Then came the backlash to Khyron’s attack on Macross: the resurgence of discrimination, the alleged food shortages, the Zentraedi bashing … And once more he had found himself an advocate for their civil rights—a “sympath,” as those of his ilk were defined by the military. Taking their lead from Wyatt Moran and Anatole Leonard, the petty pols and bureaucrats the Bureau of Reconstruction Management had installed in the Southlands had turned a deaf ear to him, and the result was the Brasília massacre.
Kyle had been there, one of those pressed against the barricades when the VTs had opened fire and the Centaur tanks had rolled in. He still didn’t know how he’d managed to survive. But with survival had been born a sense of militantism: he wanted to see the Zentraedi avenge themselves on Leonard.
The problem was that they lacked the leadership to accomplish that. The groups at the Xingu River camp couldn’t be convinced to take the long view; instead of raiding strategic targets, they wanted to attack symbols: first Leonard, then the useless Grand Cannon. But Kyle had ultimately fallen in with a group of Zentraedi females who believed, as he did, in planning a carefully reasoned defensive. At first Xan Norri, Vivik Bross, and the rest of the Senburu had refused to listen to a Human male. But when they understood that he wasn’t out to get into their pants, as were most of the jungle scum and riffraff they dealt with, they began to take him into their confidence—more so when they realized that he knew quite a bit about the inner workings of the Human military machine.
He was long past using his real name, though some Humans and aliens from the old Detroit days knew who he was, who he had been. His face had appeared larger than life in Little White Dragon, and shown up so often on the news during the reconstruction years that people would still ask where they had met him before. But he had now altered his appearance to the extent that no one remarked that he resembled Lynn-Kyle, the actor.
He had been present at the inaugural flight of the Senburu group’s weapon—their much-improved version of Female Power Armor. And he had carried news of that weapon back to the Xingu camp, arriving simultaneously with the three survivors of the Grand Cannon debacle, who had returned with the spoils of their action—what they had taken for “documents.”
But what Khyron’s Fist had in fact procured were computer codes that rendered hackable the factory satellite’s security system databank. Security had always been the RDF’s weak link—a lapse in security twenty years earlier on Macross Island had permitted Conrad Wilbur’s anti-Robotech movement, the Faithful, to take shape right under the noses of Emil Lang, Henry Gloval, and the rest, and nothing had changed since. Security leaks were an almost everyday occurrence on the factory, where some 10,000 technicians, soldiers, mechanics, service personnel, and researchers were permanently stationed, with hundreds more arriving and departing daily on shuttles and transport ships. And as for running background checks and issuing security ratings, interviewers had little more to go on than an applicant’s word, along with perhaps a few verifiable details covering the previous two years. Personal histories had been erased in the Rain: birth, marriage, military, employment, and tax records; social security and passport numbers; banking statements, criminal records, on-file fingerprints or retinal-scan images … Only a relative few had emerged with traceable pasts. The rest were free to reinvent themselves without fear of being outed by friends or loved ones, or contradicted by documentation. Twenty-first-century Earth had been forced by circumstance to operate under the honor system, which frequently meant that people did pretty much as they pleased. And it was that much easier when one’s inventions could be given electronic weight in a hacked database.
“Jeng Chiang” had never been interviewed in Alburquerque. Nor had any of Kyle’s seven Human cohorts aboard the shuttle. The RDF’s computer only said that they had been cleared for travel to the factory.
As the shuttle was entering the docking bay, Kyle could feel the slow return of gravity, vaguely oppressive, but comforting nonetheless. The debarking and contagion control procedures were tedious, but within ninety minutes of docking all forty aboard had been cycled out of the airlock into a brightly lit room where factory personnel were on hand to escort them to their postings. None of the eight coconspirators made eye contact.
“Seylos?” a low voice off to Kyle’s left asked. He turned and found himself eye to eye with a muscular Zentraedi with oily hair and a contorted mouth.
“I’m afraid you’re mistaken,” Kyle told him. “My name is Jeng Chiang.”
The Zentraedi eyed him up and down. “You resemble a close friend of mine.”
“I hope you find him. Close friends are hard to come by.”
The alien relaxed somewhat, satisfied that his instincts had been correct. The code phrases, commencing with Seylos—Zentraedi for “loyal”—had been supplied to Kyle on the surface. He hadn’t asked how long the alliance had been in existence, and no one had volunteered that information.
