Whatever the cause, Mexico of 2016 was alive, as was much of the country south and east of the capital. Alive, if not exactly thriving. Even in the absence of fossil-fueled cars, smog alerts were a daily event; and there were the power failures, the periodic food shortages, the epidemics of cholera and dengue fever, nowhere more evident than in the trash-barren barrios surrounding the fortified core of the distrito federal, on the infernal side of the periphery highway. Southward, Mexico had spread itself halfway to Cuernavaca; and north to the ancient ruins at San Juan Teotihuacán. And it was from that squalid, disease-ridden, near-waterless sprawl of crumbling pyramids and garishly painted cinder-block that Freetown was born.
It had begun as Zee-town, a ghetto for aliens, many of whom, nostalgic for their former gianthood, found solace in Teotihuacán’s massive earthwork structures. Then the Mexican mafia had moved in, mingling easily with the impoverished population and organized gambling and prostitution rackets and drug, arms, and contraband operations. In the beginning, the federates had tried to purge the area of crime by means of daylight raids and death-squad disappearances, but the military government soon abandoned the effort. It allowed Freetown to fester, contenting itself with the kickbacks it received in exchange for supplying electric power and, when available, potable water. A police force of sporadically paid mercenaries maintained peace of a sort, though it never interfered with gang business or warfare. As a result, Freetown had more crime bosses than it had criminal organizations, but the names of three individuals stood out: Antonio Ramos, kingpin of the narcocartels; Brian Cassidy, supplier of everything from counterfeit scrip to mecha parts; and Neela Saam, a Zentraedi female who provided alien enforcers to Ramos and Cassidy and women to Freetown’s numerous brothels, in addition to middling in black market goods and information.
And by the end of her first week in Freetown, Seloy Deparra had had dealings with all three of them. Too, she was by now the leader of a Zentraedi band that included Xan Norri, Marla Stenik, Vivik Bross, and seven other original members of the all-female Senburu group. The rest had decamped on meeting Neela and being introduced to the easy life. Neither Seloy nor Xan had tried to talk them out of it. Let them work as bodyguards or prostitutes; the new Senburu wanted nothing less than the unflinching loyalty any Zentraedi would have shown for her commander. However, Seloy had taken an instant dislike to Neela, who claimed to have been a lieutenant under Azonia, though neither Seloy nor Vivik could remember her. Was Neela inventing a past, as many Humans had done after the Rain? Had she been so corrupted by Human beings that she believed a Quadrano legacy afforded her cachet?
Seloy couldn’t decide. But on this, the third meeting with Neela, she found herself in the grips of a murderous impulse. It was just the four of them this time, Neela, Xan, Seloy, and the infant, seated around a filthy table in a bar on Avenida Feo. Neela hadn’t asked about Hirano, but in fact it was Hirano that was keeping Seloy from acting on her impulse; the presence of the child and the realization that the murder of a Zentraedi by a Zentraedi was conduct as corrupt and unbecoming as the pursuit of cachet among Micronians.
“The parts you requested will be available tomorrow,” Neela was saying. “Though I must admit, it seems an odd assortment.”
“Odd how?” Seloy asked contentiously.
Neela showed a twisted smile. “Queadlunn-Rau inertia-vector control system shunts, faceplate focusing sights, plasmic restraint chambers, power gauntlets … Nothing out of the ordinary there; you’re obviously in possession of Female Power Armor. But these other items: Phalanx SDR-zero four-MK Twelve missile drums, along with shoulder joints, chest plastrons, MT eight-twenty-eight fusion turbines, pylons for a Decamissile array … Could it be that you’ve gotten your hands on an RDF Spartan as well?”
A small and shapely woman with short hair, violet eyes, and plump lips, she looked as if she had patterned herself after Azonia. Marla speculated that Neela had used sex to solidify her position in Freetown. The preliminary meetings had established that she could probably lay her hands on what Xan needed to transform the Power Armor the Senburu had left in the care of confederates in the Southlands. For an additional charge she could also arrange for the supplies to be airlifted south. The provenance of some of the parts was an abandoned military base near Tula; the rest had come from crashed warships looted by itinerant Human and Zentraedi foragers. Neela had confessed that she was merely acting as a go-between; Brian Cassidy was the actual provider. In exchange, Xan was offering the money she’d received from the sale of a Tactical Battlepod to a group known as the Paranka, based in the Argentine. The amount was more than adequate, but instead of being happy with the deal, Neela kept pressing to learn how the parts were going to be used.
