The Zentraedi Rebellion

by Jack McKinney

  “Have you read or listened to the book?” Houston asked Minmei, turning those eyes on her.

  “Not yet,” she started to say.

  “I suspect it will be of real interest to you—particularly after hearing what you had to say about wanting to make a contribution to the planet at this time in your life.”

  Terrific, Minmei thought. A fan of television interviews.

  “You see, Corporeal Fundamentalism—the subject of Jan’s book—is about allowing the universe to speak to you. It’s about stretching out and locating your seed guardian and paying close attention to its messages of guidance.” Houston sniffed. “In fact, we—that is, Jan and I—are putting together an infomercial to get the book the attention it deserves. It would be great to have you on our panel—and naturally we’d be willing to work out a fair participation deal.”

  Minmei managed a weak smile. “Thanks, but I don’t know—”

  “You wouldn’t have to be spontaneous, if that’s what you’re worried about. We’ll script the entire thing. All you’d have to do is tell us beforehand what points you would want to make about our troubled times.”

  “I’ll think about it,” Minmei said in a tone that made it clear she wouldn’t.

  “Could I at least send you a copy of the book—free of charge? Who’s your agent?”

  “I don’t have an agent just now.”

  “Then I could send it to your home.”

  Minmei gave him the Monument address of Max and Lena’s Chinese restaurant and promised that she would try to read the book. She didn’t make it three steps from Houston before someone else called her name. This time it was the stout, round-faced, and balding Samson “Sharky” O’Toole, one of the theatrical agents she was considering signing with.

  “Lynn, fancy meeting you here,” O’Toole said. Again, the air kisses. Fortunately, O’Toole was without his usual cigar.

  “Saw you talking to Jan Morris and that Reverend Houston.”

  “The Reverend was telling me about an informercial they have planned for her book.”

  “The Reverend,” O’Toole said, snorting. “For what it’s worth, Lynn, don’t get involved with those two. You lend your name to some wacko fringe cult, it can follow you for life and alienate you to a lot of your regular public. Happens all the time.”

  “I didn’t commit to anything.”

  O’Toole nodded approvingly. “Can we talk for a minute?”

  “Only a minute,” Minmei said firmly. “I think I see Senator Milburn looking for me.”

  O’Toole followed her gaze. “Oh, so that’s who you’re with. Well, then, I definitely won’t keep you. But you remember when we talked in Hawaii I told you I was going to do some asking around for projects that might interest you?”

  Minmei inclined her head and tightened her lips. “Mr. O’Toole, before you say anything, I really haven’t decided who I’m going to sign with.”

  O’Toole shook his head and held up plump hands. “No obligations, none at all. I just wanted to let you in on what I’ve been hearing.” He lowered his voice. “You know about what went down in Brasília in July and about the protests here in Monument? Well, seems someone’s come up with a way to begin talking directly to our—how shall I put it?—our new brothers and sisters. A satellite network meant strictly for the Zentraedi.”

  Minmei put a finger to her lips in thought. “That’s a wonderful idea. But how does it concern me?”

  “They’re toying with calling it the Lorelei Network. And they plan to keep your songs in heavy rotation.” He waited a beat. “So what I’d like to propose to them—with your permission, of course—is that you might be interested—just interested—in hosting a show on the station. You know, what I had in mind was a kind of talk show where you’d only take calls from aliens.”

  “Your name,” Bagzent demanded of the green-haired Zentraedi standing before him at the crude table.

  “Mouro Dann.”

  In a struggling hand, Bagzent added a name glyph to his long list of names. “Work experience, if any.”

  “A year of employment in Monument City,” Dann told him, “two years in Detroit.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Herding cattle in Monument. Clerk work at the armory in Detroit.”

  Bagzent’s left eyebrow went up. “Fort Breetai?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Any familiarity with Human weapons?”

  “Some field experience with the Wolverine assault rifle and the Watchdog antimecha mine.”

  “Well, well, well,” Bagzent said, sitting back in his wooden chair. “I guess that only leaves your feelings toward Humans.”

  Dann made a fist of his right hand, raised it to chest level, and rotated it in a quick, snapping motion.

  Bagzent shot to his feet, thumping his chest in salute. “T’sen Dann!”