“My name is Theofre Elmikk,” the alien said after a moment.
Kyle nodded. “You understand why I’m here?”
Elmikk narrowed his eyes in scorn. “I do, but I’m against it. Why waste time smuggling parts to the surface when there are already enough comrades aboard to take control of this factory?”
“And do what?” Kyle inquired in a harsh whisper. “This thing isn’t going anywhere.”
“Perhaps not. But we could train its working weapons on Earth and finish what Dolza began.”
Kyle snorted. “I know you don’t care about killing your comrades on the surface, but what good is revenge if you don’t live to bask in the praise of the Masters? You’ll die here, avenged but sentenced.”
“So be it.”
“Do you speak for everyone aboard?”
Elmikk hesitated, then thumped his chest. “I speak for myself.”
Kyle smiled wryly. “Until you speak for all, you’ll follow orders—is that understood?”
Elmikk stepped into Kyle’s space. “I won’t take orders from a Human.”
Kyle held his ground, immovable. “You’re not. I’m only here to relay them and to help establish a pipeline for the supplies. Can you live with that. Elmikk.”
The Zentraedi fell silent for a long moment before offering a tight-lipped nod.
“Good,” Kyle said. “Now take me to a secure place where we can go over the shopping list.”
CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
Regardless that it wasn’t entirely his invention, the Lorelei Network would be Milburn’s downfall. However, the Lorelei Scandal notwithstanding, there seems to have been a certain inevitability to Milburn’s rapid fall from grace. By 2017—largely through circumstances beyond his control—he had become the odd man out in the very apparat he had created. Maistroff and Caruthers had come aboard as a team; Stinson and Longchamps, rivals initially, paired off, as did Moran and Edwards. But in the end—after the deaths of Moran, Maistroff, and Caruthers, and of Edwards on Optera, and the worldwide obloquy to which Stinson and Longchamps were subjected after the long-overdue return of the SDF-3—it was Milburn who prevailed, reentering the public arena and rising to a position of political prominence.
Sara Lemule, Improper Council: An Analysis of the Plenipotentiary Council
“Call me Jonathan,” Wolfe said when Ron Bartley saluted and addressed him as captain. “I know it goes against protocol, but I’ve never been comfortable with honorifics—especially among team members.” Wolfe had sparkling eyes and a leading man’s smile. “What do you say to being on a first-name basis?”
Bartley wasn’t sure how he felt about it—or, at that moment, about Wolfe. “With all due respect, sir, what might be good for morale might not be good for adherence to the chain of command.”
Wolfe put his hands on his hips and directed a laugh toward the rest of the team, as if including them in on the joke. “I figure Mr. Bartley deserves an A-plus for that answer. What do you guys think?”
No one knew whether to take him seriously or not,
though Malone and Guttierez offered courtesy grins. Wolfe cut his eyes to Bartley. “Don’t concern yourself with who’s in command, Mr. Bartley. I’ll be calling the shots, but only when I’ve heard from everyone involved. As for calling me Jonathan, try telling yourself you’re actually saying ‘Captain.’ ”
Bartley stiffened. “I’ll give it a try—Jonathan.”
Wolfe’s smile bloomed again. “You’ll get used to it, I promise. You might even come to enjoy it. But until then how do you want me to address you—as Mr. Bartley, Lieutenant Bartley, or just plain Bartley?”
Bartley felt himself redden in embarrassment. Was Wolfe trying to get his goat, or what? “Ron,” he said after a moment.
“Ron. Okay then, Ron. Let’s shake on it.”
At six feet two, Bartley was as tall as Wolfe but put together differently. Where Wolfe was lean and wiry, Bartley was thick and solid. He was clean-shaven and wholesome looking, with hazel eyes and coarse hair the color of tomato sauce. His teeth were crooked, and he sometimes had to wear reading glasses. Wolfe’s tinted aviators seemed nothing more than fashion accessories to go with the tailored uniform and spit-shined boots. A poser, Bartley had thought on watching him stride into the armory only moments earlier. The slicked-back black hair and that swashbuckler’s mustache … What was Wolfe going to do if Cavern City ever ran short of hair gel?