“In other words, why would you want Defense Force missiles unless you had access to Defense Force mecha?” Neela continued. “The other thing that interests me is that you haven’t asked about Protoculture. Which means either that you plan to rely on fusion, or you have enough cells to satisfy your purposes.”
Not wanting to reveal anything about the smuggling operation under way on the factory, Xan told Neela that she had guessed correctly about their trusting to fusion. The MT-828 reactors had only been included in the first place to mislead her.
“I see,” Neela said, not entirely convinced. “I suppose we all do what we can. But if you should happen to get a line on ‘culture cells, I hope you’ll come back and see me.”
“Count on it,” Seloy told her.
Neela glanced back and forth between Seloy and Xan. “Will you be remaining in Freetown for a while? I only ask because there’s money to made here—especially for women as attractive as you two.”
Xan spit on the floor at Neela’s feet. “We have more important concerns than money.”
“Lorelei alpha is scheduled for insertion into orbit on May one,” T. R. Edwards reported to the members of Senator Milburn’s political cabal: Stinson, Longchamps, Maistroff, Caruthers, and Moran. “Lorelei beta launches in July, gamma in October, delta in January. Expectations are for the network to be fully operational by no later than June 2017. As an added bonus, it looks certain that Lynn-Minmei will be hosting a call-in show.”
Milburn’s face lit up with amused disbelief. “How did this happy coincidence come about?”
“Nothing coincidental about it, Senator. When I heard she was shopping around for a new agent, I made sure one of them got wind of the project.”
“Wonderful,” Milburn said, leaning back in his swivel chair.
Maistroff scowled at the senator’s patent admiration for Edwards. “Can’t we rush Lorelei some? You’re talking about more than a year.”
“Can’t be done,” Edwards said. “It’ll take at least that long for Zand to cook up a traceable food additive. Then, if systematic tagging is the goal, we’ll have to see to it that the additive-laced food is made available to Zentraedi worldwide.” He shook his head. “This sort of operation requires a great deal of time—and patience.”
“Edwards is right,” Milburn told the general. “Just stay on it, Edwards. Now, tell us about Zand. How did he strike you?”
Edwards touched his faceplate, stroking it lightly. “Hungry, ambitious, easily influenced. Not as brilliant as Lang or Bronson, but depraved enough to suit your purposes better than either of them would. In fact, I’d like your permission to introduce Zand to Anatole Leonard.”
“What’s the point of that?” Stinson asked.
“To give Zand hope, for one thing. He won’t admit it, but he’s pathologically jealous of Lang—he has been for years. And no matter what Zand accomplishes on his own in terms of research, the RDF is always going to remain Lang’s turf. But if Zand suddenly felt that he had a defense force of his own …”
“You mean the Army of the Southern Cross,” Caruthers said.
Edwards nodded.
“What use would Anatole have for Zand?” Moran cut in, obviously irked by the proposal. “He’s against anything associated with the RD
F—and that includes most aspects of Robotechnology.”
“Yes, that’s the reborn Faithful in him.” Edwards glanced quickly at Moran. “Excuse my bluntness, Senator. I know you were also a member of the Faithful.”
Judging from the facial expressions, Edwards realized that Moran’s former affiliation with the religious cult was news to everyone at the table—a fact that delighted him. What Moran didn’t know was that Edwards had facilitated the disbanding of the Faithful on Macross Island. At the time, he had been in the employ of Senator Russo, a man he had never liked in spite of the operational latitude Russo had given him. Russo’s disappearance following the Rain remained one of the War’s many unsolved mysteries—though Edwards could certainly understand why the head of the United Earth Defense Council would opt to go missing rather than run the risk of being recognized by some mob of survivors and strung up by his bootheels.