  “T’sen!” Dann returned.

  Bagzent directed him to a group of thirty or so male Zentraedi queued up at the entrance to a canvas tent. “Go there for food, and await further instructions.”

  Bagzent appended a formula of scrawls to Dann’s name glyph as the new arrival was hurrying off. A pale-complected Zentraedi seated alongside Bagzent at the table took a puzzled look at the list.

  “That makes how many today?”

  Bagzent’s brow furrowed as he counted. “Twenty-seven from the north, fourteen from the south—six of them from Brasília.”

  “Is that more than yesterday’s count?”

  “Almost two times as many.” Bagzent clapped his partner on the shoulder. “If it continues like this, we’ll soon have the army we need.”

  Their jungle encampment of tattered army tents and the thatch-roofed longhouses the aboriginals had taught them to make was on a black-water tributary of the Xingu River, fifty miles south of its confluence with the Amazon. The nearest Human population center of any appreciable size was Manaus, almost eight hundred miles west-northwest. The rainy season air was thick with moisture, heat, and mosquitoes: the sun had been out all morning, but storm clouds were building in the west, and the sounds of distant thunder rolled over the treetops.

  The population of the camp had reached nine hundred and fifty, including the two-hundred-plus Humans who had thrown in with them: tribal Indians who knew how to hunt for game; former prospectors of gold, diamonds, rubber, and oil who knew the whereabouts of hundreds of supplies-stocked Zentraedi ships; army deserters, fugitives, and practitioners of sorcery and bigamy, all of whom had made the densely forested interior of the Southlands their home long before the Rain of Death. Many of the Zentraedi were no longer wearing Human clothes, but uniforms bearing the corrupted V-like sigil—the Cizion—that stood for the power inherent in the Imperative. Under huge nets woven from vines and creepers stood sixteen salvaged Battlepods, now dappled in jungle camouflage colors.

  Bagzent and his white-faced partner were soon joined at the table by a dozen other Zentraedi, each representing a different rebel unit in the rapidly swelling dissident army.

  “What news from north?” asked the leader of the Steel Wind, a brutish man with black hair to his shoulder blades.

  Bagzent filled everyone in on the latest rumors. “A new ship is being constructed in the belly of the factory satellite—a deepspace battlewagon that will carry members of the RDF to Tirol to confront the Masters. Exedore, Breetai, and at least four hundred Zentraedi who have not been Micronized are lending their might to the project.”

  The leader of the Steel Wind torqued his right fist. “We shall live to see Breetai and the rest allowed to run.”

  “Death Dance,” said another leader. “The Kara-Thun for Breetai and the rest.”

  “Yes,” Bagzent said, grinning, “we have a separate list for those who have betrayed the Imperative, and to it we add names daily.”

  “Make certain Miriya Parina’s name is on it,” someone shouted.

  “She leads the list.”

  “And Anatole Leonard.”

  “Alre
ady done.”

  Bagzent made a mollifying gesture. “Let the RDF and Breetai’s forces busy themselves with work on their fortress, while we lay violent claim to the Southlands and prepare to defend ourselves against the Invid.”

  “You’re deluded to think we can survive an Invid invasion, Bagzent.” The speaker was the woman, Marla Stenik, a singleton, unaligned to any group. “I say we find a way to position some of our troops aboard the factory so that we can take over the ship when the time comes. We could return to Tirol as Khyron planned to do before he lost his mind and decided to attack Macross.”

  Bagzent bristled but kept quiet.

  “Is Zor’s ship destroyed?” someone asked.

  “Not only destroyed but interred,” Bagzent said.

  “And what news of the Backstabber?”

  Marla chuckled maliciously. “Khyron Kravshera is dead, you fool. Dead and ‘interred.’ ”

  “Khyron lives,” Bagzent’s second shouted. “He was seen a month ago in Brasília, and in Cuiabá only last week. He is Micronized and moves only by night. He is merely waiting for us to organize and demonstrate our worthiness, then he will reappear to lead us.”

  “Poor fools,” Marla said, shaking her head in theatrical dismay. “Khyron was a coward. He fled the final battle to save himself. The new fortress is our salvation. If it’s worthiness you’re after, then take that ship and search for what’s become of the Botoru Division cruisers that didn’t crash on Earth. The crews of those ships could be anywhere in this system—on the Moon, or Mars—waiting for a sign from us.”

