“Perfectly clear, General,” Emerson said with a somewhat worried smile.
On one side of the road stood the protestors; on the other, those who were there to demonstrate against them; and in the middle, meant to assure protection to both sides, a cordon of Robotech CD troops in full riot gear. Recently ushered to the front of the crowd of sympathizers, Miriya Parina Sterling was at once the focus of media attention and the object of jeering from across the highway.
“Hey, Parina,” someone shouted. “Sterling should have killed you instead of screwed you!”
“Your husband’s killing them down south, and you’re up here trying to save them,” an irate woman screamed. “Why don’t the two of you trade places!”
“When’s the divorce, alien?”
She had arrived only that morning, but her unannounced appearance had had a galvanizing effect on the crowd; their vigil would remain a lead story now. Miriya hadn’t told Max of her plans to come, though she had already formulated them by the time he and Rick had left for Fokker Aerospace, bound for the factory satellite. There had seemed no purpose in introducing further strife to his sendoff. Dana was in Monument, staying with her godfathers. Some members of the crowd were five days into a hunger strike; that the few Zentraedi among them had joined in meant little, since most could go weeks without food. Miriya had no real aim beyond showing her support, and allowing herself to be photographed doing just that.
“Miriya Parina,” someone on her side of the road said, from not too far away. She turned and saw a young brown-haired reporter struggling through the crowd toward her. “Miriya, Rebecca Hollister, with MBS News. Could I ask you a few questions?”
Miriya shrugged. “Why not.”
Hollister had circles under her eyes and her hair was in disarray. On a forearm touchpad, she entered instructions for the pencam that was part of her headset array. The camera swung toward Miriya like the barrel of a miniature gun. “What would you like to see happen here, Miriya?”
Miriya gave a toss to her jade-green mane. “I—we—want the UEG to lift the media blackout and the travel restrictions, and to allow an inspection team of Humans and Zentraedi to tour the Protectorate.”
“How do you react to claims that Protectorate Zentraedi have been supplying weapons technology to malcontent bands in the Southlands?”
“I want to see proof of that.”
“If the UEG offered proof, would you still demand to be allowed inside?”
“Yes. Most of my people are confined to the Zee-towns and ghettos of Human cities, but at least in those they have the freedom to move about and to assemble. Now, just as in Brasília last year, the Zentraedi find themselves stripped of their rights—Zentraedi who have been working selflessly in Humankind’s interest, even though the Protectorate was granted autonomy by the Macross Council. Such violations of civil rights threaten the prospect of Humans and Zentraedi becoming equal partners in shaping the future of the planet. Even if those inside are accused of sponsoring terrorism, they should be presumed innocent and afforded fair treatment until their guilt is established.”
Hollister entered additional camera commands. “Critics of the policy of granting autonomy—people like Renes Dumjinn—are counseling patience instead of protest. How do you respond to that?”
“We have been patient for more than a week. And if Dumjinn and the rest valued their own civil rights, they would be standing with us now.”
“Everyone knows that you have a young daughter. Do you fear for her safety?”
Miriya’s eyes narrowed with anger. “I fear for the safety of everyone on Earth if our conflicts are not resolved soon.”
“Do you endorse what the malcontents are doing?”
“No more than I would the action of any gang of criminals, Zentraedi or otherwise. Those responsible for the deaths and destruction must be apprehended and made to stand trial. But it’s wrong, it’s immoral, to punish an entire people for the violent actions of a few.”
“Miriya, looking around this crowd I see only a few Zentraedi. How do you account for the small turnout? And shouldn’t this be their fight?”
“Most Zentraedi are not given to displays of caring,” Miriya mumbled.
Hollister lifted her round chin. “Then how can we believe they care about Earth’s future?”
Miriya held the reporter’s smug gaze. “Take it on faith, Rebecca, or eliminate all of us.”