Senator Moran was beet red when he finally responded to Edwards’s assertion. “Gentlemen, my flirtation with the Faithful arose out of a conviction that reconstruction of the Visitor would bankrupt us, not out of some superstitious belief that the ship had been sent by God or the devil to tempt Humankind.”
“Of course, Wyatt,” Longchamps said, managing not to sound patronizing.
“Finish your thought,” Milburn told Edwards. “How do you propose to get Leonard interested in Zand?”
“Through Leonard’s aide, Joseph Petrie—the hacker’s hacker. Given a choice, Petrie would rather be a machine than a Human, and I think he and Zand would hit it off. As for Leonard, he’ll gladly accept who or whatever you send him. He was extremely grateful for the intel we provided on Cairo, and he’s eager to reciprocate. I recommend you continue to throw him scraps—so long as it’s in your interests to do so, and providing he doesn’t decide to bite the hand that’s feeding him.”
Moran showed Edwards a disgusted look. “You underestimate him.”
Edwards narrowed his good eye. “I doubt it, Senator. But you’re entitled to your opinion.” The half cowl he wore felt like a cool hand clamped to the side of his face; with the cowl removed, the tortured flesh it hid felt like a lumpy growth. Some people questioned the keenness of his depth perception, but Edwards knew he could see deeper with one eye than most could see with two. And he likewise knew that he would never surrender the faceplate or have the flesh repaired—as Zand, among others, had offered to do when they’d met the previous month. A souvenir from Alaska Base, the scars had become a kind of talisman.
“How are things proceeding with Operation Tiger?” Stinson threw out to no one in particular. “Are we still sterile?”
“No leaks,” Edwards assured him. “But I have to tell you, we’ve had a bitch of time obtaining trustworthy guards willing to staff the Protectorate. On the whole, RDFers tend to be a tolerant bunch.” He gestured to Maistroff. “But the general has managed to winnow a couple of dozen xenophobes from the Detroit and Denver civil defense contingents. They’re being transferred to the Protectorate border to make them available when needed.”
“Now all we need is a plausible excuse for moving all full-size Zentraedi in this sector to Arkansas,” Stinson said.
Longchamps showed the palms of his hands. “Can’t we simply say that such a move is in the interest of their safety?”
Caruthers scoffed. “They’re safest right where they are.”
Milburn mulled it over for a moment. “What about spreading reports of a disease that’s killing only aliens?”
“Movie thinking,” Maistroff said dismissively.
“We could say that we’ve intercepted intelligence about raids by Human-supremist groups.”
Edwards kept his mouth shut until, ultimately, everyone was looking to him for suggestions. “You’re not going to scare three hundred full-size aliens out of Monument, Denver, Portland, and Detroit with rumors about diseases or incursions. You have to engineer it so that they’re leaving of their own free will, or else you’ve already got a security nightmare just getting them to the Protectorate.”
“What’s your plan?” Moran asked antagonistically.
“It’s twofold. First, we make it uncomfortable for the full-size by turning public opinion against them. We’re already working on this by arranging for a series of firebombings to occur at RDF bases throughout the sector, in which the Zentraedi will be implicated.” Edwards paused for a moment. “I understand that UEG sanction of Operation Tiger requires a majority vote, and I know you’re close to having that, but it couldn’t hurt to add a few Human fatalities to the firebombings. Short of some truly savage action by the malcontents, you may need fatalities to secure the support of the RDF.”
Milburn made his lips a thin line, then allowed a grim nod.
“The second part requires that voluntary relocation to the Protectorate be made to seem an appealing option. The answer is obvious when you consider why the Protectorate’s twelve hundred full-size have elected to live there, as opposed to Monument, Denver, or the factory satellite.”
“Because of the training they’re receiving in design and construction,” Stinson said, with transparent impatience.
“Precisely. So I suggest you promote Operation Tiger as a plan to turn the Protectorate into a surface counterpart of the factory. A place where all full-size aliens will not only be able to escape discrimination, but to learn vital skills and offset the negative propaganda of malcontentism by making a contribution to the Expeditionary mission. Then it just becomes a matter of transporting three hundred giants to Arkansas aboard cargo plans and trucks and whatnot.”