  “You take the ship, T’sen Stenik. We’ll take revenge instead.” The speaker’s name was Salta. He stood seven feet tall, and, like Bagzent, he had been a member of Khyron’s Seventh Mechanized Division. One of fifty who had agreed to remain behind on Earth while Khyron brought reinforcements from the Masters. Salta raised his massive left arm and pointed to the west. “Out there lies a forest of ships, each containing salvageable mecha.”

  Marla scoffed at the notion. “Out there lies a forest you can hide yourselves in when the RDF comes gunning for you with squadrons of Veritechs and Destroids.”

  “Ignore her,” Bagzent said. “Let the female units make and carry out their own plans. For the rest of us, the first target lies to the north, just outside Cavern City.”

  “The site of the Southern Grand Cannon,” Salta said.

  “It is stocked with food and supplies—even reconfigurable mecha we will learn to pilot.” Bagzant banged his hand on the table. “We will carry on Khyron’s work. We shall be his fist!”

  “Dana, I’m warning you,” Miriya said. “Come back here and finish your supper or prepare to feel the sting of my hand on your backside.”

  When Dana stayed put and showed her tongue, it was all Miriya could stand. She left the table, scooped Dana up in her arms, and nearly slam-dunked her into her seat. “Now, eat, you little brute,” she snapped. “Grow strong and healthy like a proper Zentraedi.”

  Max, in the kitchen with an armload of dirty plates, regarded the scene with time-tempered concern. It was only when he caught sight of Rick’s troubled look that he figured he should say something. “Miriya, I think maybe she’s had enough.”

  Miriya tensed. “She hasn’t had enough, Max. Not until I say she’s had enough.”

  Two-and-a-half-year-old Dana glanced from Max to Miriya and grinned ever so slightly. “I’m gonna eat it all, ’cause Daddy cooked it.” She turned to Rick. “Mommy doesn’t know how to cook.”

  “Sure she does,” Rick started to say, when Miriya cut him off.

  “Don’t lie to her, Rick, I don’t know how to cook.”

  “I only meant—”

  “He only meant that you know how to cook some things,” Max said, coming to his friend’s aid. “You know how to use the microwave, and that’s cooking, sort of.”

  Miriya fumed. “It doesn’t bother me that I don’t know how to cook, Max. I just don’t want her lied to—about anything. Who she is, what she is, how she got here, or who cooks her meals. There’s enough lying going on in this world already.”

  Rick lifted his eyes from the table to trade looks with Max. Max knew that Rick was remembering the time aboard Breetai’s flagship when Miriya had thrown Dana across the cabin to Lisa.

  “So, Rick,” he said, sitting down, “you were saying about Leonard …”

  “Uh, that the pilots that fired on the crowds in July are being court-martialed. Leonard has apologized for sticking by them earlier.”

  “Too little, too late,” Miriya said. “He should resign or be removed from office for instigating the riots to begin with.”

  “An apology is a start,” Rick countered. “And next time, he’ll have to answer to the UEG for his actions.”

  Max shook his head. “Nothing will change, except for the worse.”

  Rick looked at both of them. “Come on, you two. What’s with all this pessimism? We have to give the UEG a chance, don’t we? I mean, it’s basically a matter of food distribution—”

  “It’s not just the food,” Miriya told him. “It’s about jobs, discrimination, rampant inequality … And why should we give the UEG a chance, Rick? Has Milburn or Moran or any of them considered having a Zentraedi representative?”

  Rick sat up straighten. “Cavern City and Zagerstown tried to elect Zentraedis. And what about Exedore? Or isn’t he Zentraedi now that he’s wearing an REF uniform?”

  “Of course Exedore’s Zentraedi. But Exedore doesn’t speak for the dissidents, and that’s where the problem is.” Miriya wiped Dana’s mouth, lifted her out of the seat, and set her on the floor. “Listen, Rick, I watched my closest friend die in Brasília, so don’t you think I want to see things work out? It’s just that I don’t trust the UEG, and I’m beginning to think that there are no peaceful solutions.”

  “There are always peaceful solutions.”

