By late 2014, the Macross Council had granted autonomy to the Arkansas Protectorate—so-called despite its occupying only a quarter of the district—and the RDF had established a base for the engineer corps, with an eye toward the formation of a reconstruction battalion capable of tolerating the perilous radiation of Earth’s remaining hot spots.
Though not a member of original Jiabao settlement, Ranoc Nomarre had been a resident of the Protectorate for almost two years. Short and muscular, he had an angular face, jaggedly scarred along the right cheek, and a crew cut that made his head appear more blockish than it actually was. Early on, the training in construction techniques struck him as antithetical to his warrior nature, but he had gradually grown to appreciate what it meant to raise a structure rather than raze one. He especially enjoyed the daily routines of study and hands-on labor, the scenic beauty of the Ozark Mountains and the Buffalo River, and the fact that he had a roofed-over space to himself in the enormous facility built by RDF CeeBees.
Lately, however, the routines had changed. As a response to increasing incidents of malcontentism, security had been tightened and inspections had become no-notice searches. Then the Protectorate’s borders had been closed and fortified by platoons of civil defense Destroids. And just as suddenly Ranoc Nomarre had acquired two roommates. Similar surprises were rumored to be occurring throughout the facility.
At the moment, the new arrival named Utema was emptying the meager contents of a duffel onto a parcel of soft ground he apparently proposed to claim as a bed.
“You say you’re from Detroit?” Nomarre inquired mildly.
“Arid Macross before that.” Curly-haired and unremarkable looking, Utema had a gravelly voice and a rotten disposition. “Had a factory job, but I quit it to wander. A year later I was sick of the wastes and wound up in Portland, working at a fish hatchery.” He spat and jerked a thick thumb at the other newcomer. “He’s from Monument.”
The narrow-shouldered and somewhat retiring Rilpa nodded. “Macross and Monument.” He was without a duffel, and his Zentraedi uniform was filthy, frayed, and crudely patched.
Nomarre had never seen the Twin Cities, though he knew Detroit and Denver well enough. A former Botoru, he had taken part in Khyron’s hostage raid on the latter city, though his foolish protest at the rough treatment Lynn-Minmei was receiving had earned him a kick in the gut from the Backstabber himself, and subsequent ostracism from the Earthbound battalion. Fifteen days of walking had carried him to the Protectorate, where he’d been ever since.
“How are things in Monument?” Nomarre asked Rilpa.
“Not good. It’s another Macross now. Our kind have no say in what goes on. The Humans that stand with us are outnumbered by the ones who see a dissident in every Zentraedi. They detonate firebombs and blame us for the deaths and destruction. I’m glad to be gone.”
“The same for me,” Utema said.
“So you enlisted to work here?”
Rilpa smiled in amusement. “There was no enlisting. We were conscripted—all the full-size.”
“All of you?”
“Same in Detroit,” Utema said before Rilpa could respond. “The RDF announced that all full-size were needed at the factory satellite to help disassemble warships. We’re supposed to get our training here, then be lofted offworld.”
“But surely some of you declined?” Nomarre said.
Ripla shrugged. “Why would anyone? We’re trying to show that we can make a contribution to the future. Besides, who’d pass up an opportunity to go upside and escape the conditions here?”
Nomarre mulled it over for a moment. “I still don’t understand about the RDF’s plans to send you to the factory. The Protectorate doesn’t have a launch facility. The closest base is in Denver.”
“So, they’ll ship us to Denver after the training,” Utema said.
“But we’ve had close to two hundred new arrivals in the past three days. Wouldn’t it have been easier to train you in Monument instead of sending you here?”
“Who can say what Humans call ‘easier’?” Rilpa said.
Nomarre stared at him. “It doesn’t seem strange to you that all full-size are now either on the Protectorate or at the factory?”
“Strange, how?” Rilpa answered, sounding annoyed. “If there was a problem, the RDF would have gathered everyone up, full-size and Micronized.”
Utema snorted nastily. “It’s because of the dissidents. The REF wants to see its dimensional fortress completed before anything more happens on the surface. They must be thinking that the sooner they meet with the Masters, the sooner they’ll be rid of us.”