The room fell silent while Edwards’s idea was considered; then, one by one, Milburn and the rest sat back in their chairs, smug and satisfied.
Six silly dilettantes who thought they had their sights set on power, Edwards told himself. Six fatuous politicians, indulging in card tricks. Not one of them understood that power wasn’t something to be coddled, or cajoled, or won; it existed unto itself and answered to no one. Real power was a force to be tapped, then wielded like a blunt instrument. It wasn’t something you exercised, but an energy that could be borrowed and brought to bear against whatever obstacles stood in your way.
At some point it was going to be necessary to prune the cabal of its dead wood: Milburn, Stinson, and Longchamps. Access to the RDF made Maistroff and Caruthers useful, as access to Leonard made Moran useful. But by then, Edwards would have put Zand and Petrie together and would be playing one duo against the other. The time required could be equal to that of the construction of the SDF-3, but things would eventually come together. Someone would probably have to go along on that damned mission in the event the REF returned from Tirol better equipped than when they left. Maybe Stinson and Longchamps could be persuaded, or maybe Edwards would be forced to go himself. How long could the mission require, after all? A year at the most? And during that time, Moran could assist the Army of the Southern Cross in doing away with the RDF once and for all.
But could Edwards stand being cooped up in the SDF-3 with Lang, Hayes, Reinhardt, Hunter, and the others for as long as a year? Admirals Hayes and Hunter—now, there was a bit of comic relief. Exactly what had their promotions been based on—not dying aboard the SDF-1 with that idiot Gloval? And wouldn’t the two of them be surprised when T. R. Edwards suddenly emerged from Leonard’s army as a general.
He had had limited dealings with Hayes or Hunter, though occasionally when he saw Hunter some of the old hatreds would rise to the surface. Hunter was the one who’d come soaring into Alaska Base to rescue Hayes, of course. But how much weight could Edwards give that? How could Hunter have known that someone else had survived and had been trying to call out to him as he and Hayes were lifting off—someone with half his skull blown away and already vomiting from radiation sickness?
Then again, Hunter had ties to Roy Fokker, and Edwards’s only regret about not having been aboard the SDF-1 was that he hadn’t been around to see Fokker crash and burn. He remembered hearing about it, but no gla
sses had been raised to Fokker’s memory. Their rivalry during the Global Civil War lacked the mutual respect rival World War I dogfighters had for their opponents. Plain and simple, Edwards and Fokker had loathed one another. And he loathed Fokker all the more for dying prematurely.
The thing was, hatred wanted a victim, and Humankind seemed too broad a target. During the coming years, while he was plotting the fall of the RDF and the rise of the ASC, he would have to try to narrow the focus of his personal goals.
CHAPTER
FOURTEEN
By early spring of that year [2016]—and after considerable effort—a second Earth-tech-capable docking bay had been opened in the factory satellite, on this occasion in the underbelly of the sonamed three-o’clock pod. Lang’s technicians had been faced with the problem of opening a portal in a triple reinforced ceramic-composite hull that immediately wanted to repair and re-seal itself—a Protoculture-driven design feature shared by many Zentraedi facilities and warships. With Breetai’s flagship already parked inside the factory, there was no ship available for use in conjuring open one of the coded bays, but Lang overcame the problem by using a disabled Zentraedi destroyer the reclamation crews had located in lunar orbit. Tugs steered the destroyer through a series of approach vectors until at last one of the factory’s concealed gates opened. The ship was left in the breech while teams of EVA specialists labored frantically to disconnect the gate from all Robotech systemry; then, ultimately, an Earth-tech irisportal was installed in the hull.… May of 2016 saw two significant launches from the three-o’clock pod’s retrofitted gate: on May one, the launch of a Ghost QF-3000 EC, whose payload was the first (alpha) telecom satellite of what would eventually become the Lorelei Network. Then, on May 17th, the launch of the unmanned though highly controversial “Hades Mission,” the goal of which was the retrieval from Plutospace of objects lost from Macross Island’s original Robotech Research Center.
The Zentraedi Rebellion Page 17