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
He caught me completely off guard. And I know that he was hurt by my not having a ready answer. But I was simply astonished, and, in fact, I didn’t know how I felt about it. The timing was so off; there were just so many projects in the works and so little time to see to them. I wanted to say, “Let me think about it.” But I didn’t. Ultimately, I said, yes; I accepted. Even though his method couldn’t have been more unromantic—questioning me about his question—and even though I sensed we were in for a rocky road, and perhaps one of the longest engagements in history.
Lisa Hayes, Recollections
The lowermost level of the factory satellite remained an abode for giants. For two miles of its ten-mile length, the 300-foot-wide by 400-foot-high central corridor had been fitted with a catwalk and walkway, but the rest of the corridors and tunnels and the immense holds they linked had been left untampered with by Human hands. If the factory could be said to have a basement, it was level one, especially those areas below the transfer tubes to the six- and eight-o’clock pods: dimly lighted enclosures the size of sports stadiums, containing lakes of stagnant water, mountains of unprocessed monopole ore, mounds of scrapped mecha parts, once the haunt of spiderlike maintenance robots whose lifeless carcasses littered the floor.
It was among all this that Theofre Elmikk convened a clandestine meeting for the full-size and Micronized Zentraedi members of the Seylos contingent of the dissident alliance.
“Hunter and Reinhardt’s meeting with Breetai can mean only one thing,” Elmikk was saying. “Our smuggling enterprise has been exposed and must be suspended.”
More than a few murmurs of relief could be heard. The security procedures for extravehicular assignments had become so exacting that someone was bound to be caught before long. Still, concerns were voiced about the impact the shutdown would have on the alliance’s downside counterparts.
“Our comrades have more than enough Protoculture cells to make a beginning,” Elmikk assured everyone. “Enough, at any rate, to keep the RDF occupied while we execute the next phase of the operation.”
Throughout the hold, conspirators exchanged questioning glances; this was the first anyone had heard about “phases.” All along, the operation had seemed improvised, and suddenly Elmikk was hinting at the existence of a master plan. If so, who had drawn up that plan, and what was Elmikk’s position in the hierarchy?
“First, however, we must wait until Breetai’s suspicions have been allayed. Then, when security procedures become lax once more, we will begin preparations for commandeering the flagship.”
No murmurs met Elmikk’s ears; only outright grumbling, which he attempted to quiet with frantic arm gestures. “Yes, it’s true that many areas of the flagship are in shambles—including the bridge—but we can’t let that stop us. All that counts is that the Reflex and fold systems are operational—which they are. We need only maneuver the ship out of the factory, and we can be gone from this miserable pocket of the galaxy.” He was shouting now, trying to be heard over the separate conversations between giants.
“And who is going to pilot it out?” one of the full-size asked. “You?”
Elmikk threw his shoulders back. “I have been observing and studying all aspects of the ship. Yes, I can do it.”
Those who weren’t simply angered by the assertion laughed. Even in those troubled times, a flagship commander had to be someone who could inspire the utmost confidence, and prior to his promotion to liaison officer, Theofre Elmikk had been little more than a servant to Exedore—a kind of researche
r, always scurrying after bits of ersatz Zentraedi lore.
“Pilot it, perhaps, Elmikk,” a Micronized conspirator said. “But is it to Tirol you’ll fold us, or into the lightless maw of some collapsed star?”
“Tirol,” Elmikk snapped, “if that’s what you want. But consider this: What exactly awaits us there but a return to enslavement? Whereas there exist worlds in systems other than the Valivarre where we could live like masters. Karbarra, for example, or Garuda. We laid waste to them once; if we must, we’ll do it again.”
The laughter had died down to sardonic chuckling. “Consider this, Elmikk,” someone said. “The Invid.”
But he only snorted in derision. “Why should the Regent or Regess concern themselves with Karbarra or Garuda? They’re after their precious Flower of Life.” He shook his head. “No, comrades, it’s here the Invid will come. The Masters, too, once they learn that Zor’s fortress is interred below.”
The grumbling began to taper off. After a long moment, someone asked, “How do you propose we board the flagship, when you’re the only one among us with unrestricted access?”