Nomarre fingered his scar in silence, then asked, “Is there any news from the Southlands?”
“An attack on a civilian convoy,” Rilpa told him.
Nomarre hadn’t heard. “Did the Army of the Southern Cross retaliate?”
“Leonard’s threatening to.”
“That’s the one thing I’m not going to like about being here,” Utema said. “We have to rely on the RDF to defend us against a Southern Cross attack.”
Nomarre told him not to worry. “That’s one of the reasons why there are CD Destroids on the border.”
“They were a lot closer than the border when I came through,” Rilpa said.
Nomarre cut his eyes to him. “How much closer?”
“I’d guess within two hours of right where we’re standing.”
Nomarre was about to point out that any incursion of battle mecha was in violation of Protectorate provisions, but he never got the chance—the walls and corrugated roof of his living space had begun to vibrate in sympathy with the distant rumble of heavy machinery. The three Zentraedi hurried outside to find the hills surrounding the facility alive with moving pinpoints of light.
Nomarre spun through a full circle. “Running lights.”
“Excalibers and Gladiators,” Rilpa said. “A couple of Spartans, too.”
No one said anything for several minutes as the Destroids continued their slow march on the facility. Rilpa’s assessment had been accurate; Nomarre put the total number of mecha at better than three hundred. And he recognized something in the mix besides Destroids: four bell jar-shaped towers, rising up from mecha-pulled flatbeds 100 feet wide.
Resizing chambers.
Katherine Hyson’s career had been on the upswing ever since she’d nailed the interview with Lynn-Minmei. A year after the interview aired, she had—in addition to the weekly celebrity-driven show—a reality-based crime drama in production, and the coveted position as anchor of the MBS evening news. Just now, sitting composed at the anchor’s desk, hair and face done to perfection, Hyson waited out the producer’s countdown, then looked straight into camera one and announced, “Good evening, I’m Katherine Hyson, and this is World News for July 28, 2016.”
On the TelePrompTer, copy began a slow scroll.
“Seven days have passed since a battalion of civil defense mecha rolled across the borders of the Arkansas Protectorate, turning what had been an autonomous area into an internment camp. And yet despite persistent rumors of armed rebellion, involuntary downsizing, and a retaliatory raid by Army of the Southern Cross commandos, the government-imposed media blackout remains in effect.”
Hyson adopted an earnest expression and turned over a sheet of hardcopy. “Mitigating against the rumor of rebellion comes word tonight that only days prior to what has been termed ‘Operation Tiger,’ more than two hundred full-size Zentraedi were relocated to the Protectorate from Denver, Monument, Detroit, Portland, and other Northland cities, ostensibly to receive specialized training in demolition, in preparation for transfer to the factory satellite.” Stock footage of the Protectorate and the factory ran under the commentary; then Hyson was onscreen once more.
“Crowds of advocates and Micronized Zentraedi have assembled at RDF checkpoints leading into the Protectorate to protest the government’s actions. And now, for an update on the tense situation along the border, here is MBS corres
pondent Rebecca Hollister.”
“Thank you, Katherine,” the youthful, brown-haired woman whose face appeared onscreen said. “Though ‘tense’ doesn’t begin to describe the scene here, as more and more people arrive hourly, demanding answers from the United Earth Government and the RDF.”
Hollister had a wireless microphone in hand and a pearllike audiobead in her left ear. Behind her stood a tight press of grim-faced Humans and a scattering of Zentraedi, some wearing sloganed smartshirts, others displaying LED portascreens.
“The Arkansas Protectorate remains fenced in on all sides by Excaliber and Gladiator units from as distant as Albuquerque. The roads are barred to traffic, and we’ve been warned to maintain a safe distance or risk being fired on. What’s more, MBS has learned that in the first hours of Operation Tiger, perhaps as many as six sizing chambers were trucked into the control zone, and speculation runs high that a policy of enforced downsizing has already been put into effect. If this is true, it marks the first occasion of government-imposed Micronization since October 2014, when the process was used on six members of Khyron’s forces, captured and sentenced after the theft of a sizing chamber from Fort Breetai, in Detroit.