“What’s it going to be with you guys?” Wolfe was asking the rest of Cavern City’s ragtag contingent of RDF regulars. “First names or honorifics?”
Everyone exchanged looks, then one by one they stepped forward to introduce themselves: Paul Ruegger, Roger Malone, Martin Guttierez, Billy Quist, Sonya Ortiz, Gary Jacobs, Paolo Macbride, Jimmy Boomer …
“Most of us were relocated here from up north,” Bartley thought to point out. “As I guess you could tell from the names. But Martin and Paolo are Venezuelan, and Sonya’s from Surinam.”
Wolfe nodded, appraising everyone. “Where’s the rest of the outfit—out on patrol?”
Bartley snorted. “We’re it—since the raid on the Cannon, anyway. We lost six there, and another twenty were transferred to the Argentine two weeks ago.”
The seemingly unflappable Wolfe frowned. “No wonder Mayor Carson appealed directly to Monument City for help.” He fell silent for a moment, then shook off whatever disquiet he may have been feeling. “Where are you from, Ron?”
“California, originally. Near Santa Cruz. But Geena’s family helped settle Cavern—my wife, I mean.”
“Any kids?”
“A two-month-old daughter. Rook.”
“Named after the chess piece or the European crow?”
“The chess piece. Geena’s an amateur champion.”
“Really. Well, Geena and I will have to match wits someday.” Wolfe took a long look around the cavernous room. “In the meantime, I suggest we get started indexing what you’ve got in the way of weapons and materiel.”
Talk about a crow, Bartley thought, as he was leading Wolfe across the room to the supply lockers. The captain had done nothing but try to impress them from the moment he’d arrived, flashing that smile of his. Real Robotech Boy Wonder. There were words to describe guys like Wolfe: braggarts—or was it swaggarts? Whatever. Guys that got through life on their good looks and charm. Privileged guys. And Wolfe was like the walking definition of charm—the personification. Absolutely. Real high opinion of himself. But just how much of him was on the level remained to be seen.
Wolfe spent a few minutes cataloging Cavern City’s limited inventory of defensive weapons and entering TO&E assessments in a cheap electronic notebook. “Not much in the way of small arms and munitions. What about heavy equipment?”
“Three first-generation Falcons at the airport,” Malone told him. “One LVT Adventurer One, but it’s waiting for parts—and missiles. Coupla Howard choppers and a Sea Sergeant, but that’s got a bad Jesus nut. We had a Commanchero, but that went south with our other half.”
Wolfe entered more notes. “How many VTs?” he said without lifting his eyes from the display screen.
“None.”
Wolfe looked back and forth between Malone and Bartley.
“Excalibers?”
“None,” Bartley said.
“Raiders? MACs? Spartans? Gladiators?”
Bartley kept shaking his head, astonished to find that he could derive amusement from underscoring how vulnerable the garrison was. But there was something about the effect his head shaking was having on Wolfe …
“Son of a bitch,” the captain said, “we’re regular sitting ducks, aren’t we?”
Grudgingly, Bartley stopped smiling to himself. Wolfe spoke as if he were already one of them, taking on their fight, when he could have gone on playing the patronizing VIP from Albuquerque.
The captain switched off the notebook and perched himself on the edge of a packing-oil-stained crate of Wolverine rifles. “There’s no question that RDF Command wants to help Mayor Carson turn Cavern City into some kind of model municipality, or else they wouldn’t have sent me down here. But I want to be perfectly straight with you guys about what we’re up against. Zee-town or no Zee-town, this place is an ideal malcontent target, precisely because of what Carson’s trying to do. The malcontents are going to see it as a symbol, just like they did the Cannon.”
Bartley eyed his teammates, who were all exchanging secret tell-us-something-we-don’t-know glances.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Wolfe went on. “That I’m wasting my breath stating the obvious. What I’m getting at, is that no matter what Command’s intentions, we shouldn’t count on Monument or Albuquerque to provide what we need. Oh, sure, I’ll file my TO&E report, and in it I’ll ask for twice the number of Destroids we decide on, but any mecha released are going to be slow in arriving. The Argentine has priority in the Southlands, and up north it’s the Arkansas Protectorate, which has already siphoned off half of Detroit’s and Denver’s civil defense mecha.”
“Why is Arkansas being fortified?” Malone asked. “To keep intruders out, or to keep the Zentraedi in?”