Elmikk smiled lightly, pleased that he’d finally gotten through to them. “By using the heavy work drones to cut a secret tunnel straight through the factory, from hull to null-g heart, where the flagship is anchored. It will be a painstakingly slow process, I know. But when the moment is right, we’ll cut through the final few feet, storm the ship and take it. Then, once clear of the factory, we’ll execute our fold.”
“And our comrades on the surface,” a full-size said. “What’s to become of them?”
Elmikk allowed a melancholy frown. “Sacrifices must be made.”
The separate conversations began again, but this time Elmikk did nothing to stop them; a certain amount of dialogue and compromise was unavoidable. Instead, he fixed his thoughts on the future he had devised, unaware that one of the Micronized conspirators in the hold had come by his Human stature naturally, and was already devising plans of his own.
“Down boy,” Lisa said, trying to back out of an increasingly passionate embrace that had gone on for several minutes and had been working its way ever so slowly toward the twin bed in her quarters.
Rick pursued her, burying his face in the crook of her neck. “Lisa, it’s … been … six … months,” he said, punctuating each word with a kiss.
“Exactly,” she said. “And we have a lot to talk about before you ship back to the surface.”
“Talk? That’s all we’ve been doing. And I’ve got the phone bills to prove it.”
She slipped out of his grasp and kissed him once, lightly, on the mouth, before saying, “I want to know everything about what’s going on in the Protectorate.”
Rick started to say something, but changed his mind, heaving a resigned sigh before going into details about Operation Tiger. Lisa moved away from the bed to perch herself on the arm of the couch, listening without interruption until Rick came to the part about the formation of a Zentraedi squadron, when she asked him almost the same question Max had, about the squadron being seen as a ploy to downsize yet additional Zentraedi. Rick supplied the same answer Reinhardt had given.
“What you’re telling me,” Lisa said, “is that the RDF is willing to be tried in the court of public opinion.”
Rick rocked his head from side to side as he closed on the couch. “I think most people will see it for exactly what it is: our attempt to allow the Zentraedi to police themselves.”
“I’m not so sure. I think it’s fairly transparent that the RDF is equivocating again. I see it as their saying: ‘Don’t bother us about the malcontents, we have more important things to do.’ ”
Rick gestured broadly with both hands. “If you didn’t think so, you wouldn’t be here, right? You’d be downside with the rest of us, battling it out with Milburn and the UEG on one hand and Leonard and the Army of the Southern Cross on the other.”
Lisa bit her lower lip. “I’m not attacking you, Rick. I understand the position we’re in. I just wish there was some other solution. Asking the Zentraedi to police themselves is like admitting that we’re not a united planet.” She regarded him for a long moment. “This just doesn’t sound like you.”
Rick’s expression turned petulant. “How about we trade jobs for the next six months and then have this same conversation.” He held her gaze, then softened his look and sat beside her, putting an arm around her waist. “Getting back to where we left off—”
Lisa stood up and walked away from him.
“Now what’s wrong?” Rick said, following her with his eyes. “Look, Lisa, I can’t control every decision the UEG makes.”
Lisa shook her head. “It’s not that.”
“Then, what is it? You’re practically running from me.”
She returned to his side and rested her hands on his shoulders. “I don’t mean to, Rick. It’s just that … I don’t know exactly. I’ve been so busy, and it’s been so long since I’ve seen you. I guess it’s taking me time to readjust to being together.”
Rick looked perplexed. “Yeah, but it’s not like we haven’t been talking. And I’ve been just as alone as you have.”
“You think? What about Max and Miriya and Jean Grant and everybody? I mean, what friends do I have up here—Breetai? Exedore? Emil?”
Rick loosed a small laugh. “Lisa, this trip’s the first I’ve seen of Max in months. You wouldn’t believe how busy I’ve been.”
She blew out her breath and pressed her cheek to his. “Maybe that’s what it is: the stress of devoting too much time to work and not enough time to ourselves.”
Rick hugged her. “My feelings haven’t changed.”