“An anonymous though highly placed source in the UEG has stated—and I quote—that ‘any downsizing under way in Arkansas is not being meted out as punishment, but in an effort to shortcut the violent lusts of the Imperative, which are stronger in the full-size than in the Micronized.’ ”
Hollister raised her eyes from the hardcopy she’d consulted. “But to many of those who have kept a week-long vigil here, the UEG’s tactics smack of fascism—no matter what the justification.” She paused, giving weight to her words; then said, “Back to you, Katherine.”
Hyson, when she swiveled away from the blue screen, was visibly flustered by the mediagenic intensity of the young woman’s delivery. But her professional composure returned swiftly as she promised herself that Rebecca Hollister would never again upstage her.
“While tensions mount in Arkansas,” she began, “related developments continue to unfold around the world. Here in Monument, several arrests have been made in connection with the firebombings that have plagued the city for the past six months, leaving more than fifteen dead. Those arrested are said to be known sympathizers, who, in addition to carrying out a campaign of terror, may have been involved in a smuggling operation that was supplying Southlands malcontents with state-of-the-art weapons.”
Hyson turned a page. “When we return: Protests turn to riots in Calcutta, Sydney, and Tokyo … A look back at the Japanese internment camps of the past century … And a malcontent band identified as the Crimson Ghosts takes credit for Wednesday’s attack on the Panama Canal, in which as many as one hundred people were killed and three ships were sunk. Also: Reaction from Brasília to the RDF’s actions in Arkansas. And the ‘official’ explanation for Admiral Hunter’s secret talks aboard the factory satellite.
“Stay tuned.”
The factory satellite was sometimes affectionately referred to as “Little Luna.” But as anyone who had been stationed on Moon Base Aluce before the war would tell you, the comparison began and ended with the name. The factory’s size, near-Earth-normal gravity, and plethora of retrofitted rec and entertainment rooms made it feel like a world apart, a place where you could speak your mind without fear of censure.
Rick had never fully grasped the distinction until the visit he paid the factory after Operation Tiger was set in motion. Even in the docking bay he felt as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders; that he was temporarily free to be himself, unfettered by economic considerations or, worse, politics. Here there were no hidden agendas, only the camaraderie that developed naturally from teamwork. If this was a foretaste of what the Expeditionary mission would be like, it couldn’t launch soon enough.
With him had arrived Gunther Reinhardt, Rolf Emerson, and Max Sterling—who hadn’t been aloft in some time. They’d come to deliver a personal explanation of Operation Tiger to Breetai, and to apprise him of the RDF’s plans to make amends.
The only secure place suitable for a meeting between Humans and giants was the factory bridge. But instead of using the command bubble, Rick chose to hold the meeting in the bridge area itself, with all Human company seated on folding chairs set up on one of the catwalks. Breetai stood level with them, and Exedore sat in the commander’s right hand. There were no computer consoles, wallscreens, or recording devices. Rick saw it as a gathering of allies.
“I wanted you to hear it from me before you heard it from any one else, Breetai,” he was saying. “The UEG’s decision to invade Arkansas was done without provocation. There’ve been no threats of a raid by the Army of the Southern Cross, and there’s no evidence that weapons are being smuggled out of Arkansas to the Southlands. The government is answering terror with terror, hoping to beat the dissidents at their own game.”
“I see,” Breetai said in a booming voice. “But the UEG should be made to understand that the Zentraedi are not subject to the same fears that rule Humans. The Imperative is nourished by acts of terrorism.”
“Tell me, Admiral,” Exedore said, “is it true that all full-size in the Protectorate are to be Micronized?”
“Yes,” Rick said, swallowing hard. “The RDF surrendered control of such decisions to the UEG, and now we’re paying the price. But I want you to know that both Lang and Zand refused to supervise the Micronizations. The sizing chambers are being operated by Zentraedi.”
