonant voice announced. "I'm sure you people have us on your screens by now, and all I can say is that the view looks great from out here. We want very much to come home, folks, so please advise at your earliest opportunity. We have incredible news to share with you."
CHAPTER EIGHT
Rumors persisted throughout the '30s that groups of Zentraedi or Tiresians had survived the wars and were living on the moon
or downside, atop remote mountains or deep within vast tracks of forest. Even now (2065), it is not uncommon to hear tales of travelers who have encountered, in Amazonia, Siberia, or elsewhere, itinerant bands of people purported to resemble [Tirolean] extraterrestrials in appearance or aspect. Yesteryear's Bigfoot and Yeti have given way to today's Zentraedi and Bioroid.
Issac Mendelbrot, Movers and Shakers: The Heritage of the Second Robotech War
From that distance out, Earth was still only a smudge of light through the bridge's observation bay; but no matter: it was their smudge of light.
Colonel Jonathan Wolff made the toast. "To Earth and to the ship that brought us here." A drink bulb raised in his right hand, he patted the armrest of the command chair with his left. "May each of us get to live the dreams we've been nursing about home."
Everyone on the bridge added voice to the toast; then, when they had all sipped from the bulbs, they tossed them toward a waste bucket someone had thought to bring forward from maintenance. Though there were bottles of Karbarran champagne and ale in the galley, the bulbs contained water. No real celebrating until they were safely docked in Earthspace and had assessed the situation there, Wolff had told them. Wouldn't do to have his crew of three hundred stumbling drunkenly from the ship, as if they had just returned from a party on Tirol. They were REF, after all—Robotech Expeditionary Force—and they planned on demonstrating to the Southern Cross just what a strack outfit they had become.
The ship was a substantially modified Garfish, constructed in Fantomaspace and powered by Reflex drives in combination with Protoculture-fueled spacefold generators. Unofficially designated The
Homeward Bound, it had launched from the Valivarre system one month earlier, and had forged its way through the Fourth Quadrant by executing a series of transluminal, continuum-bending jumps, or spacefolds.
Before the Invid Storm Page 7