Wolfe shook his head. “You’re not the only one asking, Rog. And, to be honest, it scares the piss out of me. But getting back to our own special mess, all I’m suggesting is that we keep our options open and improvise when we have to. We do whatever’s necessary to protect Cavern City. Can we agree on that much?”
Heads nodded. With some eagerness, Bartley noted. Damn Wolfe, he was charming them. A guy who had had it all, figuring there was nothing he couldn’t accomplish.
“What’s in those?” Wolfe asked suddenly, gesturing across the room to a series of bays curtained by roll-down iron gates.
“Just some useless pre-War stuff,” Bartley answered.
Wolfe inclined his head to one side. “What sort of useless stuff?”
“Centaur tanks. Somebody moved them here from their mothball site at the Cannon. By truck,” Bartley was quick to add.
“They’re not worth a damn, sir,” Malone said, not bothering to correct himself. “Most of ’em don’t even run.”
But Wolfe was already on his way. “Let’s have a look, shall we?”
Ruegger hurried past the captain, punching buttons recessed into the wall alongside each bay. With a grating sound, the gates began to rise. Someone else hit the lights, and in swirling storms of suspended dust were revealed twelve archaic metal monsters, some with missing treads, some with missing cannon turrets. All were shot up, dented, and rusting.
Wolfe, however, was grinning, ear to ear. He laid a hand on tank four’s battered left headlamp. “I’ll be damned if this doesn’t put a new spin on the situation.”
“How so?” Malone wanted to know.
“We’re not as defenseless as I thought.”
Malone and Bartley traded bemused looks. “But these things haven’t seen action since the Global Civil War,” Malone said for both of them. “And like I said, most of them don’t even run.”
Wolfe waved a hand. “No
big deal. We can recommission them.”
“Who can?” Bartley said. “Samartino was our only mechanic, and he died at the Cannon.”
“So, we’ll requisition a replacement.” Wolfe adopted a sly look. “The base commander in the Argentine is a personal friend of mine. I’ll ask him to temporary-duty a team of old-school techs to show us the ropes. Once we’ve seen them rebuild one tank, we can do the rest.”
“Hope they’ll be able to teach us how to drive them, too,” Billy Quist muttered to Guttierez.
“We don’t need them for that,” Wolfe said. “I studied these babies back in Albuquerque.”
“Studying’s one thing …” Quist said.
Wolfe laughed, nodding his head to Quist while looking at everyone else. “Billy Worry-Wart.”
Everyone laughed. “That’s Billy,” Guttierez said. “Our Grumpy.”
“Yeah, well, know-how’s good few nothing without replacement parts,” Quist argued. “We’ll end up cannibalizing eight tanks to get four that run, and four won’t mean shit against a couple of Tactical ’Pods.”
Wolfe only laughed harder. “Parts are the least of it. Anyway, there won’t be any cannibalizing.” He fingered his mustache like a movie knave. “Of course, we might have to borrow against the city council’s appropriation for civil defense and make a quick trip to Freetown … But that’s improvisation for you: it takes you places you never expect to go.”
Bartley allowed a slow grin, Malone and the rest way ahead of him.
“I always wanted to see Mexico,” Malone said.
“Then you’re with me?” Wolfe said, looking around. “We’re a team?”
“A pack’s more like it,” Quist mumbled.
“Right,” Guttierez said. “The Wolfe Pack.”
Wolfe nodded in gleeful surprise. “Now that has a ring to it.”
If there was poetic justice to Brasília’s ascending to world prominence after the Rain, the survival of Mexico City was nothing short of perverse irony. In the ecoenthusiastic years preceding the Global Civil War, common wisdom had it that Mexico wouldn’t weather the millennium, let alone anything beyond. Bloated, polluted, subject to health-threatening inversions and devastating tectonic upheavals, the city had been dismissed as a casualty of the modern age long before the coming of the Visitor or the Zentraedi. And yet somehow Mexico City had been overlooked by Dolza—though the west coast, from Mazatlán to Huatulco, had been obliterated—and five years later, people were still offering theories as to why: the thick smog had concealed the city from the bioscanners; those same scanners had been dazzled by electromagnetic disturbances whose source was nearby Popocatépetl; Aztec magic; the place had already appeared dead.
The Zentraedi Rebellion Page 16