“But it’s a wise decision,” Exedore said, betraying no more emotion than Breetai had shown on hearing of the enforced downsizing. “It’s far better that everyone on the surface is of one size. Of course, there’s no truth to the remark I’ve heard that the Imperative runs stronger in full-size; but, even so, I think it’s for the best that size is eliminated as an issue. We Zentraedi understand your race’s natural fear of giants.”
“You’ll find that most Zentraedi will be unmoved by the events,” Breetai said.
Rick nodded. “I know that, Breetai. But I wanted you to understand that the RDF is opposed to the decision. If we could, we’d allow some dissident group to retake the Protectorate. As for the protests, they’re coming mainly from our own people. Many of the same people who fear you would fight to protect your civil rights.”
Exedore stroked his chin in thought. “This is something I have yet to comprehend about your race, Admiral. You do all but arm your enemies.”
“It’s no more than each of us would expect,” Reinhardt said. “There can be no basis for civilization without the guarantee of civil rights for all.”
Exedore’s smile was patronizing. “The Masters circumvented that by creating their own race. And it seems to me that, given enough generations, Humans could do the same on Earth.”
Rick shook his head. “We value individuality too much to allow that to happen.”
“Then, you, too, place yourselves first,” Breetai said.
“We do,” Reinhardt said tentatively, “but we make concessions for the collective good.”
Breetai snarled. “The Zentraedi understand sacrifice. But what concessions can be made for those Humans and Zentraedi that are offended by the invasion of the Protectorate?”
“An effortless solution presents itself, m’lord,” Exedore said. “The detainees could simply be returned to full size.”
Rick glanced at Reinhardt before responding. “I hope it will come to that, Exedore. But until then, what we’d like to do is establish a Zentraedi mecha squadron within the RDF.”
Sterling’s and Emerson’s mouths dropped.
Breetai put his free hand on his hip and laughed. “You actually mean to arm us.”
Rick got up from his chair to stand at the catwalk’s handrail. “I want to be clear about this, Breetai. General Reinhardt and I thought by making the RDF subordinate to the UEG, we could deflect any pressure on the Expeditionary mission. That turns out to have been wrongheaded. Now, when what we want most is
unified commitment to the mission, we have dissension. The RDF is condemned for combating malcontentism and for failing to combat it. But we just might be able to accommodate everyone if we can assign Zentraedi to deal with problems in the Southlands.”
“An excellent idea,” Breetai said. “Let me be the first to volunteer.”
Rick made a face. “We’d have to turn you down. You’re too important to the Expeditionary mission. Anyway, it would mean you’d have to submit to downsizing. But I would like you—and Exedore—to supervise the selection of personnel.”
“Would our choices be limited to Micronized Zentraedi?” Exedore asked.
Reinhardt told him no. “But as the admiral has pointed out, anyone selected will have to agree to undergo Micronization for the duration of his enlistment.”
“Excuse me, General,” Sterling cut in, “but won’t this be interpreted as just another way of cajoling the Zentraedi into accepting Micronization? Who’s the RDF trying to appease—the Zentraedi or the UEG?”
Reinhardt nodded. “I appreciate your point, Captain, but the answer is neither. We’re trying to appease the protestors—Zentraedi and Humans. And, to be perfectly blunt about it, we’re hoping that distancing ourselves further from the controversy will enable the REF to get on with preparations for the Tirol mission.”
“Max,” Rick said from the railing, “we’re also hoping that you’ll volunteer to train the new squadron.”
Sterling flashed him a look. “Would training exempt me from combat?”
“It would.”
“Then consider me volunteered.”
Emerson glanced back and forth between Hunter and Sterling. “Does Field Marshal Leonard know about this yet?”
Reinhardt leaned over in his chair to clap Emerson on the shoulder. “I’m afraid we’re going to have to ask you to break the news to him, Major.” He paused for a moment. “And when Leonard tells you he won’t have armed aliens operating in the Southlands, be sure to remind him that he shouldn’t look on them as Zentraedi, but as RDF. Are we clear?”
The Zentraedi Rebellion Page 21