She pulled back some to look at him. “Mine haven’t, either. If anything, they’ve grown stronger. I miss you so much.”
He held her close and nuzzled her long hair. “I have an idea. But I think I’m afraid to mention it.”
“Rick …”
“No,” he said quickly. “It’s probably not what you think.”
She showed him a puzzled frown. “What?”
“I, uh …” He cleared his throat. “Uh, what would you say to my asking you to marry me?”
“You know what would be great—” Lorelei Network manager Tom Hoos told Minmei. “If you could have special guests drop by from time to time to share their thoughts about current events. Say, someone like Rick Hunter. I’m sure there’d be no shortage of questions from the Zentraedi.”
Minmei favored Hoos with a polite smile. She could just imagine those questions: How many Zentraedi do you calculate you killed during the War, Admiral? Or: Did you have sex with Minmei when the two of you were trapped inside the SDF-1 or when you were living together in Macross?
“I’m not interested in turning this into a variety show, Tom. Besides, I don’t see why the Zentraedi would want to hear from, or even about, Rick. Or any of my friends, for that matter.”
“But that’s just the point.” Hoos sat back in his desk swivel and spread his arms wide. “They’re your friends—Lynn-Minmei’s friends. Ergo: they’re important enough to be heard from.”
Hoos was absurdly clean-cut and good looking, but a bit on the overeager side. Lorelei’s office complex—on the top floor of Denver’s poshest building—also seemed a little too eager to please. More, for a supposedly nonprofit organization, Lorelei certainly hadn’t scrimped on the furnishings. Mountains, indistinct in the summer haze, dominated the view from the window wall behind Hoos’s desk. From her armchair, Minmei could see clear to the arena dome from which Khyron had literally plucked her.
When ten seconds had gone by and she still hadn’t responded to Hoos’s half-baked analysis, Sharky O’Toole took up the challenge. In contrast to Minmei’s Western outfit of tight-fitting, rhinestone-studded jeans, sim-leather boots, and felt hat, O’Toole had on an ill-tailored lightweight suit that accentuated the bulge of his belly.
“I think what Lynn’s saying here—and correct me if I’m wrong, Lynn—is that
her interest in doing this show rests on your being able to target a Zentraedi audience.” O’Toole paused, as though monitoring himself on playback. “Well, maybe that’s not the best way to put it. What I mean is, that the Zentraedi should be the priority. We all need to put our heads together and figure out what they’re going to want to hear.”
Tom smiled without showing his teeth. “We’re in total agreement that the Zentraedi should come first. But let’s face facts: the Zentraedi aren’t going to be the only ones tuning in to this show. We expect it to draw a significant, uh, Human following, and I think we should be prepared to give them something as well.”
“I don’t see why,” Minmei said. “If non-Zentraedi want to tune in, fine, let them. But I don’t think we should be calculated in trying to cater to them. The best thing that could happen would be for Humans to take an actual interest in what the Zentraedi are thinking.”
“So you’re saying that special guests are out.”
It was obvious that Hoos was struggling to maintain his good humor, but Minmei stood firm. “I wouldn’t be opposed to having Zentraedi guests.”
O’Toole immediately seized on the idea. “Now, there you go, Tom. Forget your Rick Hunters. Why not go after Breetai, or Exedore, or Miriya Parina? Any of them would fit the call-in format perfectly.”
Hoos was suddenly animated. “I like it, I like it a lot. An introductory segment of Minmei’s music, some casual chatting about the news, Minmei takes a few phone calls, some more music, a guest segment, a few more calls … I wish we could go on the air tomorrow instead of waiting until next year.”
O’Toole threw Minmei a covert look. “This has to go worldwide, huh? We couldn’t just kick things off in the Northlands and gradually add markets as new satellites are launched?”
Hoos proffered the polished grin. “The thing is, we don’t want any of the Zentraedi to feel excluded. Now more than ever, considering what’s happening in the Arkansas Protectorate and in the Southlands.”
The Zentraedi Rebellion Page 22