  Max showed Rick a dubious look. “You’ve been spending too much time on the factory. All of you—Lisa, Gunther, Emil. You don’t know what we’ve been hearing.”

  “Then enlighten me,” Rick said, more harshly than he meant to.

  “Sectorwide, Zentraedi are quitting their jobs and making their way to the Southlands to link up with bands of militants. They’re even leaving Monument. And can you blame them? The place is beginning to look more and more like Macross every day. The Monument Council is ineffectual; the jump in Human population will probably mean the ouster of all Zentraedi representatives. Let’s face it, we’ve occupied and taken control of their city, autonomous or not. Everywhere else in the world, the Zentraedi have been herded into Zee-towns or lured into captivity, like we’ve done with them in the Arkansas Protectorate or on the factory satellite.”

  “We’re a team on the factory—Humans and Zentraedi.”

  “A team that has abandoned Earth,” Miriya said.

  Rick shot her an angry look. “You think I want to be up there instead of down here working out solutions? But we’ve got the mission to think of. Besides, up there is where the two of you should be—and Dana. Vince and Jean are joining us, and they’re bringing Bowie. What more can you do downside?”

  “Speak out for Zentraedi rights, for one thing.”

  “Maybe you should run for the UEG, Miriya,” Rick told her.

  “No doubt Milburn and Moran would love to have me on the team. But no matter how I feel about Humans right now, I still don’t think I’m xenophobic enough for them. Or for the Bureau of Reconstruction Management. Or for the likes of Governor Anatole Leonard.”

  “The UEG will keep him under control,” Rick argued. “There won’t be another Brasília.”

  Max shook his head. “It won’t matter one way or another, Rick. Malcontentism is going to spread like a cancer through the Southlands and touch all of our lives.”

  CHAPTER

  EIGHT

  The Faithful, a short-lived, quasi-NeoChristian religious movement opposed to reconstructing the Visitor, did not so much end wi
th the death of its founder as go into hiding for ten years, to emerge as The Church of Recurrent Tragedies, headed by Bishop Gideon Nboto, the Sudanese former lieutenant to the Faithful’s founder, Conrad Wilbur. By then, of course (2016), Nboto and his ally in technophobia, Joanna Ricter-Fields, had a new ship to carp about: the SDF-3. “The Tirol Expedition (sic) is nothing more than an attempt to divert us from facing the problems of housing, food, and medical care that plague Earth’s despoiled surface,” Nboto told the world in an interview with Katherine Hyson. “In its refusal to face the challenge of restoring the planet, the RDF and the REF are sentencing the rest of Humankind to eradication by alien invasion or extinction by nature itself.”

  Weverka T’su, Aftermath: Geopolitical and Religious Movements in the Southlands

  Governor Leonard stood in the back of the open-air limousine and waved to the crowds gathered along both sides of Exio Rodoviario, Brasília’s principal north-south axis. In the pre-War days, twelve-laned Rodoviario had formed the curve of Brasília’s bow and was the main artery linking the north and south wings of the city. Now, the once-grand luxury apartment buildings with their walls of plate glass were empty shells, gutted by the Fire of 2012, and the numerous overpasses and cloverleafs had been torn down to supply building materials for the favelas of the poor. Now, Rodoviario coursed through mile after mile of ramshackle slums, dusted red over the years by the plateau’s mineral-deficient soil.

  November’s cool winds lashed Leonard’s broad face and shaved skull. Pursuant to Leonard’s orders, the limo’s bulletproof canopy had been removed and no armed guards were permitted to ride in the motorcade’s follow cars.

  He was king here, commander and king; and to impress that title on his subjects he wore an olive-drab, woolen coat, heavy with medals and braid and cinched at the waist by a wide, big-buckled leather belt. With him, though seated just now, were Joseph Petrie, his aide-de-camp, and Wyatt Moran, who Leonard knew as Patty. Leonard and the Mark Twain–mustachioed UEG senator went back twenty years, and it was Moran who had appointed Leonard governor of Goias District. Petrie, however—small-boned and square-headed—was a recent acquisition, procured principally for his skills as a hacker. Moran was dressed in a lightweight white suit ill-suited to the season; Petrie in a military jumpsuit whose zippered pockets were stuffed with electronic widgets.